If there were a competition for Britain’s least admired bird, the starling would be a leading contender for first prize. Only magpies, carrion crows and feral pigeons come close. It’s not that we actively hate starlings, although some people do resent their dominance over smaller birds at their garden feeders. But few would admit to actually liking them.
Most of the time, we simply ignore their presence – apart, of course, when they gather together, late on winter afternoons, in those celebrated murmurations.
Yet having spent some time looking more closely at starlings for my latest bird biography, I have begun to wonder why we have neglected them for so long. Often dismissed as merely “a little black bird”, when a starling turns towards the light its plumage glows with iridescent purples and greens, flecked in the autumn and winter with pale, starlike spots. Their song, while curious, is also strangely compelling, especially when they use their skills as mimics to reproduce a wide range of natural – and often unnatural – sounds.
And there is something indefinably human about the way starlings move: that rather jerky, jaunty walk, as if they are out for a casual stroll. So next time you come across a starling – or more likely find a flock of these habitually sociable birds – do stop and take a closer look. You may be surprised at what you see.
