The Corncrake is the sound of summer in Ireland. Or it used to be. People over 40 reminisce about having the bird lullaby them to sleep after a hard day on the farm. Hearing this I thought the call would be one of warbles and pretty flute-like melodies, almost Kenny G-like. But the song is one of a monotonous buzz, more insect than bird that calls dusk until the break of dawn. But I guess since there are no crickets here, it is their cricket, and they aren’t around anymore. The Corncrake is a beautiful little bird, with grays and yellows and browns to camouflage it in the tall grass and hay fields it inhabits. The Corncrake migrates all the way from South and East Africa to find nesting spots across Europe that are increasing finding a huge tractor mow over their habitat. In the past 30 years, Ireland has gone from harvesting silage from 1 time a year to 3 times a year and in pushing the land, so has the Corncrake been pushed out, silenced. Rachel Carson’s Spring has hit Ireland. Now it was my job, one night last week, to go out and listen for the Corncrake in the Shannon valley near Athlone. All we heard was silence, and I mean not even an insect. I went out with NPWS ranger Andi Webb who did pick up some long-eared owls and some bats with her cool bat detector device, but no Corncrakes. The Irish countryside is a lonely place without sounds at night, especially if you used to hear a bucket load of Corncrakes, their calls infiltrating the air with a comforting hum. The head ecologist, William Cormacan, and my roommate Brid did hear three that night. The only three in a great distance, where their used to be hundreds maybe thousands. The area I surveyed did have some a few years ago, and farmers are being paid to harvest grass later and leave the best spots all for the Corncrake. The payment scheme seems great in theory, but in reality, these birds aren’t finding these areas, and the night stays quiet. One area that did have Corncrakes also had summer flooding the last few years, which ain’t good the birds. I can’t say much about what happens to birds when they get into Africa. Migrating birds can have a tough time in wintering grounds where there are no environmental laws.
So my art project idea is to bring the Corncrake back. This bird that is the symbol of rural Europe, of a childhood playing on the farm, and the backdrop of many a fire. What would happen if you put speakers out, maybe just for a night or two, all throughout various fields surrounding a small village and recreated the Corncrakes’ serenade. I could change the dead night back to life again, or at least give a sad reminder of how it used to be. Would the old folks remember? Would parents tell their children? Would people realize what they have lost: not just this symbol of the night, but part of their nation’s soul and weep for the Corncrake? Maybe I’ll find some speakers and see what happens in the town of Ballinafad, see if anyone even remembers it.
Two weeks later: I was able to go out and hear two male Corncrakes call. Their loud beebs sometimes lining up together, other times their rhythm would be off. It was magical.
The Corncrake is the sound of summer in Ireland. Or it used to be. People over 40 reminisce about having the bird lullaby them to sleep after a hard day on the farm. Hearing this I thought the call would be one of warbles and pretty flute-like melodies, almost Kenny G-like. But the song is one of a monotonous buzz, more insect than bird that calls dusk until the break of dawn. But I guess since there are no crickets here, it is their cricket, and they aren’t around anymore. The Corncrake is a beautiful little bird, with grays and yellows and browns to camouflage it in the tall grass and hay fields it inhabits. The Corncrake migrates all the way from South and East Africa to find nesting spots across Europe that are increasing finding a huge tractor mow over their habitat. In the past 30 years, Ireland has gone from harvesting silage from 1 time a year to 3 times a year and in pushing the land, so has the Corncrake been pushed out, silenced. Rachel Carson’s Spring has hit Ireland. Now it was my job, one night last week, to go out and listen for the Corncrake in the Shannon valley near Athlone. All we heard was silence, and I mean not even an insect. I went out with NPWS ranger Andi Webb who did pick up some long-eared owls and some bats with her cool bat detector device, but no Corncrakes. The Irish countryside is a lonely place without sounds at night, especially if you used to hear a bucket load of Corncrakes, their calls infiltrating the air with a comforting hum. The head ecologist, William Cormacan, and my roommate Brid did hear three that night. The only three in a great distance, where their used to be hundreds maybe thousands. The area I surveyed did have some a few years ago, and farmers are being paid to harvest grass later and leave the best spots all for the Corncrake. The payment scheme seems great in theory, but in reality, these birds aren’t finding these areas, and the night stays quiet. One area that did have Corncrakes also had summer flooding the last few years, which ain’t good the birds. I can’t say much about what happens to birds when they get into Africa. Migrating birds can have a tough time in wintering grounds where there are no environmental laws.
So my art project idea is to bring the Corncrake back. This bird that is the symbol of rural Europe, of a childhood playing on the farm, and the backdrop of many a fire. What would happen if you put speakers out, maybe just for a night or two, all throughout various fields surrounding a small village and recreated the Corncrakes’ serenade. I could change the dead night back to life again, or at least give a sad reminder of how it used to be. Would the old folks remember? Would parents tell their children? Would people realize what they have lost: not just this symbol of the night, but part of their nation’s soul and weep for the Corncrake? Maybe I’ll find some speakers and see what happens in the town of Ballinafad, see if anyone even remembers it.
Two weeks later: I was able to go out and hear two male Corncrakes call. Their loud beebs sometimes lining up together, other times their rhythm would be off. It was magical.
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