We hadn’t even finished unpacking when the garden decided to introduce itself.
Day one. We were sitting on the front veranda, still in that slightly dazed state (always me more than my partner for some reason) that comes with arriving somewhere new – mentally cataloguing what things need doing now that we have finally moved in, whether the wifi will work properly and most importantly, where the next meal is coming from. Ordinary new-arrival thoughts only disturbed by a small bird landed on the chair next to us and started talking.
Not metaphorically. It just landed, awkwardly shuffled its feet on the varnished top of the chair, and began making a series of very pointed chirping noises in our direction. A Bar-winged Prinia, as it turned out – a small, slightly scruffy little bird common in Thai gardens and apparently well known for having opinions. This one certainly had opinions. We weren’t sure what it was saying exactly, but the general tone suggested it had questions.
It was clearly a chick – its landing had been more optimistic than controlled, and it sat there with the slightly ruffled energy of something that had committed to a decision and was now figuring out what came next. For a brief, slightly alarming moment we wondered if we were about to become accidental bird parents. I even started thinking of what food we’d have to buy. We looked at it. It looked at us. It kept talking.
Then, about a minute later, the rest of the family arrived. Mother (please don’t tell her we called her baby scruffy) and siblings, landing on the nearby wall and in the tree just beyond the veranda, calling over with what we can only describe as a collective “didn’t we tell you to wait for us?” The chick gave us one last chirp – we choose to interpret this as a formal welcome to the neighbourhood – and flew off to rejoin them.
First day. Hadn’t even unpacked my toothbrush.
Day four brought a different kind of visitor.
We heard it before we saw it – a small but definite thud against the outer glass door of the bedroom. An anole lizard, roughly half a metre long including its impressively long tail, had run directly into the glass at what appeared to be considerable speed and was now standing very still, front legs pressed flat against the pane, staring into the house with an expression that suggested it was reconsidering several recent decisions.
We watched. It didn’t move. We moved a little closer. Still nothing. It stood there with the particular dignity of something that had absolutely not just run head-first into a door and was waiting for everyone to agree to pretend it hadn’t happened.
After a minute or two it seemed to collect itself. It turned slowly. And then it walked around the corner with the careful, slightly deliberate gait of something that was not wobbling and never had been, and disappeared from view.
We like to think it had heard about the chick’s visit and decided it couldn’t let the birds have the welcome committee to themselves. It was perhaps a little late. The execution wasn’t flawless but it gets a solid 8 out of 10 for commitment.
We’re starting to suspect the garden residents have been here considerably longer than we have, and wanted to just assess their new neighbours. I think we’re relatively pleasant people but probably best to see if we can get our hands on the Welcome Committee’s minutes…