Where will the nuthatch go?

I stand by the window, cup of tea in my hand, sunlight on my face, and I watch them. Like clockwork, they come to the garden feeders every morning. Feisty, sleekit nuthatches. Always one at a time. Waiting their turn, bold but furtive, snatching nuts and darting back to their nearby nests with their hoard.

They’d charm the socks from anyone.

As much as we enjoy their antics today, the curious thing is that nuthatches haven’t always visited here. They don’t really belong in Scotland.

The European nuthatch, Sitta europaea, until recently at least, was a species found only in England in the British Isles. Favouring broadleaved woodland, oak in particular, they thrived in the milder conditions south of the border. According to Pete Gordon of the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds Scotland, nuthatches were first seen in Scotland in 1989.

As nuthatches crept up the country, extending their range, they captured the hearts of many an avid birdwatcher, and it is thought that the proliferation of bird feeders in gardens across the country also played a part in the success of their expansion. I certainly remember watching them in a garden in the Scottish Borders a decade ago when they were still quite new to the area. These days, they’re a regular in my Perthshire garden too.

Today we’re watching them frolic in Dundee, at the Ninewells Community Garden. I am delighted to discover that the collective noun for a group of nuthatches is a booby. We’ve come together as writers, for which there is no official collective name. But we are a community. And collectively, as a community, we can’t help but wonder what will become of the humble nuthatch in years to come.

We’ve gathered at Ninewells Community Garden for a writing workshop that I am leading. I titled the workshop “Writing and Storytelling for Climate Change” but standing here, getting ready for the workshop, I feel massively under qualified and unfit to lead a group of people through such a boldly named event. I am struggling with my own climate grief, and often when I write, it goes very sideways. What was I thinking?

But here we are.

For the next few hours, we come together to talk about elements of writing. We barely mention climate; instead we share our memories and reflections, snippets of experiences, and we listen to each others’ stories. I am inspired by these open-hearted people around the table.

When I’ve shared all I know about the craft of storytelling, it is time to write. But instead of working on our individual tales as I’d planned to, we decide – as a group –to work on one together, as a collective. A community of writers gathering to tell a story.

We choose the plight of the nuthatch.

All of us around the table were well aware of the perils that lie ahead. In 2008, a series of climate change projections for every single European bird species was published in A Climatic Atlas of European Breeding Birds. This showed that in the next 100 years, for the average bird species, the potential distribution will shift nearly 550 km north east, equivalent to the distance from Plymouth to Newcastle. It also showed that the average bird’s distribution will be reduced in size by a fifth. For some of these species, they face continued decline or even extirpation in the UK, meaning local extinction.

As our climate changes around us, where will the nuthatch go?

Everyone has an idea that changes the direction of the narrative. We use what we’ve learned about setting, structure and story arcs. We debate themes and meanings and conflict.

And then, very predictably, we run out of time. I must bring the workshop to a close. I thank everyone for coming, for participating, for sharing, and as I look at the faces around the table, I see a spark. I see stories that lit up their hearts and their eyes. I feel a deep sense of connection.

This experience has forever changed me. I went into the workshop thinking that we’d all write our own little stories about our own little lives and our own experiences of climate change. Instead, we worked together, revealing the power of community. I felt hopeful, after a long period of feeling hopeless.

My own climate grief had taken root amidst a profound feeling of loneliness. I’d felt disconnected and no matter how much I wrote or connected with my writing, the grief and the loneliness only grew. This can happen when we’re disconnected from community. When we retreat to our silos, isolated and alone, it’s easy to get absorbed in our own story, our own narrow perspectives. But when we come together, when we share courageously with open hearts, we can connect. We can start to inspire and imagine. We can start to heal and feel hope.

Our stories are the best tools we have to help people understand the climate emergency and take action. Stories about local people taking action at a local level are often the most inspirational and moving. Local stories help us contextualise the big story. Local stories are personal, intimate and grounded. These stories can give us hope, and telling them is one of the best solutions we have to the problems that we face today.

But to go back to the nuthatch – where will it go? This was the story that we were working on.

We didn’t finish our story in the workshop. But here’s my Nuthatch story, in poem form. A keepsake from the workshop and a tribute to community and collective storytelling.

by Alex Turner

As temperatures rise,

Time and tide ebb and flow,

When wilderness is a memory, a long time ago.

When we’ve taken all we can from here,

We look to stars above and oceans below,

But where, oh where,