Deeper into Chancet Wood

Or how I found an alternative to the 'traditional' night sounds of Brighton

The sound of the night is different here. Back in the Brighton basement, the early hours were marked by the mewling of foxes making merry while leaving paw marks on the neighbours’ cars; the occasional seagull enjoying a late one; the rattle of glass in the living room windows as the Concorde 2 playing host to another drum’n’bass all-nighter; and the shouts of what we shall politely term ‘revellers’. Plus the sirens. I never thought living by the sea would be soundtracked by so many police cars and ambulances, but after nine years you definitely learn to zone them out.

Here though, on the edge of a larger but no less hectic city, night is rung in somewhat differently. Our house sits on a 1930s cul-de-sac, the kind of place, aged 21, I would have said that ambition came to die. In reality (at least when you’re aged 43), it’s where the world comes alive. In the small hours, the tawny owls start up, a call and response that seems to send the rest of the birdlife here into silence, and no surprise. By the time the light is beginning to shift, the madcap sound of the dawn chorus begins. It makes a change from hearing banging house from the Airbnb next door, as much as that has its own charm.

As a kid, I grew up with a small wood at the back of our New Town estate. I learned the different calls of the tawny owl then, so to hear them all these years on, 200 miles north, has a certain resonance, a return I can get on board with.

Chancet Wood, April 2025 © Joe Minihane

More than just the night sounds, I’ve been finding joy and solace in the woods which reach up the hill past our new home. Chancet Wood covers 19 acres on the edge of Sheffield. In truth, it’s just one of countless wooded areas close by, but the fact it’s accessible via some steps up a dirt track around 30 feet from my front door makes it, for me, the best one here. The loop around its west facing slope takes about 20 minutes to cover on foot, so we’re not talking a walk that’s going to bless anyone with high levels of fitness. But that’s not what we’re here for.

In our first weeks here, I’ve been trying to get into the woods everyday. When you live by the sea, birdlife tends to be dampened by the absolute give-no-fucks mood of herring gulls. They barely give others a chance. Only the armies of starlings that come for their daily murmurations around Brighton Pier ever really got a look in. Here though, it’s a different vibe.

On my first walk, I went armed with my Merlin app. I can pick out the songs of robins, blackbirds and great tits, but beyond that my coastal ears are not best attuned to the nuances of songbirds. A 10 minute walk yielded news of more, including nuthatch, dunnock, blue tit, and song thrush, as well as the coo of wood pigeons.

As a kid, thrushes were ten a penny. They were regular visitors to my grandparents’ always crowded bird bath. Now, as any keen birder knows, they’re basically doomed. In this country, their numbers are down 49% since 1967, according to the BTO. Hearing one was special. Sadly I was not carrying binoculars in order to catch a glimpse.

The walks have continued this way ever since, minus the app. Taking my phone means I will look at my phone. So it stays on my desk as I attempt to learn these songs by heart. Back at home, a chunky set of fat balls are out on the bird feeder and the blue tits have begun to make sorties into our new bird box. This ‘will they, won’t they’ dance isn’t something I’ve been able to enjoy in my own space before. It’s simple, but feels very special.

In the wake of the latest results from the Big Garden Birdwatch, I’ve resolved to leave the mower indoors over the summer, and create a mess in the garden. It’s in keeping with the shambolic area in which I work, so why should the birds miss out?

At night now, when I wake up for my first, second and then third wee (don’t worry, it’s been checked out and cleared), I’m always lucky to hear the owls hooting. Part of me misses the carnage of the seafront, the descent of the hoards on hot weekends, the ugly spats that occurred unseen on higher ground among those seemingly surprised that booze had sent them loopy. But right now, as middle age settles in for the long haul, I’m very happy with this newfound alternative.