“Tits are quite difficult”.

It is half four on a freezing April morning, and a softly-spoken man is teaching us to listen for the birds.

As the light threatens, a group of mainly retired folk are standing in the woods at RSPB Arne, a place very well known to nature types. We’re shown the clearing where Chris Packham and the Springwatch gang present from when they’re here – with a good view over the harbour.

Heathland, woodland, mudflats and wetland are all represented habitats, which is why it’s such an important reserve – and why we have so many different birds to listen out for.

The first to pipe up is a robin, then another robin. The earliest of all early birds, these little lads are greeting the very first semblance of light. With cloud, the dawn is a barely perceptible lessening of the darkness.

Then, as we walk on through the trees: blackbirds. Then wood pigeons, a chiffchaff, blackcaps. A great tit, a coal tit, and a possible cuckoo.

Why do birds sing in the morning? “They’re saying, ‘I’m still alive,’” explains our bearded guide in sensible rainwear.

I’m still alive. “This is still my territory”. Don’t get any big ideas, rival tits.

There are subtleties. Some birds cycle through several variations of their song, to keep rivals on their toes.

They also copy their neighbours, to let them know that they’re still there, but also that they know their neighbours are there.

I also like the “good neighbour” theory, where birds sing to tell their neighbours they’re still there, but also that they’re not a threat, and aren’t trying to move into their territory.

We hear chaffinches – rather short snatches of song – as the sun begins to peek through.

Two sassy thrushes warble their way into a tree – “a descending arpeggio, and then they throw in a rattling bit”, our guide explains.

A blackcap imitating all kinds of tits, and garden warblers.

“There’s definitely some great tit activity here”.

I found being taught to listen in for the various sounds of the life around us incredibly moving. Our guide doesn’t sugarcoat things either. We understand the wider context, a spectacular collapse in bird numbers in the anthropocene age.

Intensive farming, pesticide use, habitat loss, and noise and air pollution from motor vehicles [1] are all significant factors, as are the various consequences of the wider climate crisis.

We are living though an age of extinction, and this brings a solemnity to proceedings that can only partly be explained by the cold of daybreak.

The woods open up to the water, and the mudflats. We hear a willow warbler – “more of a northern bird” – amid the thrum of a diesel engine from the first ferry of the morning.

“I was hoping we might hear a gold crest, but for some reason they’ve been very quiet today.

“I don’t know what’s going on in the gold crest world.”

More chiffchaffs. “Sometimes they go chiff chiff chiff chiff, and sometimes they go chaff chaff chaff chaff”.

It’s now completely light, and we can see all the way across to Poole and Brownsea Island. The dawn chorus is almost over, and it’s time to return to bed.

[1] This is especially an issue in urban, suburban and exurban areas. First there is the noise, then there is the pollution. Then there is the car infrastructure, not all of it on the grand scale.

An example: people remove hedges, pave over their gardens, and put down car parking instead, which also isn’t ideal.

New estates built on the edge of town that can only be driven to are environmental catastrophes.