Was it really only a fortnight ago that I sat in a pleasant pavement cafe in Stockton-on-Tees, and ordered a caffè latte? I was enjoying the drink and the pleasant warmth of the early spring sun, when a starling landed nearby, on one of the high street trees. It was soon joined by a second, a third, a fourth. A dozen. Feisty, garrulous, chatty, fascinating, the starlings had been entertaining passers-by, when suddenly they flew away in an exhilarating pother of wingbeat and whistle. I followed them.