They're back. They're rehearsing. They're 'our' nightingales.
As every year, they'll be nesting in the overgrown heap of elder, old man's beard and other creepers just five meters from our ever-open bedroom window (but 100m from our gites).
They start singing in late dusk, but when we turn off our bedside lights, they turn up the volume and Jos grits her teeth for a disturbed early night....
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