MY daily breakfast was blessed with an added interest this week when I spotted a linnet feeding on our lawn.

This finch-like bird, whose male has pink breast feathers and a tiny pink cap, is more usually associated with gorse-covered moorland or rough scrub land with plenty of cover, consequently I was quite surprised to see it so close to our house.

The linnet has a peculiar collection of colours upon its plumage - apart from the pink portions, the cock bird has a grey head, a tan or chestnut coloured back and upper wings, a flush of reddish-brown beneath its wings, black wing tips with white flashes and a black forked tail with white edges.

The hen lacks the pink areas but in late summer there can be some confusion because the male can develop a golden breast in place of the usual pink.

The linnet is a cousin of the finches and, at first glance, might be confused with other members of that family, like the redpoll or even a chaffinch if one's eyesight is not perfect!

The linnet's song might provide a clue to its identity - it is a light, twittering kind of music and as I write these notes, the bird is singing from a bough at the edge of my garden.

It was this light, attractive song that prompted the Victorians to catch linnets and keep them in cages, so that their song could be enjoyed within the house.

This cruel hobby led to a drastic decline in their numbers, and happily that trade has since been outlawed.

Nonetheless, other factors like chemical weedkillers are now affecting the linnet population because they kill the plants which provide the seeds upon which the birds rely for food. The seeds of the flax were once regarded as a main food supply for the linnet, hence its name.

The prefix lin comes from the flax which produces linseed but linnets cannot survive on linseed alone. They need weeds.

During the autumn and winter, linnets tend to gather in flocks and they can often be seen on the ground where they search fields and grasslands for discarded seeds; the one I sighted was on my lawn, clearly carrying out a very detailed search for seeds of some kind, but he was alone.

As I compile these notes, he has been around the house for some five days and seems quite content with his new-found habitat but I would imagine that, within a few days, he will be seeking another place to dwell during the coming winter, along with a larger group of other linnets.

It is during the winter time that many birds appreciate the conventional wisdom that there is safety in numbers.

Devil of a day

Following my notes about the piece of folklore wisdom that the picking of brambles, or blackberries as they are sometimes known, should end on Michaelmas Day (September 29), I have received a letter from a reader in Killerby near Darlington.

She points out that October 10 is also known as Blackberry Day, or even the Devil's Blackberry Day, when the picking of brambles should really cease.

As bramble lovers know, these lovely, luscious wild berries are often at their best in early October and indeed many are not even ripe by that time, but the conflict of dates arises due to the calendar changes of 1582 which were not introduced to this country until 1752.

The calendar which was used at the time of Julius Caesar was inaccurate and over the years there developed what might be called "slippage" in its timing - there was an error of 11 minutes 14 seconds in every year and that added up to a substantial total over the centuries.

As a result, the sun's movements did not coincide with the dates of the calendar, the checks being possible at each equinox. The sun's behaviour dictated the accuracy of the calendar and in 1582, the spring equinox, which in the time of Caesar had arrived on March 25, now arrived on March 11 - much too early.

Pope Gregory XIII decided to amend the calendar so that the spring solstice arrived, as it should, on March 21-22 - and also that it continued to do so every year thereafter.

Gregory's new calendar included a recalculation of the leap years (no new century was a leap year, for example, unless it was exactly divisible by four, eg 1600 and 2000) and he introduced his new calendar to the world in 1582.

To do so, he had to remove 11 days from that year - thus October 5 jumped to 15. It was rather like correcting a clock and so, in that year, the days between those dates were eliminated.

England, being newly Protestant, suspected some kind of papal plot and refused to accept or adopt the new calendar but, in time, other countries did decide to use it. Sweden did so in 1753, Japan in 1873, China in 1912, Russia in 1918 and Greece in 1923. England, however, had decided to do so in 1752 and there was an enormous fuss about the "lost" 11 days which, in England's case, were between September 2 and September 14.

Some thought their lives were being shortened and others thought they were denied 11 days' pay. Thus, the time for ceasing to pick brambles (September 29) became October 10 and a lot of English people chose to ignore the new calendar, and to continue their rural lifestyle as if it had never been adopted.

Even now, some Yorkshire folk celebrate Martinmas Day (November 11) on November 21 or 22 - and, of course, many continue to pick brambles until October 10!

Even now, though, the calendar needs regular adjustment, just like an old clock. We have an extra day, February 29, once every four years.

But why is Michaelmas Day associated with brambles? One tale is that when St Michael the Archangel threw the devil out of heaven, he tumbled out and landed in a bramble bush.

The truth is, of course, that brambles become unpalatable once they are affected by the dampness and frosts of autumn, whatever the day that occurs.

Musical mystery

A woman reared in Wensleydale has provided me with a fascinating yarn about the tiny parish church of St Oswald at Thornton Steward, between Masham and Leyburn.

About a mile to the north of Jervaulx Abbey, the church is half a mile or so from Thornton Steward, and dates to Anglo-Saxon times.

The chancel is probably Norman and there are some 14th century additions, while the cover of the font is Jacobean.

It is a fascinating old church replete with history, and it stands along the road to Danby Hall, itself dating from the 14th century, although much of the hall is Elizabethan with some 19th century additions. In the grounds, there is a 14th or 15th century pele tower and within the house is a splendid 17th century oak staircase.

The story concerns a member of the historic Scrope family of Danby Hall. In the early years of this century, probably just before the First World War, he was riding a frisky young horse from Thornton Steward towards his home at Danby Hall.

It was ten o'clock at night and it was dark, but his route took him directly past the little church of St Oswald.

As he approached the church, he became aware that it was brilliantly illuminated within and the night was filled with the beautiful sound of a choir singing.

Wondering who might be using that church at that time of night, he wanted to halt and share the experience, but his horse was so lively that he dare not risk hitching it to a nearby fence or tree. It would have quickly become free to gallop into the darkness, so he did not enter the church.

Next day and over the coming weeks, he made inquiries in an attempt to discover who had been singing in the church that night, but found no-one.

In spite of his extensive inquiries in the district, and from those who worked for the church, he found no-one who had been using St Oswald's church that night.

The mystery of the lovely voices and brilliant lights has never been explained.