The robins and blackbirds have beaten me to it. Almost an hour before sunrise, these early birds are already singing – the blackbird’s rich, flutey notes and the robin’s sweet, perky tunes drifting through the shadowy outlines of trees.

They’re the warm-up act for one of British nature’s most magical experiences – the dawn chorus. The end of April/beginning of May is the best time of year to immerse yourself in one of these musical delights. You can find them in your own garden or your local park, but North Cliffe Wood is reckoned to stage one of the best in Yorkshire.

As I walk into the wood, clouds of my breath billow up into the light cast by the head torch. The still, early morning air is one of the reasons why birds sing at dawn: birdsong carries 20 times further at this time of day. It’s also safer under cover of darkness, because singing gives away your location to predators – like the tawny owl I hear hooting somewhere in the depths of the woodland.

The dawn chorus is something of a boys’ club: males sing during the breeding season to advertise the fact that they’re fit, healthy, capable of defending a territory - and a highly eligible suitor.

I’ve got the Merlin birdsong app ready on my mobile phone. It’ll prove invaluable a little later in the morning as things get more hectic, but I don’t need any help identifying the next songster, who joins in just before 5am: there’s no mistaking the loud “teacher, teacher, teacher” of the great tit.

A few minutes later, a faint “cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo” drifts across the farm fields next to the reserve. Cuckoos used to broadcast one of the quintessential sounds of spring and early summer in Britain’s countryside. These days, it’s a rare treat to hear one: their numbers have plummeted by 35% over the past 30 years. It’s probably no more than a few days since this one completed its long, perilous return from its winter home in Africa.

Other migrants are joining the chorus now. My favourite, the blackcap, has earned the nickname “northern nightingale” for its magnificent repertoire of trills and cadences. Another warbler, the chiffchaff, chants its own name loudly and monotonously. My Merlin app also picks out a willow warbler, which looks very similar to a chiffchaff and is best distinguished by its more tuneful song.

It’s especially important for migrants like these to sing at daybreak: most of their potential rivals touch down during the night, so males who’ve got here sooner need to be up early to advertise that they’ve already established territories.

Sunrise comes at 5.33am. The eastern sky turns from pale pink to gold, and light begins to dapple North Cliffe Wood’s scented carpet of bluebells. Over the next 45 minutes, the dawn chorus reaches a crescendo.

Apart from one inquisitive robin hopping down for a cheeky nosy at my camera equipment, the performers remain largely hidden, giving it their all from the safety of the shadows. Blue tits and chaffinches make tuneful contributions. A jay adds a raucous squawk.

My Merlin app tells me that a goldcrest is there in the mix too, its song as tiny and delicate as the bird itself.

At the other end of the scale, there are the woodpigeons, of course, shouting out their “hoo-hoo-hoo” like over-enthusiastic choir members, drowning out the tuneful offerings of more talented artists.

One of the virtuosos waits in the wings until the chorus is starting to subside: it’s 6.40am before I hear a song thrush, but it’s worth the wait: a melodious concoction of repeated phrases delivered from somewhere high in the treetops.

By 9am, I’m getting ready to walk back down the sunlit, grassy path towards the layby, when I’m treated to one final performance. Wrens are one of the mainstays of the chorus – tiny birds who can belt out a tune with lung-busting intensity. This one’s doing a solo routine, hopping on and off a perch, flapping its wings and turning from side to side as it launches a sustained musical barrage.

As I climb back into the car, I get the same feeling I experienced after watching a starling murmuration. They might take place in different seasons and at opposite ends of the day, but they’re both awe-inspiring wonders of nature.