ТОП просматриваемых книг сайта:
A Natural Year. Michael Fewer
Читать онлайн.Название A Natural Year
Год выпуска 0
isbn 9781785373206
Автор произведения Michael Fewer
Жанр Биология
Издательство Ingram
Ravens are, however, only doing what nature dictates. I have great grá for these big birds, and have been fortunate on a number of memorable occasions to observe their spectacular aerial displays. On Hellfire Hill one January morning, I had been hearing the characteristic ‘cronking’ in the distance, a bit like a dog barking, all the way around the hill, and spotted one raven flying above the trees on the west side. A little later, however, I heard a series of calls that ranged from the familiar deep and visceral cronk to an almost melodious ‘Cooook’ and a harsh ‘Kraaaak’, and a trio of ravens flying in close formation came into view above me, jinking and changing places, obviously agitated. It looked like a love triangle, but soon one of them detached from the group, or was forcibly removed, I could not tell, leaving the remaining pair to embark on a series of circuits like ballroom dancers, formating closely together, so close at times that I wondered if, like swifts, they actually mate on the wing? They also performed that manoeuvre that I have only ever seen ravens do, flipping over onto their backs and then returning to normal flight, an aerobatic trick that allows them to see directly down. At one stage this pair seemed to briefly fly mirrored, one flying normally and the other flying upside down above it, calling sweetly to each other all the while. As they disappeared over the trees, I continued my walk with my spirits greatly raised.
ravens
Glendoher, 3 January
Getting out of the car in front of the house, I caught sight of a bird flying quite high, but not too far to clearly observe its shape, and that its belly was a speckled light grey. As it went over the roof of the house, it folded its wings against its flanks and dropped like a stone, vertically, disappearing behind the roof. At that moment I realised that it must be a peregrine falcon – the swiftness of the dive, the verticality of it, and reviewing the form of the bird and the height it was flying at convinced me. I ran into the house and up the stairs to the back room to see if there was any activity in the field, but everything was still, there was nothing to see or hear. A short time before the trees would have been full of noisy magpies and wood pigeons, and the usual robin, hedge sparrow and tits would have been flitting about the garden. Now there was no movement whatever, no bird in sight. The peregrine is the fastest bird in the world, and a species that almost became extinct in Ireland a few decades ago. The bird dives at up to 300km per hour to strike its prey, often a wood pigeon, killing it instantly. This particular peregrine was probably somewhere in the undergrowth of the Spinney, already plucking its prey. It was a wonder to see one of these dramatic raptors in the air over my home.
Glendoher, 8 January
Two mornings ago I watched from the breakfast table as a darting and jinking gang of a dozen magpies put on a vigorous aerial display in the Spinney treetops. Fluttering and swooping, circling and perching, they moved as a team from branch to branch in an attempt to dislodge a much larger bird that was perched in the middle of the Spinney. Eventually the large bird, which I guessed was the resident sparrowhawk, launched into the air, and after making a few threatening lunges at the magpies, it flew snootily and slowly away.
magpie
This morning, however, I was present for a similar but more extended show, and watched it from the beginning through binoculars. As usual, when the winter sun illuminates the branchy fringe at the top of the Spinney and pushes the shadows downwards along their trunks, a flock of wood pigeons arrives to warm themselves on their everyday morning perches. Before long, first a couple, and then more magpies arrive, circling around the pigeons and making threatening darts at them from branch to branch. Soon, as they do every day, the wood pigeons gave up trying to get a bit of warmth and depart for a more peaceful existence somewhere else.
Having sent the docile wood pigeons packing, instead of taking their place as usual, the magpies worked their way westwards along the Spinney, some hopping from branch to branch, others circling and diving, and it was clear that another occupant of the trees had become the subject of their attention. Suddenly, a large, chunky white-breasted sparrowhawk burst out of cover and made an aerial lunge at the magpies. A brief aerial dogfight followed, with the magpies getting more animated, ducking and dodging their victim, and seeming to enjoy every minute of it. The sparrowhawk was fast, but had no effect on the magpies, and after a few passes it perched again, up on the western end of the Spinney. It looked magnificent through the binoculars, its strongly barred, light- coloured breast, its long yellow legs and grey-capped head highlighted in the low sun. The magpies continued their harassment, and after a few minutes, like the wood pigeons, the sparrowhawk just gave up and took himself elsewhere, away from the racket.
But there was more to come. Having successfully flushed the pigeons and the sparrowhawk, the pied teddy boys started concentrating on the lower levels of the Spinney, and it wasn’t long before a male kestrel was flushed out. It flew straight towards my window and over the roof of the house. What a show! Twenty minutes later, the magpie gang had gone elsewhere to see what trouble they could stir up.
The raven was once persecuted almost out of existence, mainly for the reasons mentioned above, but also because it was thought to be an evil spirit. In recent decades, however, there has been a great increase in raven numbers, and many pairs have moved into suburbia, where it is not unusual, if you know what to look for, to see them. One or more of them are frequently involved in skirmishes with grey-backed crows and magpies over the Spinney. In the last two days, however, taking a walk up through a housing estate to our local park, I twice heard, and then spotted ravens. They seem to be preparing for nesting in two tall stands of pine trees, one of them in the old garden of Sir Frederick Moore, about a hundred metres from our front door.
Glendoher, 12 January
Buds are beginning to appear on some plants, and it is a delight when the snowdrops come out; no garden should be without them, if only as a gentle reassurance that spring is on the way. The magnolia is one of the early trees to produce fat buds; its waxy blossoms later on are a joy, if short-lived.
The final great indicator for Teresa and me happens when a morning dawns clear skied, with the early sun making a halo of gold of the myriad bare branches of the Spinney treetops. We glory in this heart-warming sight, and spend our time at the breakfast table pointing out to each other nuances of this new and restoring morning light.
It seems a chore to get oneself out for a walk on a dark January morning; I tend to stick to the nearby foothills for a stretching walk, or a circuit from my front door that takes in a local park. On one such walk I was passing through the park when I was sure I spotted a dipper, one of our most fascinating birds, diving into the gently cascading mountain stream that flows through the park. I kept my eye on the spot in the water where I thought he had disappeared, and stopped close to it, just two metres above the water. There I stood, watching and wondering, but no bird surfaced. I must have mistaken a late falling leaf for the dipper, and I was just about to continue my walk when, out of the corner of my eye, I caught a flash of brilliant white through the winter branches downstream. What I first thought was a swan flying just above the stream’s surface was approaching upriver. At this time of year all the landscape is dun-coloured, and the brilliant white of the gently flexing long wings stood out dramatically, but it was not a swan, it was a little egret.
I stood stock still as the bird came closer and closer. It alighted in the stream just metres away, and crouching over, began to search for small fish or snails below some herbs overhanging the stream’s edge. Its dagger-like black beak and black legs contrasted with its whiter-than-white plumage, and what I found remarkable was how the bird’s legs were shivering as if it found the water cold. It did seem to succeed in getting a few morsels, but then it opened its wings, launched itself into the air and disappeared upriver.
The name egret is from the French aigrette, or small heron; this beautifully proportioned bird was once common in these islands, but, because of climate and predation