My awareness of peregrines began with a display-stand, at an agricultural show; a panoramic scene, that featured many species. In the foreground were puffins, crows, gulls and assorted waders; and there, in the distance, the falcon: a sky-owning presence, which yielded little detail; not much more than an unusually arresting outline. But it was the bird that fascinated me most; the one I wanted to know much more about.
Some months later, we were sat in class, to learn of the peregrine’s possible extinction, in the British Isles and the battle to prevent such an occurrence. DDT pesticides were spoken of and how their passage through the food-chain had caused thinly-shelled eggs; ones that did not hatch. Could the species be preserved? Gloriously, that question is now answered.
Peregrines have, I suggest, been undersold, even by conservation-groups, because, when we look at one, we see not only the fastest living bird, or even creature. We do, in fact, have, before us, the fastest life-form ever to have existed. Evolution has, to the best of anyone’s knowledge, produced nothing with equivalent velocity; so special attention is warranted, in spades. And now they hunt over the Thames; flying between St. Paul’s Cathedral and the vast chimney at Tate Modern. Even our seat of government has been a nest-site.
How different it was, back in the 1970s, when London held no peregrines and their home-counties hunting-grounds were the windswept fields of coastal Essex and north Kent; and even then, almost always in winter. During those years, one book had stayed close to me; curled, more often than not, in my ever-trusted ‘Parka’. J A Baker’s The Peregrine offers an immersive experience and vivid portrait of avian survival, in the harshest of seasons. I recall catching, with friends, a train, to Burnham-on-Crouch; our mission being to encounter peregrines, as Baker did. But we walked and walked, within that landscape; finding evidence of their kills: scattered feathers and breast-bones, of grey plover, dunlin and knot; yet obtaining not so much as a glimpse of their feared predator. My disappointment was considerable and four years would pass before I’d finally connect with the elusive falcon. It was, an autumn sighting, at Norfolk’s Cley Marshes and one that thrilled me all the more, for coming so unexpectedly. Like a crossbow, hurled, in anger, by some, great, warrior-god, the bird; quite small, so probably a tiercel; passed by, only a short distance above the grassy bank, upon which I walked. It took a second, but, with binoculars raised, the semblance of a hood and contrasting, cream-coloured, neck feathers were obvious; and yet, in almost no time, it was away; a distant creature, above the phragmites-bed; twisting and stooping, at a group of teal; scattering them, like shrapnel, from a grenade. I felt satisfied; being the hunter I was; the one almost every birdwatcher is.
And now there are pale blobs, upon Bankside’s former power-station. Barely discernible, to the naked eye, they change position, throughout the day and take flight, once in a while; rising, languid, with wings broadly spread and tail fanned. Then, there’s breath-taking acceleration, as they head north. The shape of a peregrine, in what might well be described as cruising mode, is surely that of an anchor. But they are almost two species, because, when hunger takes hold, peregrines seem to radiate urgency; their wings flicking back, like those of a flushed snipe; the pigeons they seek standing little chance. The strike, though, is rarely seen. London’s buildings are too tall and too many, for that.
Baker did, it seems, become obsessed with peregrines. In fact, he’d, near- as-dammit, morphed into one, by the end of his book. He was blood-thirsty; it should be said; longed for the spectacle of the kill; the plucking of feathers; maybe, even, the tearing of flesh; yet, at the heart, of that, surely, was empathy for the tested raptor, with its need to survive. And the challenge was Baker’s too, as rheumatoid-arthritis tightened its grip, in an age when so much less could be done.
But, what would Baker have made of London, in the twenty-first century; where his precious prize is easily encountered, at popular tourist-attractions? Would he have begrudged others the wonder, or felt joyous that it could, easily, be shared? Maybe he’d have wandered London’s streets and squares; or worked in an investment-bank; spending too much time, in the scenic-lifts; hungry for a fresh sighting, amid the forest of glass and steel?
The impeccable descriptions he left us embraced other species, too. Sparrowhawks, Baker wrote, were always near him, in the dusk, like something he’d meant to say, but could never, quite, remember; and birdwatchers will know what he meant. I’ve had them pass, within a few feet; yet silent and barely discernible; almost a phantom; their shape not even seen; allowing no more than a sense of the distinctive manner of flight and low-level hunting technique. Indeed, had I not been alone, I’d have made no mention, lest I might be thought dishonest, or mad; because in all likelihood, my companion would not have understood. But seasoned birdwatchers do. Their eyes and minds are tuned-in and they know the species, by its habits.
Beauty abounds in The Peregrine; still there’s much darkness. It wasn’t always that way. We can look to his earlier work, for a full-on celebration of the English countryside; un-haunted, by his preoccupation with the inky-eyed killer.
Was Baker, though, a bad ornithologist? Certainly, it’s been said that peregrines do not hover, as kestrel’s do, despite his accounts to the contrary; and yet, I’ve observed one pause, in the air, for twenty seconds or more, as though suspended, by a cord. There was, in that moment, some sense of relief. I’d rather believe his work authentic.
Baker’s mention of hobbies can be found elsewhere; specifically in The Hill of Summer, and it had to be so; for, like hirundines, they arrive with warm weather. Chances to see them, both perched and at close range, are rare, but, upon a heath, in Surrey, I was able to put my plan, for close approach, to the test. I had, by then, pondered the thought-processes of falcons. Did they seek to out-think their observer; considering me a creature with strategy, or just respond, instinctively, to movement and sound? The second of those made more sense and I set off, toward a bird too distant to be identified, without binoculars. Nothing, I’d decided, must change, whilst held in the qaze of my fellow creature. My head must remain motionless; my eyes not even moving from side to side. But, when it looked the other way, I would accelerate my advance; freezing, again, as the bird turned, again, to face me. I was obvious; uncamouflaged; clearly human and in full view; and yet perceived, it seemed, as unthreatening. At last, I could see, in detail, the deep chocolate-brown cap and moustachial- stripes; the quivering of its softer feathers, too, caught by the breeze; and then, perhaps three minutes, of travel, later, the pale-yellow orbital rings. The technique had worked to perfection. My theory was confirmed; and I stood, close, before the falcon; eye to eye and unfeared. But the instant I relaxed, he, or she, noticed the life in me and departed.
Hobbies do it with a flourish. Every wing-beat seems more elegant than required; every aerobatic manoeuvre more showy. But it’s an illusion. Like other species, they do what’s required to survive; retaining as much energy as possible. If evolution has made them graceful, it’s just turned out that way; and painted them, too, with finery. For few birds are so handsome. Though appearing dark-grey, at rest, an adult’s upper-wings and tail, can seem air-force blue, in flight and the smartly streaked underparts lead to deep reddish feathering, often described as ‘trousers’.
When hunting dragonflies, hobbies display little urgency. Casually, they catch them; knowing, we might imagine, there are plenty more. As the birds feed, in mid-air, long, transparent, wings tumble to the ground, like shell-fragments, humans might flick, from monkey-nuts. Often, they appear nonchalant. But, when the need is there to hunt other birds, the game changes. Still there’s no peregrine-style stoop. Instead they match every twist and turn, of a swallow or swift; on and on, until the feast is won. Never, though, do they have the same darkness. Even in those moments, hobbies are light-entertainers.
I recall, with my license recently obtained, driving, to sites, in the New Forest and parking my car, there, but with the engine running. It is, in fact, a hot tip, for hobby-seekers, because insects, attracted to a warm radiator-grill, are snatched away. At Beaulieu Road, the birds will tear back and forth, above roof and bonnet, in groups of three or four; offering what is, surely, one of nature’s finest spectacles.
English skies, these days, can be filled with hobbies; a consequence of our warmer climate. On red-letter-days, gatherings of more than thirty occur. And no longer are they confined to southern heaths. Just a small area of green will do. Fast-forward, to 2004, when I sun-bathed, within a stone’s throw of London’s great landmarks. Ring-necked parakeets were many. Britain’s largest roost is at, nearby, Ewell; and their persistent calls filled the air. It was then that a similarity first occurred to me; that their calls were reminiscent of the hobbies I’d heard, in years gone by. Actually, I thought, it would be quite possible to confuse the two species, before realising I had done precisely that. Both were calling and to my amazement, hobbies had arrived, to breed, in my local park.
Inevitably, it becomes a beauty contest; for all who celebrate the aesthetic; so which species, I ask myself, has more?...the peregrine, with its menacing outline and almost sky-shaking presence?... or the joyful hobby, that seems to celebrate summer, with each and every wing-beat? Close call though it is, I’d probably plump for the latter. But others may well feel differently; and if birds of prey continue to stir their senses, a twenty-first century Baker could be just beyond the horizon.
My awareness of peregrines began with a display-stand, at an agricultural show; a panoramic scene, that featured many species. In the foreground were puffins, crows, gulls and assorted waders; and there, in the distance, the falcon: a sky-owning presence, which yielded little detail; not much more than an unusually arresting outline. But it was the bird that fascinated me most; the one I wanted to know much more about.
Some months later, we were sat in class, to learn of the peregrine’s possible extinction, in the British Isles and the battle to prevent such an occurrence. DDT pesticides were spoken of and how their passage through the food-chain had caused thinly-shelled eggs; ones that did not hatch. Could the species be preserved? Gloriously, that question is now answered.
Peregrines have, I suggest, been undersold, even by conservation-groups, because, when we look at one, we see not only the fastest living bird, or even creature. We do, in fact, have, before us, the fastest life-form ever to have existed. Evolution has, to the best of anyone’s knowledge, produced nothing with equivalent velocity; so special attention is warranted, in spades. And now they hunt over the Thames; flying between St. Paul’s Cathedral and the vast chimney at Tate Modern. Even our seat of government has been a nest-site.
How different it was, back in the 1970s, when London held no peregrines and their home-counties hunting-grounds were the windswept fields of coastal Essex and north Kent; and even then, almost always in winter. During those years, one book had stayed close to me; curled, more often than not, in my ever-trusted ‘Parka’. J A Baker’s The Peregrine offers an immersive experience and vivid portrait of avian survival, in the harshest of seasons. I recall catching, with friends, a train, to Burnham-on-Crouch; our mission being to encounter peregrines, as Baker did. But we walked and walked, within that landscape; finding evidence of their kills: scattered feathers and breast-bones, of grey plover, dunlin and knot; yet obtaining not so much as a glimpse of their feared predator. My disappointment was considerable and four years would pass before I’d finally connect with the elusive falcon. It was, an autumn sighting, at Norfolk’s Cley Marshes and one that thrilled me all the more, for coming so unexpectedly. Like a crossbow, hurled, in anger, by some, great, warrior-god, the bird; quite small, so probably a tiercel; passed by, only a short distance above the grassy bank, upon which I walked. It took a second, but, with binoculars raised, the semblance of a hood and contrasting, cream-coloured, neck feathers were obvious; and yet, in almost no time, it was away; a distant creature, above the phragmites-bed; twisting and stooping, at a group of teal; scattering them, like shrapnel, from a grenade. I felt satisfied; being the hunter I was; the one almost every birdwatcher is.
And now there are pale blobs, upon Bankside’s former power-station. Barely discernible, to the naked eye, they change position, throughout the day and take flight, once in a while; rising, languid, with wings broadly spread and tail fanned. Then, there’s breath-taking acceleration, as they head north. The shape of a peregrine, in what might well be described as cruising mode, is surely that of an anchor. But they are almost two species, because, when hunger takes hold, peregrines seem to radiate urgency; their wings flicking back, like those of a flushed snipe; the pigeons they seek standing little chance. The strike, though, is rarely seen. London’s buildings are too tall and too many, for that.
Baker did, it seems, become obsessed with peregrines. In fact, he’d, near- as-dammit, morphed into one, by the end of his book. He was blood-thirsty; it should be said; longed for the spectacle of the kill; the plucking of feathers; maybe, even, the tearing of flesh; yet, at the heart, of that, surely, was empathy for the tested raptor, with its need to survive. And the challenge was Baker’s too, as rheumatoid-arthritis tightened its grip, in an age when so much less could be done.
But, what would Baker have made of London, in the twenty-first century; where his precious prize is easily encountered, at popular tourist-attractions? Would he have begrudged others the wonder, or felt joyous that it could, easily, be shared? Maybe he’d have wandered London’s streets and squares; or worked in an investment-bank; spending too much time, in the scenic-lifts; hungry for a fresh sighting, amid the forest of glass and steel?
The impeccable descriptions he left us embraced other species, too. Sparrowhawks, Baker wrote, were always near him, in the dusk, like something he’d meant to say, but could never, quite, remember; and birdwatchers will know what he meant. I’ve had them pass, within a few feet; yet silent and barely discernible; almost a phantom; their shape not even seen; allowing no more than a sense of the distinctive manner of flight and low-level hunting technique. Indeed, had I not been alone, I’d have made no mention, lest I might be thought dishonest, or mad; because in all likelihood, my companion would not have understood. But seasoned birdwatchers do. Their eyes and minds are tuned-in and they know the species, by its habits.
Beauty abounds in The Peregrine; still there’s much darkness. It wasn’t always that way. We can look to his earlier work, for a full-on celebration of the English countryside; un-haunted, by his preoccupation with the inky-eyed killer.
Was Baker, though, a bad ornithologist? Certainly, it’s been said that peregrines do not hover, as kestrel’s do, despite his accounts to the contrary; and yet, I’ve observed one pause, in the air, for twenty seconds or more, as though suspended, by a cord. There was, in that moment, some sense of relief. I’d rather believe his work authentic.
Baker’s mention of hobbies can be found elsewhere; specifically in The Hill of Summer, and it had to be so; for, like hirundines, they arrive with warm weather. Chances to see them, both perched and at close range, are rare, but, upon a heath, in Surrey, I was able to put my plan, for close approach, to the test. I had, by then, pondered the thought-processes of falcons. Did they seek to out-think their observer; considering me a creature with strategy, or just respond, instinctively, to movement and sound? The second of those made more sense and I set off, toward a bird too distant to be identified, without binoculars. Nothing, I’d decided, must change, whilst held in the qaze of my fellow creature. My head must remain motionless; my eyes not even moving from side to side. But, when it looked the other way, I would accelerate my advance; freezing, again, as the bird turned, again, to face me. I was obvious; uncamouflaged; clearly human and in full view; and yet perceived, it seemed, as unthreatening. At last, I could see, in detail, the deep chocolate-brown cap and moustachial- stripes; the quivering of its softer feathers, too, caught by the breeze; and then, perhaps three minutes, of travel, later, the pale-yellow orbital rings. The technique had worked to perfection. My theory was confirmed; and I stood, close, before the falcon; eye to eye and unfeared. But the instant I relaxed, he, or she, noticed the life in me and departed.
Hobbies do it with a flourish. Every wing-beat seems more elegant than required; every aerobatic manoeuvre more showy. But it’s an illusion. Like other species, they do what’s required to survive; retaining as much energy as possible. If evolution has made them graceful, it’s just turned out that way; and painted them, too, with finery. For few birds are so handsome. Though appearing dark-grey, at rest, an adult’s upper-wings and tail, can seem air-force blue, in flight and the smartly streaked underparts lead to deep reddish feathering, often described as ‘trousers’.
When hunting dragonflies, hobbies display little urgency. Casually, they catch them; knowing, we might imagine, there are plenty more. As the birds feed, in mid-air, long, transparent, wings tumble to the ground, like shell-fragments, humans might flick, from monkey-nuts. Often, they appear nonchalant. But, when the need is there to hunt other birds, the game changes. Still there’s no peregrine-style stoop. Instead they match every twist and turn, of a swallow or swift; on and on, until the feast is won. Never, though, do they have the same darkness. Even in those moments, hobbies are light-entertainers.
I recall, with my license recently obtained, driving, to sites, in the New Forest and parking my car, there, but with the engine running. It is, in fact, a hot tip, for hobby-seekers, because insects, attracted to a warm radiator-grill, are snatched away. At Beaulieu Road, the birds will tear back and forth, above roof and bonnet, in groups of three or four; offering what is, surely, one of nature’s finest spectacles.
English skies, these days, can be filled with hobbies; a consequence of our warmer climate. On red-letter-days, gatherings of more than thirty occur. And no longer are they confined to southern heaths. Just a small area of green will do. Fast-forward, to 2004, when I sun-bathed, within a stone’s throw of London’s great landmarks. Ring-necked parakeets were many. Britain’s largest roost is at, nearby, Ewell; and their persistent calls filled the air. It was then that a similarity first occurred to me; that their calls were reminiscent of the hobbies I’d heard, in years gone by. Actually, I thought, it would be quite possible to confuse the two species, before realising I had done precisely that. Both were calling and to my amazement, hobbies had arrived, to breed, in my local park.
Inevitably, it becomes a beauty contest; for all who celebrate the aesthetic; so which species, I ask myself, has more?...the peregrine, with its menacing outline and almost sky-shaking presence?... or the joyful hobby, that seems to celebrate summer, with each and every wing-beat? Close call though it is, I’d probably plump for the latter. But others may well feel differently; and if birds of prey continue to stir their senses, a twenty-first century Baker could be just beyond the horizon.
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