Exhausted flocks greeted with snow

THE TALK in the pub was all about birds and everybody, nature watchers and gunmen alike had sympathy with the Redwings.

Arriving on the cold south coast of Ireland this January, they were almost as numerous as the Painted Lady butterflies that arrived from Morocco in the halcyon days of June. Small, brightly coloured thrushes with the profiles of robin redbreasts – and not much bigger – they had flown over the North Sea from frozen Scandinavia and Russia only to find the fields of Britain whited-out, and so they pressed on. By the time they hit the still-green land of Ireland, many were so depleted they literally couldn’t rise from the road and died under the wheels of cars. Those that survived stalked the fields in voracious ranks, scratching for sustenance. But then, came the snow.

In the pub, a man told us how his cat had brought in six Redwings and one Fieldfare that morning; it was a stray cat he’d saved from starvation, and he was almost sorry now. “Hobble her for the duration!” was one citizen’s advice. Belling would never do – a half-dead thrush would never hear the bell nor have the energy to lift off and fly; those that did fly, flew low, never rising more than a few feet above the ground. The man said he’d seen his cat catch one in mid-air.