Same old story for sociable heron

YESTERDAY, I saw a heron fly overhead with a twig in its beak.

It was, no doubt, heading for a heronry; when nesting, they are sociable birds Year after year the same nests are used, the old lining thrown out, a new one added, new twigs replace the old and the whole massive structure is spruced up and restored. After years of addition and reinforcement the nests are so large, one could almost sleep the night in one. While they usually nest in tall trees, they sometimes also use bushes. I can’t but think that there is some old story about a king or a bard on the run finding refuge in a heron’s nest. Charles II of England, obviously an agile king, spent a day hiding in an oak tree when pursued by Roundheads.

The cliff-dwelling ravens which I watch every year had chicks in the nest on March 18. Ravens, too, refurbish the old structure annually, and comfortable it looks, with a deep cup, lined with horse hair. First, they were tumbling, nose-diving and even flying upside down in courtship display over the sea. Almost certainly the same pair as last year – they mate for life – they were, so to speak, renewing their ‘marriage vows’. The nest re-building followed. Then, in early March, there were pale blue eggs; now, there are bald chicks, squirming pinkly in the cup. As walkers pass, the female rises from the nest and both parents stand guard on fence posts above the cliff, resplendent in their glossy, black spring feathers. With raucous croaks, they berate passers-by invading their privacy, raising their crown and throat feathers as they scold.

They will, no doubt, feed the chicks, at least in part, on shellfish captured on the sandbanks of the bay. These, they carry aloft and drop onto rock surfaces, to split them. They may also occasionally take a very small rabbit, or a bird.

In history, they were the symbolic birds of death and carrion, and the Vikings carried banners bearing their image into battle to remind the foe of their impending fate. I recently came across some lines of runic poetry referring to ravens, Icelandic sagas relating the victories of Viking warriors in the 10th century. “We fought with swords in the Irish plains. The bodies of the warriors lay intermingled. The hawk rejoiced at the play of swords. The Irish king did not act the part of the eagle. King Marstan was killed in the bay: he was given as prey to the hungry ravens ...” And, elsewhere, “In the shower of arms, Rogvaldur fell: I lost my son. His lofty crest was dyed with gore. The birds of prey bewailed his fall: they lost him that prepared them banquets.” Bloody stuff! The Vikings rejoiced in gore.

On cliffs and sea stacks at the Old Head of Kinsale, kittiwakes – small, elegant gulls – and guillemots and razorbills – not unlike penguins as they stand upright on the rocky ledges – busy themselves staking out nesting niches. An expedition to the car park outside the massive gates to the famous – or infamous, depending on one’s viewpoint – Old Head Golf Course, is well worth while. Between the sea, 300 feet below, and where one stands, the air is full of birds, the sea stacks crowded with bodies, every ledge and fissure occupied. As the fulmar and kittiwake drift by at eye-level, riding the updrafts over the sea, one can almost touch them – but do not try! Cliff edges are dangerous places.

Garden birds are seeking nest sites too, and I have put out some simple nest boxes. Open-front boxes may be used by robins, wrens and flycatchers. Hole-nest boxes suit blue, great and coal tits (hole diameter 28mm) and sparrows (a series of compartments, with hole diameters of 32mm). The web site www.lincstrust.org.uk/factsheets/nestbox.php gives succinct and useful information about the optimum sizes and locations.

I wonder what will become of the hen brambling we’ve had in our garden since the January snows. Sometimes called the Northern Chaffinch, the brambling is a relatively uncommon winter visitor from Scandinavia and Siberia.