Master of hedgerow ambush

THERE are more birds in the garden these days, or so it seems.

As the butterflies that blanketed the deep-pink sedum with their even more vivid colours ‘disappear’, the birds arrive. In fact, they have been present all the time.

As the leaves fall, we see more of them every day.

Free of responsibilities to their breeding partners and their children — which have flown the nest — they travel in busy gangs, small or large flocks often of mixed species.

At breakfast, shadows flit across the table and we look up to see blue tits, coal tits and great tits winging past the balcony windows, two dozen or more.

Amongst the flock, there will be youngsters on a learning curve, guided by the adults to the peanut feeders they remember from last winter.

Learning the location of food sources is one good reason to follow the crowd; the second is that there is safety in numbers. The more pairs of eyes, the better chance of spotting predators. Domestic cats are the greatest killers, but there are also avian predators. A bird in a flock can spend more time feeding than a bird on its own; in a group, there will always be one bird pausing to raise its head, to take in its surroundings. Other factors also provide more security. Raptors need to kill less when they aren’t feeding young. Also, as the leaves fall, securing a meal becomes more difficult for the sparrowhawk, a master of the hedgerow ambush.

Last Sunday, as we walked near Clonakilty town in west Cork, a mixed flock of small birds, mainly chaffinches, suddenly exploded out of a tall, roadside hedge with a sparrowhawk in pursuit.

The flock dived toward the tarmac, the hawk after it, twisting and turning, for seconds almost upside down. Alas, with humans only 20 yards away, it couldn’t tarry and the element of surprise now lost, it sailed off over the hedge-top and into the distance. Lucky small birds, that we were there.

The sparrowhawk is the most expert of all hedgerow and woodland flyers. Its rapid wing beats, followed by shallow glides, and its ability to turn and twist at speed take it through the dense branches like a guided missile locked onto its prey.

Knowing where a flock will be feeding (it also remembers the location of the bird-feeders and returns in winter) it sits in dense cover, awaiting its chance. Suddenly, in a flash, it darts out and grabs a victim its talons. Its legs may seem fragile but, clearly, they are very strong; blackbirds and even collared doves may be taken.

If the hawk misses its mark, a chase will often ensue. Its target, more often small than large, is pursued relentless through the thickets.

I have seen a female sparrowhawk pass through a gap in a myrtle hedge little wider than the breadth of its own body with the wings folded tight. In hot pursuit, it shot through the branches and snatched its victim out of the air on the other side.

On these autumn days, above that same hedge, an old myrtle tree still retains some of the blossom in which it was so elegantly dressed this summer and autumn. Its rainments now carpet the ground beneath it, white flowers turning yellow under the rain. Sycamore leaves, once so pretty with their pastel colours and bright red stems, lie in drifts, dark, slippery and decaying. These trees will, of course, revive; they are simply resting. Forget the finery; there are no bees or insects to attract.

Meanwhile, new life begins at sea. A farmer who keeps a close eye on nature around Courtmacsherry Bay tells me that a pair of seals have taken to hauling up on a strip of rocks alongside the road near the Burren Pier.

Grey seal pups are born about now but it is unlikely that seal mothers would chose such a site for birthing.

The pair are probably juveniles, staying away from the colony out on the Horse Rock where pugnacious old bulls will be guarding their hareems. They may, or may not, have fathered the pups soon to be born, but will make certain to impregnate the new mothers, ensuring that the next generation will carry their genes.