The Bearded Tit Part 30

'So definitely not as big as a swan then?' I venture.

'Ooh no! And I beg of you: never hug a swan!'

I won't, Mannie.

But people don't like herons. Well, people with fishponds don't like herons. Little garden ponds stuffed with carp and goldfish are very attractive to herons. A lot offish in one small area. It's like a buffet, all you can eat for 1. 99, or whatever that is in heron. So owners of fishponds go to extreme lengths to deter them. Some get a life-size and life-like model of a heron and stick it next to their pond. They can look quite nice, but not as nice as a heron. Some use an air-rifle.

My friend Howie who lives near the coast in Lancashire has a beautiful fishpond with some lovely rare fish in it. He quite liked herons; he liked all creatures, in fact; he had three cats and a small dog. His neighbour liked birds too. Well, he liked pigeons; only pigeons, racing pigeons. So he didn't like herons; or cats and dogs for that matter.

'Here, Howie,' said the neighbour, proffering the air-rifle. 'Any time, it's yours, pal.'

'What for?'

'b.l.o.o.d.y herons. I've seen 'em sat on the edge of your pond. Eyeing up your fishies. And I wouldn't put it past them to have a go at my birds an' all. I've lost a couple recently, you know.'

'No, thanks, I don't need a gun,' Howie said meekly.

'Well, don't worry; I'll be keeping an eye out.'

Over the next year and a half, Howie's pond was unmolested by herons.

And so were his neighbour's birds.

But Howie's cats disappeared one by one.

And his little dog.

'b.l.o.o.d.y herons!' said the neighbour. Unconvincingly.

Vermin, then, to many, the graceful and dagger-like heron. But in our history a lot of birds have been considered vermin, and not just the ones you might think. There are records from England in the sixteenth and seventeenth century that bear bleak witness to man's fondness for destroying his fellow creatures. Birds as varied as cormorant, osprey, eagle, kite, green woodp.e.c.k.e.r, dipper, jay, starling, house sparrow and bullfinch were considered vermin and people could earn good money catching and destroying them. What made them vermin? Interfering with man's provisions, we a.s.sume: attacking game, and farmed fish, and cereals and fruit.

But what of the heron? The dagger-headed fish-murderer? Why is his name not on the list of vermin?

Aha. An interesting reason, with man, of course, again calling the shots.

In the Middle Ages, falconry was at its most popular. Popular with the royals and n.o.bles, that is. Falconry was a very expensive pastime. Edward 'Longshanks' the First who almost single-handedly rid Britain of wolves, and tried to do the same with the Scots and Welsh, was pa.s.sionate about hawks. When one of his birds was ill he not only paid to have it specially looked after but had a waxen image of the bird made so it could be offered at the shrine of St Thomas de Cantilupe in Hereford Cathedral. Most castles, palaces and n.o.ble houses would have a master falconer and numerous falcons, which were kept in cages round the back of the building. These were called 'mewes'. Later the 'mews' were larger buildings for horses and later still they were converted into townhouses for yuppies. The falconers (who were called 'austringers' if they were using 'accipitrines'-true hawks-rather than falcons) had to train their birds to hunt and this required some 'live' action.

Obviously inexperienced hunting birds could not start straight away on fast-flying game birds or fleet-footed rabbits and hares, so they had to practise on birds that were not too demanding. A large, slow bird, maybe, that could not hide away easily. And a bird that was not much use for anything else. The heron, of course. So the verminous grey man of the river became suddenly non-verminous.

Indeed, it became protected! Protected by the king so the king could practise killing it.

But from its years of being target practice for falcons, the herons learned something too. A peregrine falcon over the reed beds could easily knock out a standing heron, so when there's a falcon about, the great grey bird invariably flies low over the water, as close to the surface as it can, knowing that no falcon is going to be able to attempt a high-speed dive at it without risking crashing into the water.

And one of my favourite things about the heron is in the cooking of it. I don't mean that I like eating heron; I've never eaten one, nor would I; of course, we have it on good authority from Mannie, the wildlife cameraman who has hugged a heron, that there is not much on them. But before you cook a heron, or indeed any wild game, you need to prepare it. And dating from the early sixteenth century there are specific terms for jointing beasts of the field, air and water.

Apparently, one 'thighs' a woodc.o.c.k.

A pike should be 'splatted', and in the unlikely event your fish supper consists of a porpoise, this should be 'undertranched'.

A peac.o.c.k should be 'disfigured', and a heron, my favourite, should be 'dismembered'. It would be nice to answer the phone and say, 'Sorry, I can't speak just now, I'm dismembering a heron.'

Tori and I watched the undismembered heron fly off. Such an impressive flight too: the rhythmic flap of the wings so broad and so slow. This felt like a proper birdwatching moment; the sunset turned the sinuous river into a dazzling golden serpent zigzagging through the dusky reeds and we were alone with the great grey bird. So simple and calm.

SCAVENGERS.

But I do go abroad occasionally. And I do look at the birds. I once worked briefly in India, a country with a daunting number of superb bird species. I hadn't gone there to watch birds but to do a tedious job I did not enjoy. Bombay is a miserable place. Or perhaps a place of misery. I know that being brought up in English cities and English countryside is not a good preparation for places like Bombay. I know we judge things differently here and I know all about culture shock, but, nevertheless, to me Bombay was grim. Or was the misery inside me and I was projecting it on to my surroundings? Anyway, I was looking for something to lift my spirits. I looked to the sky.

Wow! What the h.e.l.l is that?

A bird with the proportions and swagger of an eagle but the slim grace of a swallow.

A kite.

A black kite. Right over the middle of this vast, teeming Indian city.

And another next to it.

And another. And...against the glaring white sky, I could see the magnificent kite silhouette of thousands of individual birds.

'Kites!' I exclaimed to the local driver.

'Pariahs,' he said. 'Pariah kites.'

That's not nice, I thought. 'Pariah.' The lowest caste. In fact, even lower than that. No caste at all. The social outcast. Such a beautiful bird.

'They are vermin,' he went on. 'Pests. Worse than rats,' and he finished by spitting out the word 'scavengers'.

This was always the way. Hyenas? Horrible creatures, scavengers, you know! Herring gulls? Nasty birds; scavengers, of course! Sharks, evil things, they mostly scavenge, you know!

Poor scavengers. Why such bad press? A lion is alright because it hunts and kills zebras and eats as much as it can. That's fine, apparently. Then along come those filthy scavengers, hyenas, jackals, vultures. What is the suggestion: are they lazy? Can't be bothered to chase their own antelopes? No, hyenas are doing all they can do, surely; all that nature intended them to do, which is be hyenas. The scavengers are vital to any eco-system. Could we not say: b.l.o.o.d.y lions! They kill a load of wildebeest, leave tons of it uneaten, just lying about the place, being messy and stinking to high heaven; thank heavens for those nice hyenas and vultures who come and clear up every last morsel.

I was captivated by the pariah kites above the teeming, steaming, choking streets of Bombay.

In Britain we have the red kite. A stunner. I remember my first. Where the M40 cuts a spectacularly white gorge through the chalky Chilterns in Buckinghamshire, I saw the magnificent bird swoop in to land on a footbridge. I would defy anyone not to look up and gaze at this masterpiece. A large but graceful bird, deep chestnut-red, greyish head and the distinctive and unmistakable forked tail, constantly twisted like a rudder throughout its elegant flight. Their presence on the M40 is a success story. Will the kite go back to its medieval status of irritating pest? Possibly, but for now it's a beauty; a birdy masterpiece. Definitely the best thing about the M40. Though there's really good a John Lewis at High Wycombe. The numbers in that area now are truly impressive and, if you're not the driver, they make the motorway journey from London to Birmingham a delight.

Why the extinction? Why, man, of course. Birds of prey interfere with other birds. Other birds that man wants for himself for food (and in some cases for hunting, as well). And there is something so obvious about a bird of prey. They are attractive. One of the things they attract is attention. The attention of farmers, hunters and game-keepers. So the red kite was wiped out. But go back to the time before the shotgun and it's a different story. In medieval London, the kite was at the peak of its scavenging menace, boldly swooping to grab the food out of people's hands.

In those days to call someone a kite was an insult. Not just a bird but a low-life. Shakespeare called London the 'city of crows and kites' where 'kites' could easily have referred to the c.o.c.kney populace. Hamlet, in referring to the 'b.l.o.o.d.y, bawdy villain' Claudius, says: But am I pigeon-livered, and lack gall to make oppression bitter But am I pigeon-livered, and lack gall to make oppression bitter. Or 'ere this I should have fatted all theregion's kites with this slave's offal Or 'ere this I should have fatted all theregion's kites with this slave's offal.

But the beautiful red kite is back. Its success is staggering. They're everywhere. Soon they may once again be as common as they were in the times of Shakespeare and Chaucer. People are already feeding them junk food in their back gardens. A few individual birds in Wales clawed the species back from extinction-since then there have been re-introduction schemes in many places, including the Chilterns.

I was watching one as I drove on the outskirts of Milton Keynes one spring evening: so pleasing to the eye; such a dashing reminder of the energy and vigour of life.

'It would be a shame to lose you again,' I said to the bird. I don't know why but my thoughts turned to Danny.

GOODBYE.

A beautiful summer's day. The sun overhead in a spotless sky meant there were no dark corners for the shadows to hide in. beautiful summer's day. The sun overhead in a spotless sky meant there were no dark corners for the shadows to hide in.

'What a terrible day,' I said to Tori as we looked over the golden reeds to the dark blue band of sea beyond. 'Doesn't it ever rain in this country?'

'It's lovely. I know it doesn't feel right but I think we should be glad.'

I had promised Danny that when he got back from his travels we would have a nostalgic trip to Norfolk: a little bit of birdwatching and a huge helping of eating, drinking and merriment at the Hoste Arms in Burnham Market. Tori was with us this time so it would not be a 'boys' night out' but this was was a rather special occasion. a rather special occasion.

'Where's Danny?'

'He's still in the car. I'll go and get him.' She turned to go.

'He's missing the birds. And they're his favourites. d.i.c.ky birds. Get him out here quick!'

High summer is not a great time for serious birdwatching. The partners have been found, the nests have been built, the mating has been done, eggs laid and hatched, the hyperactive feeding of voracious chicks is over, the fledglings have left and the parents have nothing much to do now except to moult the finery of their breeding plumage and survive till the circus of life rolls back into their town. Above the reed heads the momentary flitting of nameless warblers was obvious. An occasional swallow, swift or martin would twitter by in a dark flash, and the distant white specks of some reliably ubiquitous seagulls were visible with the accompaniment of shrieking laughter and bad-tempered wailing.

Danny would have once thought a day like this spent in the countryside looking at nature was a waste. A day like this was for iced drinks and scantily clad girls followed by a warm twilight of music, laughter and mischief. But we all change.

Danny had changed a lot since I last saw him three months ago as he left for the Gambia, struggling into Heathrow under the weight of suitcases, camera gear and his worsening hacking cough.

'Here we are,' Tori announced sadly.

The ashes were in a small ornate urn. Tori's hands were shaking as she handed it to me. Ashes. How painfully apt.

A small brown bird flew up from the reeds in front of us and immediately disappeared.

'Hey, what was that?' Tori asked, her excitement not disguising the tears in her voice.

'A d.i.c.ky bird,' as Danny would say.

The sun went behind a cloud. I shivered. I looked up. There were no clouds. It was just my thoughts getting dark.

'Alright then, here goes,' I said, and took the lid off the urn and flung its contents as hard and high as I could. As the ashes emptied out, the soft, westerly summer breeze picked up the blue-grey cloud of dust and floated it gently off towards nothingness and Brancaster.

ROCKIN' ROBIN Stormc.o.c.k. What a great word! The old name for the mistle thrush. A larger, greyer and tougher version of the song thrush, but with a similar talent for singing. This hardy bird had often been observed perched high in the wind and rain, pouring its tuneful heart out into the teeth of a gale. It gets its common name from its predilection for mistletoe. Its fondness for this particular plant makes me think its popular name should be something like 'kissing bird' or 'kiss-c.o.c.k'. Neither of these suggestions has yet been taken up by the birding community.

'Hey, Jon,' I said enthusiastically, 'what about Stormc.o.c.k? Stormc.o.c.k? You know, Roy Harper? Play something from that. You must have heard of it. It's a cla.s.sic. Only four tracks and one of them lasts thirteen minutes.' You know, Roy Harper? Play something from that. You must have heard of it. It's a cla.s.sic. Only four tracks and one of them lasts thirteen minutes.'

Jon was nowhere to be seen. He was sitting on the sofa a few feet away but he was nowhere to be seen. He was deep in his electronic fortress. The Xbox controls at his feet snaked towards the television, which every few seconds blared out the same request to 'choose a weapon'. I turned it down. Jon didn't notice, he was sitting with the electric guitar on his lap, legs crossed and feet resting on the amp. He was wearing headphones and, for extra isolation, his woolly hat was pulled right down over the rims of his sungla.s.ses.

'You're just so f.u.c.king annoying, Jon,' his loving sister chimed in.

'What about 'Fly Like An Eagle' by the Steve Miller band?' I suggested. Jon nodded, but I think that was a coincidence.

''Bird On A Wire' by Leonard Cohen?'

Louise looked imploringly to heaven. 'Come on, Dad, we'll never regain contact if you want him to play Leonard Cohen. Anyway, there are songs not to do with birds, you know.'

'Name one.'

She came straight back with, ''Dirty', Christina Aguilera?'

'OK, that's not about birds, but it's sung by a bit of ruff.'

A big tut. 'That's just lame, Daddy!'

'Hey, Jon, do you know 'The Chicken Song'?'

A loud tw.a.n.gy minor chord rang out; it throbbed with reverb, chorus, sustain and 'why don't you two just get out and leave me alone?'

'OK, Jon,' I said picking up my coat. 'Me and Lou are going shopping. We'll be an hour or so. See you later. Are you warm enough, by the way? You've only got three sweatshirts and a hoodie on.'

Another dismissive tw.a.n.g rattled the amp and we left.

The deal was that I'd take Louise shopping provided we could walk into town the long way round: the scenic route; the pretty way.

'You mean the birdwatching way?' she had correctly surmised, and we ambled round the meadowy outskirts of the city and were rewarded with a skylark singing high up in the clouds.

'Beautiful. Hear that!'

Louise looked around, back and front, up and down. 'What is it?'

'It's called the invisible bird.'

'I can't see it.'

'Well, there you are, you see.'

She was intrigued to pin it down but this one was invisible in the whiteness. I told her this bird was special but made the mistake of telling her it was also rather dull and streaky brown, and while the shops were open she wasn't going to wait to see one drop back to earth.

'In Victorian times, they used to eat them, you know.'

'Ugh, that's gross! Anyway there can't be much meat on them.'

'No, there isn't. You'd need about twenty for your pie. And then you'd have to bung in loads of stuff like bacon, beef and onions.'

'Mmm, sounds lovely; apart from the skylark. Would you eat one?'

Children have an uncanny knack of putting you on the spot.

'Er...good question, Lou!'

'You're always going on about how wondrous skylarks are, how they're endangered and all that, but would you eat one? You eat other birds: chickens, pheasant and loads of creepy stuff. What about a skylark?'

'Ah, I know,' I said, pretending I'd suddenly had a flash of inspiration, 'a merlin!'