this track, the neighbours were about five metres in front of us, chattering away animatedly and noisily and taking in very little of the surroundings through which they walked. David, who was very observant and was quick to spot things of interest on walks, nudged me and pointed up ahead. No more than six metres beyond our neighbours, a startlingly red fox had come out from the trees, and as I looked, he paused to look downhill at what was causing the disturbance. After taking in the scene, he moved leisurely across the track and into the trees on the other side; the chattering neighbours, looking everywhere but at this wild wonder, continued uphill unaware.
The secret of successfully observing wild creatures is to freeze as soon as you glimpse the bird or animal in question; stillness and silence will suggest to many creatures that, in spite of their instinctive urge to flee, you might not pose a danger to them. It is also important, on encountering a wild creature, not to look directly at it, but try to watch it out of the corner of your eye: they seem very sensitive to having eyes focussed on them.
I have found that being still can persuade squirrels that you are not a threat; if you come across one, it may escape around the back of the tree to hide out of your sight. Squirrels seem to have no patience, however; within a minute or two it will peer around the tree to see if you are still there, and if you don’t move, it may assume that you are no threat, or you’re gone, and will continue with its business. Stillness usually works, but the sound of a human voice can mean danger for wild animals. Walking with Teresa along the banks of a Donegal river at dawn one time, I came to a halt where a tributary flowing into the river cut off our progress. I stood there, wondering how we might cross. Suddenly, an otter surfaced across the other side of the tributary, a few metres away, water drops like diamonds dripping from its whiskers. It turned its head, and, noticing me, regarded me curiously with big bright eyes. I raised my camera very slowly, and took a couple of shots. The automatic click and wind of the camera sounded deafening to me, but it didn’t disturb the otter. Instead, it swam slowly towards me. I was so excited that I called, without moving, in a stage whisper to Teresa, who was about five metres behind, to come and see. The otter might not have worried about the still shape on the bank, or the mechanical click of the camera, but the sound of the human voice rang loud some instinctive alarm bell, and the beautiful animal immediately disappeared below the surface with hardly a ripple, and we did not see it again.
On the north-west side of Hellfire Hill we saw no birds other than a solitary fieldfare; the recent cold weather has had large flocks of redwings flying over the house in the morning, maybe from their roosts in the Spinney across the field, but up on Hellfire Hill the buffeting wind kept all birds in shelter.
Glendoher, 21 February
I like February. The air is alive with promise, growth is beginning to show itself in all plants and shrubs, and the weather is reaching out towards warmth. Plants that thrive on forest floors, such as wood anemone, lesser celandine and wood sorrel, are soaking up what sunshine filters through the leafless trees;as yet no flowers have appeared, but you can almost hear them coming.
The garden at Glendoher has been mobbed with birds this spring – wrens; siskins; blue, coal, great and frequently long-tailed tits are coming to the feeder, while robins and chaffinches get the crumbs from the bird table, and the quiet dunnock weaves through the cotoneaster at the end of the garden. The dunnock may be quiet, but it is certainly not shy when it comes to mating. We watched a pair the other day, meeting up as they foraged through the garden. What we took to be the female immediately began to act like a chick wanting to be fed, stooping and fluttering her wings, while the male seemed initially a bit nonplussed, and didn’t know what to do. Then he began carefully grooming the female’s tail feathers with his beak. This activity must have reminded him what it was he had to do, and he dutifully hopped on her back. The consummation didn’t last more than a couple of seconds, after which they both flew off in opposite directions.
Dunnocks, I have learned, both male and female, are notorious for having multiple partners. The female accepts partners other than her mate because the more males that think her progeny is theirs, the more assured she will be that her brood won’t go hungry. Males have been known to have two or three female friends, simply because, I suppose, they can. They are very particular about passing on their genes, however: if a male is suspicious that a female he has chosen is ‘playing away’, before copulation he may use his beak to remove any other sperm from her cloaca!
Who loves not Spring’s voluptuous hours,
The carnival of birds and flowers
– James Montgomery, ‘The Reign of Spring’
Our friendly heron is to be seen in the garden across the field almost every morning now – and I have just found out why. The neighbours there are feeding him with, it appears, bread, actually throwing it to him, and he stalks along and takes it up. I don’t think this is such a good idea.
Our little garden pond has provided us with lots of watery fun for many years now. It was created by removing the claw foot legs of an old Edwardian bath tub, and sinking it into the ground. The plughole was blocked up, and the new pond filled with water, enriched by a bucket of muck from a nearby pond and a number of aquatic plants that I brought back from County Clare. Some of these disappeared after a short while, but others have survived to this day. Around the pond we have a little ‘wild’ garden, a small shady place with ferns, montbretia, Solomon’s seal, reeds and St Patrick’s cabbage. It serves as a prep school for young frogs and other creatures before they embark on their travels in the rest of the garden. At the moment adult frogs are splashing about mating in the pond. When tidying it up last week, I was delighted to see a newt come briefly to the surface; it either came in an imported bucket of muck, or was one of a couple I rescued from a damaged pond on Hellfire Hill.
Glendoher, 22 February
There were three squirrels in the garden today at one time. They mostly ignored each other, but today one chased another around the tree a couple of times before the pursued one leapt effortlessly over the wall. One squirrel has taken a fancy to the flowers on our early-flowering camellia; we watched it as it chose a blossom and spent a while plucking petals and eating some of them.
One reason why squirrels are so bold and reckless in leaping through the trees is that if they miss their hold and fall, they sustain no injury. I have seen one fall from a height of five metres into a holly bush and scamper off as if it happens all the time, which it probably does. Every species of tree squirrel seems to be capable of a sort of rudimentary flying, or at least of making itself into a parachute so as to ease or break a fall or a leap from a great height.
Glendoher, 24 February
You don’t have to go to Africa to see elaborate avian courtship behaviour. We have a pair of wood pigeons that have become regulars in the garden, partly to drink from the bird bath that Teresa has put on the shed roof, but also to take advantage of the seeds that are scattered on the grass from a bird feeder. Although they seem to be a permanent pair, the female insists each year on the male going through the usual mating procedure. It is fun to see them hopping, one after the other, doing a fluttering and flapping, leaping and landing dance, and spinning around before returning to the hopping chase. The male goes a long way to try to impress the female: he hops gallantly after her, and then does a series of deep bows, his head to the grass, his tail raised and fanned out. It is particularly amusing to watch when the female, unimpressed, just flies off, leaving the male looking around, puzzled, feeling a little daft, like a fellow refused a dance in a dance hall!
Irish wood pigeons, if they survive fledging, live for five or six years and usually stay in the same area for their lifetime. Today I was delighted to see one launch into the joyful swooping flight that characterises a wood pigeon’s springtime: it flies in a series of dives and climbs, and at
