or paw prints are only one of the signs of an animal’s passing that you can detect if you are observant; the term ‘spoor’, an Afrikaans word, means the wide range of signs that wild animals leave behind, such as prints, droppings, signs of grazing, tufts of fur or bark nibbled off a young tree. Sometimes the spoor can tell a story. On one frosty morning in late January on Ticknock I came across the oval-shaped prints of what I took to be a fox. The fox is still a hunted animal, and I could see that, most of the time, it had placed its rear foot precisely in the footprint of its front foot, to reduce its spoor by 50 per cent. I followed it for about forty metres, and then it looked as if the animal had speeded up; the prints were blurred and it seemed as if the fox was kicking up flurries of snow in its wake. The confused trail ended in a hollow where there was much disturbed snow, a tuft of fur, and small patches of frozen blood. I was able to see that at this particular point the fox’s trail had intersected with that of a rabbit, which had run fast for the last few moments only to be caught by the fox. Leading out of the hollow were only the fox’s footprints, a little deeper than before, because he was carrying the rabbit, but reverting to halving his spoor again. I followed him, but the spoor disappeared into a maze of rocks and gorse. By learning more about these signs that animals have been about, we can enrich our outdoor explorations and get a glimpse into aspects of their way of life.
You don’t have to wait for snow to give you a chance of seeing what has passed by before you; wet ground, muddy patches and, indeed, certain kinds of vegetation can all display signs of an animal’s passing. To immerse oneself in the art of identifying spoor is to add an entirely new dimension to one’s countryside wanderings. It is useful to arm yourself with an appropriate book, such as the Hamlyn Guide to Animals Tracks, Trails and Signs, or The Nature Tracker’s Handbook by Nick Baker, because once you begin to look carefully at the ground, you will be surprised at how much you will find that cries out to be identified.
One bird that is always active in the early weeks of the year is the raven, because these birds appear to start their courtship in the winter months. Ravens contrive to have their young at the same time as lambing occurs on the hillsides, and so must start the process earlier than most birds. Lambing provides them with nutrient-rich placentas scattered about the fields, perfect food for their hungry young nestlings. Most farmers hate ravens. When a lamb is born with a serious defect, it is often abandoned by its mother, leaving it to the cruelty of nature. Ravens will concentrate on these, but if there are no sickly lambs about, they can often gang up on a healthy lamb and peck out its eyes or tongue; a blind or tongueless lamb will not survive for long, and as soon as it is dead, the birds will move in, and quickly and expertly disembowel the corpse. Ravens are protected birds, and before a farmer can think of shooting them, he or she has to apply for a permit.
Ravens are, however, only doing what nature dictates. I have great grá for these big birds, and have been fortunate on a number of memorable occasions to observe their spectacular aerial displays. On Hellfire Hill one January morning, I had been hearing the characteristic ‘cronking’ in the distance, a bit like a dog barking, all the way around the hill, and spotted one raven flying above the trees on the west side. A little later, however, I heard a series of calls that ranged from the familiar deep and visceral cronk to an almost melodious ‘Cooook’ and a harsh ‘Kraaaak’, and a trio of ravens flying in close formation came into view above me, jinking and changing places, obviously agitated. It looked like a love triangle, but soon one of them detached from the group, or was forcibly removed, I could not tell, leaving the remaining pair to embark on a series of circuits like ballroom dancers, formating closely together, so close at times that I wondered if, like swifts, they actually mate on the wing? They also performed that manoeuvre that I have only ever seen ravens do, flipping over onto their backs and then returning to normal flight, an aerobatic trick that allows them to see directly down. At one stage this pair seemed to briefly fly mirrored, one flying normally and the other flying upside down above it, calling sweetly to each other all the while. As they disappeared over the trees, I continued my walk with my spirits greatly raised.
ravens
Glendoher, 3 January
Getting out of the car in front of the house, I caught sight of a bird flying quite high, but not too far to clearly observe its shape, and that its belly was a speckled light grey. As it went over the roof of the house, it folded its wings against its flanks and dropped like a stone, vertically, disappearing behind the roof. At that moment I realised that it must be a peregrine falcon – the swiftness of the dive, the verticality of it, and reviewing the form of the bird and the height it was flying at convinced me. I ran into the house and up the stairs to the back room to see if there was any activity in the field, but everything was still, there was nothing to see or hear. A short time before the trees would have been full of noisy magpies and wood pigeons, and the usual robin, hedge sparrow and tits would have been flitting about the garden. Now there was no movement whatever, no bird in sight. The peregrine is the fastest bird in the world, and a species that almost became extinct in Ireland a few decades ago. The bird dives at up to 300km per hour to strike its prey, often a wood pigeon, killing it instantly. This particular peregrine was probably somewhere in the undergrowth of the Spinney, already plucking its prey. It was a wonder to see one of these dramatic raptors in the air over my home.
Glendoher, 8 January
Two mornings ago I watched from the breakfast table as a darting and jinking gang of a dozen magpies put on a vigorous aerial display in the Spinney treetops. Fluttering and swooping, circling and perching, they moved as a team from branch to branch in an attempt to dislodge a much larger bird that was perched in the middle of the Spinney. Eventually the large bird, which I guessed was the resident sparrowhawk, launched into the air, and after making a few threatening lunges at the magpies, it flew snootily and slowly away.
magpie
This morning, however, I was present for a similar but more extended show, and watched it from the beginning through binoculars. As usual, when the winter sun illuminates the branchy fringe at the top of the Spinney and pushes the shadows downwards along their trunks, a flock of wood pigeons arrives to warm themselves on their everyday morning perches. Before long, first a couple, and then more magpies arrive, circling around the pigeons and making threatening darts at them from branch to branch. Soon, as they do every day, the wood pigeons gave up trying to get a bit of warmth and depart for a more peaceful existence somewhere else.
Having sent the docile wood pigeons packing, instead of taking their place as usual, the magpies worked their way westwards along the Spinney, some hopping from branch to branch, others circling and diving, and it was clear that another occupant of the trees had become the subject of their attention. Suddenly, a large, chunky white-breasted sparrowhawk burst out of cover and made an aerial lunge at the magpies. A brief aerial dogfight followed, with the magpies getting more animated, ducking and dodging their victim, and seeming to enjoy every minute of it. The sparrowhawk was fast, but had no effect on the magpies, and after a few passes it perched again, up on the western end of the Spinney. It looked magnificent through the binoculars, its strongly barred, light- coloured breast, its long yellow legs and grey-capped head highlighted in the low sun. The magpies continued their harassment, and after a few minutes, like the wood pigeons, the sparrowhawk just gave up and took himself elsewhere, away from the racket.
But there was more to come. Having successfully flushed the pigeons and the sparrowhawk, the pied teddy boys started concentrating on the lower levels of the Spinney, and it wasn’t long before a male kestrel was flushed out. It flew straight towards my window and over the roof of the house. What a show! Twenty minutes later, the magpie gang had gone elsewhere to see what trouble they could stir up.
The raven was once persecuted almost out of existence, mainly for the reasons mentioned above, but also
