Many of the photos on this website show nature at its prettiest. Well, not today, but still surely of interest. Nature is in Alfred, Lord Tennyson’s phrase “red in tooth and claw”—or in this case in beak and claw: a Wood Pigeon killed, plucked and partly eaten by a Sparrowhawk. There were many plucked feathers all about, mainly to the right and bottom of the image, an instantly recognisable scene of predation and carnage. The Sparrowhawks nest at the other end of the reserve, and they kill a pigeon somewhere that we notice most weeks. Netty disturbed this one on her walk round this morning, and given the cold damp weather she was surely the first person into the reserve today. The sparrowhawk, definitely not very large and brownish, was either a male or a juvenile.
With another day of freezing fog, very dangerous on the roads, nature is telling us that, yes, global warming or no, it’s winter. The false acacia, totally leafless, whirs with activity. A big wood pigeon sits impassively, ignoring the small passers-by. Within a few minutes, these include 3 goldfinches, keeping well away from each other in the branches; 2 male blackbirds, similarly, their heads high on the lookout for competitive activity; 4 ring-necked parakeets, never settling for more than a moment, jumping up squawking at the slightest provocation; 2 redwings, handsome with their contrasting eyestripes; 1 fieldfare, markedly bigger, and a handsome bird when seen in crisp winter sunshine rather than today’s murky fog. A few minutes later, a blackcap appeared: still a bird that we think of as a summer visitor, though a few pass through in winter from colder places. Later still, a great tit jumped in and wriggled about; and a little flock of 6 starlings blew in for a few minutes, sadly diminished from the sort of flocks I remember: and even this local flock used to have 7 members.
The effect as birds appear from and vanish into the gloom is rather of one of those popular tales physicists tell to try to make the public feel they understand what nuclear physics is all about: particles and antiparticles are ceaselessly created by the vacuum, and as continuously meet each other and annihilate, returning to their matrix, the apparently endlessly creative fog, which one would otherwise have mistaken for chilly nothingness.
Scene of Crime in London Wildlife Trust’s Gunnersbury Triangle Local Nature Reserve
OK, you see a blizzard of feathers, the entire mortal remains of a Wood Pigeon that once proudly flew the woods, jauntily sailing away from a mere human. Who did it – Sparrowhawk or Fox? You might think it impossible, given that both eat most of their quarry, leaving little but bloodied feathers.
The Guilty Party? Sparrowhawk in Gunnersbury TriangleThe Culprit? Red Fox in Gunnersbury Triangle
But you’d be wrong. Each leaves distinctive clues in the debris of their dastardly deeds.
How would one tell if the brutal murder was the Butler with Carving Knife in Pantry, or Doctor with Stethoscope Hose in Library? (with apologies to Cluedo) Or rather, Sparrowhawk with Beak and Claw in Mid-air Murder, or Fox with Teeth in Ambush from Shrubbery? Here’s how to be a wildlife detective …
Sparrowhawk with Beak and Claw in Mid-air Murder
The Sparrowhawk has no teeth; and it doesn’t like to eat feathers. So, it grips each one, and boldly plucks it from the dead prey, leaving whole feathers – the shaft tapering to a point that was once inside the bird’s skin – neatly removed, each in one piece.
Pigeon plucked by Sparrowhawk, detail
Fox with Teeth, Ambush in Shrubbery
The Fox, however, wastes no time on single feathers, biting off and spitting out fluffy mouthfuls as quickly as he can. They may be bloodied, as below, when the skin gets torn, but the feathers generally have broken shafts.
Pigeon feathers bitten off by Fox, detail
The overall effect is still a blizzard of feathers, all that remains of the ex-Pigeon. But, though the Pigeon is no more, its traces indicate quite clearly whodiddit.
Pigeon feathers bitten off by Fox
Now you know.
Sentimentality
There is a sad little postscript to this tale. Near both murder sites was a scatter of bird-seed. Some kind, well-meaning person, perhaps lonely, perhaps seeking friendship, had put out some food for the pigeons to eat in the cold weather.
Well-meaning, but unwise. The pigeons became accustomed to feeding on the ground … in poor light … without looking about them too much … and fell victim to two keen, hungry, unsentimental predators.
Yes, it’s ornamental cherry time again. Sitting at the breakfast table with a coffee, I watch two male Blackbirds perch on the garden table and chairs under the tree. One flies up, hovers for an instant, lands, and can be seen to have a small black cherry in its propped-open beak. It swallows, looks up, repeats the cycle.
There is a Blackbird nest exactly in the middle of the ornamental cherry, atop the end of a cut branch; it is not very well hidden from anyone walking in the garden, nor very far from night-prowling cats.
Less welcome are the Wood Pigeons that noisily flap into the tree’s slim branches, finding a wobbly perch before greedily guzzling the tiny cherries, the first fruits of the year. If they become numerous they will threaten to devastate the crop of real edible cherries from my ‘Stella’ tree. Stella is a good deep red variety, not as dark and bitter as Morello (but a great deal sweeter), though rather on the late side. The pigeons, of course, find it delicious. I always had to cover the tree with nets, until last year when there was hardly a pigeon or even Blackbird to be seen near the tree: I suspect a bird-killer cat used to lurk on the shed roof at night and stalk its avian prey.
Out the front, another bird-only cherry grows in the pavement. It is risky to park the car beneath it, the birds – mainly starlings – spotting roof and windows with rich purple-red stains made gritty and corrosive with white powdery uric acid.
The English seem unemotional … except for their passion for nature
