Island of Eagles, and their Ancestors

Sitting beside my computer on a blue but chilly January day in the wilds of Essex, I cannot help but cast my mind back one more time, to Scotland, and its wildlife spectacles. In particular, to Emma and my trip to the Isle of Skye, its bays and Cuillin hills, the ragged mountains plunging into the, under an intemperate, grey and angry sky around the time of the Autumn equinox.

The East Coast of Scotland, where Skye sits, is something of a haven for Raptors, but they are not always as conspicuous as one might hope. At first glance this rugged place seems birdless. A couple of days into the trip, avoiding the near constant ribbons of rain which drench the dramatic landscape on Autumn days, we got our wallets out and paid a guy to take us to the birds. Andy of Skye Wildlife Tours took us on a day long van tour of the island, using his expert local knowledge to show us some of the birds which make this island famous. From our first stop, we watched a white-rumped ringtail Hen Harrier coast along a rain soaked glen, scanning for prey before disappearing from sight. Pairs of Golden Eagles floated above the moorland, dark against the grey sky during gaps in the rain. Rain isn’t good for raptors, preventing the thermals on which they ride from forming.  Perversely well camouflaged on the ground, despite the golden shawl of feathers around their nape, in the skies of Skye they are unmistakable, floating on long, broad wings. In their pairs, the size difference the sexes show is remarkable. Females are huge. Males are somewhat smaller, by up to a third, it seemed. This is a characteristic shared by many raptors, which perhaps allows some niche differentiation, minimising competition for food resources between the sexes as the females pursue larger prey, or else simply maximises the surface area the female can offer to her eggs for incubation. Sparrowhawks and Goshawks show this dimorphism even more markedly. Persecuted and revered, often at the same time, down the centuries, the West Coast, where deer stalking is a far more popular pastime than grouse shooting which dominates in the Eastern Cairngorms, offers some sanctuary from the residual persecution which some Golden Eagles still face. Across the Northern Hemisphere, the Golden Eagle remains one of the most successful large birds of prey, taking mammals off mountains and in winter, eating carrion at carcasses, including those of deer felled by ‘sportsmen’ and deer managers. Where the RSPB engages in deer control to protect early regrowth of Caledonian pine forests, they still leave the gralloch and some of the carcasses as a winter food source for these extraordinary, semi-mythic birds.

White Tailed Eagle, Isle of Skye

 

Historically, the impact of persecution was even worse for Scotland’s other Eagle species. The White Tailed Eagle has faced local extinction. Sometimes called the White Tailed Sea Eagle, it is another year round resident of this unforgiving coastline. It enjoys, but is not tied to the coast, quite capable of hunting and thriving inland. It became extinct around the turn of the 20^th century in Scotland, but a successful reintroduction programme using individuals from Norway, along the coast of which they can be surprisingly numerous, has enabled it to approach its historic numbers. We saw no less than 14 of these magnificent birds, huge outstretched wings resembling doors, the fabled flying barn door no less, on our van safari through Skye’s hills, a juvenile, identified by his not having a white tail, passing confidently just a few metres over our heads as we stood on one of the small piers there, on slow flapping wings, waders and ducks erupting in panic to keep away from this great predator. In more recent years, a reintroduction to the Isle of Wight in Hampshire has led to these birds soaring once again over Southern England, indeed, I have seen such an individual drifting over Essex, and famously one overflew the March for Nature in London in 2022. One hopes they will eventually look as at home on the South Coast of England as they do on the West Coast of Scotland.

White Tailed Eagle, Isle of Skye

Our van day was completed by a range of waders, waterfowl and distant seabirds, as well as the obligatory red deer, watching us curiously from high hills, the inaccessible, to all but the most seasoned of human mountaineers, Black Cuillins, huge basalt Munroes plunging into the glens and into the wild Atlantic Ocean.  Our closest encounter with White Tailed Eagles came on a boat trip from Portree, where we embarked on the Stardust despite the rain and tall sea, with remarkably low expectations.  First, just a few minutes out, we met with another giant, the huge arching back of a five or so metre long, juvenile Minke Whale, who broke the surface a couple of times to the gasps of assembled onlookers before disappearing beneath the waves, disappearing into the murky depths. Gannets and Great Black Backed Gulls excitedly snatching the fish stunned by the wake of the mighty beast.  But the boatman had another spectacular in store, as he threw a couple of dead fish, fishmonger discards, from the back of the boat. The birds reaction was not instant, the adult White Tailed Eagle waiting on a cliff, perhaps reluctant to get his feathers too wet in the rain and spray, but after watching the Gulls grab a couple, jealously kicked in, and down he came, stooping, wings swung back, on these easy pickings. He swung his big yellow talons forward and grabbed the fish off the water surface, easily, before climbing off, back to his clifftop perch. What a magnificent bird, and a magnificent encounter. The behaviour may not be fully natural, an opportunistic reaction to human activity, White Tailed Eagles do not typically grab fish off the sea like Ospreys, but it was certainly spectacular, to see such an awesome predator, and so close!

An Corran Megalosaurus Footprint.

 

Also on Skye, and at Emma’s suggestion, we sought out and found a close encounter with one of the Eagle’s, and the gulls, mighty ancestors. In the mudstone of An Corran beach, we paid a visit to Skye’s Middle Jurassic period, and walked in the 160 or so million year old footsteps of a Megalosaurid theropod dinosaur, traces from deep prehistory. Its three toed footprints were clear, and clearly recalled those of birds in more modern muds. But in Megalosaurus, here was a predator to rival even the Eagles. A toothy biped, six metres nose to tail, and as tall as a tall man, Megalosaurus was quite likely something of an active predator upon the herbivorous Stegosaurs and Camptosaurs with which it shared its environment, it was the dominant predator of its time. The dinosaur-descended Eagles are its worthy successors, and it is sobering to reflect on how close these magnificent aerial hunters so nearly joined the Megalosaurus in extinction. But the eagles are recovering, they are spectacular, we saw them, and they are wonderful.  

A tale of joy and heartbreak- An unforgettable encounter in Orkney

A couple of weeks ago, I was fortunate enough to visit the Orkney islands off the North coast of Scotland. A patchwork of ancient sites, standing stones, wild seas and cattle farms, of jewelled wild flower meadows and moorland in bloom, where blue butterflies and bumblebees live only in sheltered hollows, where Neolithic villages and places of worship stand testimony to the ingenuity of our ancient ancestors, Orkney is a remote, and fascinating place.

One afternoon, I drove in the sunshine to the RSPB’s Cottascarth viewpoint, on the moors not far from Finstown.  While on the road I encountered, and photographed, very badly as it turned out, a beautiful Oystercatcher chick, in the company of a parent. The chick still had some down, though its adult feathers had begun to show, and it was nearly ready to take to the skies. Oystercatchers breed in substantial numbers in Orkney’s farmland. I took the narrow, twisting track through farm buildings to the viewpoint, where, green-roofed and windowed, but still clearly crafted from abandoned croft buildings, stood the RSPB hide.  Optimistic, I waited and enjoyed the surroundings, hoping to catch a glimpse of a Hen Harrier.  The occasional call of a Curlew echoed from the hills, or an Oystercatcher alarm call rose from the farmland and the flock of linnet which alighted briefly on the roof of the hide. A few sheep grazed.  After about an hour the Harrier appeared, a male, a smart, grey bird, with black, fingered wingtips, a grey ghost over the moorland, hanging on wings with the characteristic dihedral.  Hen Harriers hunt in part by hearing, and by sight, and prey on voles, as well as young ground nesting birds.   The male made a couple of passes, his attention fully focussed on the ground below, looking for voles or any unfortunate small birds, before disappearing over the ridge into the valley behind. I waited another few minutes, hoping this magnificent bird would reappear, but he did not, and I began to make my way back to the small car park ready to head back to my camp site.

As made my way back to the car I saw the male glide over the place I had just been standing. With some disappointment at missing out on this close view, enjoyed his majestic hunting through binoculars. I headed back down to the coast roads. Driving slowly on empty roads with my eyes open for birds, I became aware of the mother Oystercatcher I had encountered earlier. She was loudly and aggressively mobbing something in the field, down beyond a low brow hidden from sight. She’d break away bto chase off a passing Hooded Crow, though these birds did not seem to go far, then returning to her target on the ground, strafing with her sonic weapon, her passes low and frequent, her calls rhythmic but high and frantic. I slowed down, wondering what could possibly have enraged her like this. Then, just 15 metres or so from my window, I saw what had happened. On top of a sad, white lump with feathers, feet extended toward the sky, stood a female Hen Harrier. Her golden yellow eyes, set in a subtle facial disc recalling an owl, glanced to me, before, unconcerned by me or the distraught mobbing of the adult Oystercatcher, returning to plucking her prize.

My heart in my mouth, I silently reached for my camera and grabbed a few photos through the passenger window.  I watched the bird, predator, as she continued to remove the downy feathers from her prey, scattering them to the wind like dandelion seeds, calmly, yet so alert, eyes scanning in all directions.  The adult did not relent from calling.

Suddenly the bird was on the move, a grey shape emerging from the bushes. A farm cat burst out from cover toward the bird of prey. With her wings spread, her imposing size was apparent. She struggled into the air with her prize, but it was a little too heavy, and she dropped it. The dead Oystercatcher chick flopped limp to the ground. She swooped in on it again, and stood on it, bearing a steely look, extending her wings to protect her prize.  But the farm cat was determined. The next spring it made, the bird was off and flying, back toward the hills, and the Oystercatcher chick was clasped firmly in the jaws of the tabby.  It sloped off, toward some farm buildings to enjoy its prize. I considered some attempt to scare the cat off, in the hope the Harrier would return, but I figured even semi-feral mammals must eat, and a cat brave enough to take on an adult Hen Harrier, talons and all, must be very hungry indeed.

My heart still in my mouth, I sat for a while,  as a band of thick, grey cloud rolled in over the sea, and the cool rain began to fall.  A double rainbow arced from the horizon. A confused and angry adult Oystercatcher stood on a fence post, yelling at the wind.

I love South Essex

Strolling on West Canvey Marshes this morning, the flat, damp expanse of grazing marshes filling the space between the snaking mud channel of Pitsea creek, and the Canvey Way Avenue of Remembrance, as the A130 becomes when it crosses onto the “island,” and in the shadow of the huge former Coryton Oil Refinery, and its docks, I was struck by something. South Essex, you are flipping beautiful. Never change what you are.

Black Tailed Godwit at West Canvey Marshes

The water on the reserve was high, and there were puddles on the paths. These wet coastal meadows are a typical local habitat, sculpted by centuries of moderately intensive human land use, the coastal grazing marshes. The reserve is still, declare the information boards the RSPB have installed about, a working farm, and cattle graze its lush swards. The pool beside the A130 was attended by busy Black Tailed Godwits, prodding about on its grassy margins, and Lapwings stood on its banks.  The gentle mews of Common Gull, and the whistles of Wigeon, striking ducks with bold yellow stripes on tops of their heads seemed to fill the air, a winter chorus, despite the constant competition from the traffic just a few metres away.   These calls are evocative of the cold winter air, these birds have travelled from distant breeding grounds in Scandinavia, or Siberia, places compared to which these windswept marshes are relatively hospitable winter habitat.

I wander on as a trio of chirping Meadow Pipits fly overhead, more seasonal refugees from the uplands. Stonechats are here too, bold, striking and confiding. Stonechats watch you as you watch them. They seem to keep an eye on the observer, and occasionally take off to snatch one of the few insects still active in late Autumn, from the air or off the ground.  As I neared the next hide I was aware of the sky filling with birds, Godwit, all the ducks, Lapwings, and smaller Starlings, so often seen in the company of Lapwings on South Essex marshes at this time of year, and previously hidden among the long grass, all taking to the air.   Presumably disturbed by all the commotion, a Grey Heron joined them too.  They wheeled and climbed, alarm calls echoing, staying airborne, indicating the presence of an aerial predator. I could not spot one.  In the photographs of the flock the roofs of passing vans on the A130 are visible, but I was not aware of them at the time. This was wild Canvey. I sat down in the hide, and as I did so the birds began to settle again, Wigeon landing on the water en masse in front of me, hundreds of them.  A circling Marsh Harrier seemed too distant to be the cause of their collective alarm. A couple of ducks took off from the other side of the water, and a shape raced toward me across the water. I couldn’t make it out at first but within a few seconds I was eye to yellow eye with a Sparrowhawk. We seemed to hold each others’ gaze for a second as the raptor climbed a little, effortlessly, giving a piping alarm call of its own, and passed over my head, and over the top of the screen, dropping in behind a hedgerow somewhere between where I sat and the Oil Refinery, and was gone from view. I have no regrets about lacking the presence of mind to point my camera at it, that would have deprived me of the eye-to-eye moments I had with the bird, and the breathless, heart racing moment.  I hadn’t recognised the bird at first because its outline was broken by the dead starling in the hawk’s talons. This was a stunning wild predator, in a stunning wild landscape.

Flocking Wigeon, with passing traffic.

Walking down the path, between the hedges, crossing the bridge over the reed beds where a few short weeks ago Natalie and I had been watching the swallows gather to roost before their flight to sub-Saharan Africa, now long gone, I could not help but wonder at this oasis, and the beautiful, underrated part of the country into which it fits, the Estuary England, the South Essex Marshes. Like so many South Essex wildlife sites, West Canvey does not exist separately from the urban and industrial places which surround it, but merges seamlessly with them to form a wider landscape, continuous and stunning and interwoven.  It is not far from Basildon, and is one of a suite of marshes the RSPB helps to look after locally. Here and in the wider area, from Fortress Purfleet, known to the RSPB as Rainham Marshes and sitting West of the Dartford Crossing, to the wintering flocks of Brent Geese and Turnstone which hang around at high tide at the foot of Southend Pier in the East, and Wallasea and Foulness Islands beyond, both noted for their wintering raptors, these sites are settle easily into a landscape shaped by human activity along the river. So many, such as the chalk habitats at Chafford Gorges near Thurrock, once a chalk quarry, or the new invertebrate reserve managed by BugLife at Canvey Wick, home to rare bees and other invertebrates, once an oil refinery, exist on Brownfield sites, shaped by industry, and these industries existed here because of the river, connecting London with the open sea.

Stonechat on Canvey Island

South Essex, I thought, as I became surrounded by the squeaking contact calls of busy long-tailed tits around me, you are bloody gorgeous and I love you. Then I thought, oh look, a Goldcrest.

Pitsea Creek.

Haweswater, no birds, but what a landscape (plus a footnote on the neonic ban)

I spent yesterday tramping across the mud and rock of the Eastern Lake District in search of England’s only Golden Eagle, who makes his home, we are told, in  the Lakeland Valley which contains the Haweswater reservoir. It was wet, and the precipitous scenery rugged beneath the grey sky and broken cloud. Moss and lichen grew in profusion over dry stone walls and on the trunks of the stunted and miniature oaks which dotted the landscape.  The lake lies in a high valley to the East of Windermere.  Beside it sat a couple of female Goosander, a smart, fish-eating duck, and on a tree covered island, a colony of noisy lesser black backed gulls, unusual so far from the coast, had set up their nest sites.

There were clusters of trees, plantations, of Pine and Larch, and a fallen specimen of the latter, in the light woodland, where the sun could penetrate through the bare branches of the deciduous conifers, the most luxuriant tree beard mosses, really lichens, grew abundantly, alongside several true mosses, and the strange pink flowers and soft, pastel-green new growth needles of the still living, horizontal conifers. Beside the larches stood a stand of Scots pine, and these presented a very different woodland, dark, the trees placed in rows, strangely quiet and foreboding. The woods, which helped hold the soil to the hillside and offer a little shelter to walks in the valley, were of course planted, for human use, but add a little diversity to the landscape. The RSPB web site announced they contain Redstarts and even Red squirrels. My friends and I saw a Chaffinch and a Goldcrest and were happy about it. I suspect the Red Squirrels, holding on because the stunted growth and conifer plantations cannot sustain the invasive Greys, and the latter, which only arrive in late April, may still be suffering from migratory setbacks induced by the continuing cold weather of the last few weeks.

In the rain it was a far cry from the previous weekend when we had set off to Leighton Moss, with our hangovers, and seen Osprey, Buzzard and Marsh Harrier on the same day, over the open reed beds in the sunshine an unusual break in the usual grey weather.  We were so lucky that day with all the birds we saw, and at Haweswater we were reminded that you don’t win them all. But what a place, nevertheless.  We found a high place, and ate our lunch while a few buzzards continued to soar about, sometimes generating undue excitement, as perspective distorted our perception of perhaps large buzzards seen head on. At least one Raven flew over us, and meadow pipits, in what looked a nonsensically unequal struggle, mobbed a buzzard incessantly as he crossed the valley, ducking into and landing among some pine trees where he could avoid the annoyance of the relatively tiny, more agile, and apparently mocking passerines.  Meadow Pipits were everywhere, and there were plenty of Wheatears about. The Wheatears’ name is famously a contraction of “white arse” a historic name dropped in Victorian times when it was thought vulgar. Inevitably we delighted in calling them white arses all day. The wheatear is a smart little passerine, with a uniform back, grey in the male and brown in the female, with a little dark ‘bandit’ mask on his face, a black tail, and of course a white rump, conspicuous in flight. It too is a migrant, arriving from Africa to the heaths and moors of Northern Europe.

We pressed on a little, trudging through the mud and mosses, past an abandoned sheep fold, as far as the RSPB viewpoint, but we saw no eagle. Grey mountains and scree slopes towered above us, with tiny oaks clinging to them, seeming to pinch the sky. If Dungeness and Elmley Marshes in the South of England can be called Big Sky RSPB reserves, Haweswater has a small sky, hemmed in by steep, dark mountains. A herd of Red Deer grazed on a hillside. A couple more meadow pipits chirped overhead.  I pressed on a little alone in the hope of catching up with our eagle, and walked through the stands of dead Purple Moor Grass until I reached the RSPB viewpoint, checked out a little more valley, and trudged guiltily through a sphagnum bog. We began to loose the light so I headed back to the crowd, and glanced around for a dipper on a mountain stream. Bird wise this place was incredibly quiet. The continuing, driving rain was doing little to help, and we decided it was time to head back, keeping an eye out as we returned to the vehicle.

We saw no Eagle but what a landscape!

As a footnote to this blog post I think I should at least refer to the recent ban on the use of neonicotinoid pesticides on bee attracting crops, which, thankfully, and not a moment too soon, emerged from the EU at the weekend.  It is wonderful news, and I am heartily relieved that our money-minded government, with their short term thinking were not able to overwhelm the scientific consensus that neonicotinoid pesticides have profound sub lethal effects on bees.  It will not solve the problem, and halt the decline of bees, there are other sources of pollution, as well as land use change, the effect of which on species is seldom instant and according to recent scientific literature it may take decades for land use change to have its knock on effects on species, workers suggesting there may be an extinction debt for lowland grassland butterflies in at least some EU member states.  The detractors of the neonicotinoid ban will continue to point to this as reason to allow them to continue using these pesticides, which affect the navigational abilities and reproduction of bees. The fact remains that the burden of proof falls, all to often, unduly upon our wildlife, and there is simply not time for more work. We need to take action to stem the decline. The costs of losing our pollinators could be massive, economic and human, as well as ecological, given our reliance on so many insect pollinated crops. We are already seeing parallel declines in Pollinator diversity and plant diversity in England and Holland.   I am grateful to all those who campaigned long and hard for this new legislation, and the agricultural community should be too, pollinators are vital to their long term well being and ours. The Neonic ban may not go far enough but it is a great step in the right direction.  

The Falcons of Manchester

Whilst my rant about the perilous situation facing many raptors in the UK at this stage, I have to write about my recent visit to Manchester where, in the heart of the city, I got some wonderful views of some wonderful birds of prey, and was a witness to their family life, on a ledge overhanging the river Irwell as it creeps sluggishly between the boroughs of Manchester and Salford.

On the day after my mate Tom’s birthday, we went over to the house of a pair of good friends of ours, a couple who live in one of the impressive, rather new “dual use” tower blocks in the city centre, overlooking the Irwell and the Arndale centre, as soulless a shopping centre as one could hope to find, and the wider city. From the 23^rd floor the city spreads out before you, its smart, red brick buildings dating back to Industrial Revolution expansion sitting side by side with glass office blocks, the 47 story Beetham Tower and, in the distance, older tower blocks sitting on the outskirts of the city, with rolling hills to the horizon. From here, on a clear day, one can see the Jodrell Bank observatory, and a bridge in Runcorn, Liverpool.  As we disembarked from the lift, the window which faced us briefly framed the shape of a Peregrine, its buff coloured underside indicating it was a juvenile.  A couple of pigeons rocketed through our view, obviously recognising the threatening shape above them, changing direction and disappearing from sight. The Peregrine did not stoop after them.

We made our way in to our friends’ flat where we were made welcome, and we sat by the window. We were pointed to a mossy, dark patch, on a ledge beneath the roof of the smart, red brick building opposite. The ledge, on inspection with the binoculars, turned out to be covered in feathers. Many of these were white and our friend reported having seen the Peregrines taking Black-Headed Gulls back to the ledge.  We did not have to wait long for the birds to return. Reports from the RSPB online suggested four chicks had fledged and were being fed by two adults. An adult Peregrine, we assumed it must be the female, the larger of the sexes in this and most raptor species, landed on the ledge, holding in its talons the grey body of a feral pigeon.  The adult was a smart bird indeed, with a slate-black back, jet black crown and facial markings, and a yellow cere and eye ring giving a fierce expression. For a falcon it is broad bodied, chunky even, but lacks none of the grace of its smaller and slighter relatives. Two juveniles, one distinctly smaller than the other, follow their mother onto the ledge. The juveniles are greyer than their parents, with a hint of russet brown in the crown, and very much beige, rather than white undersides. In flight they already look like falcons, but when perching their youth is plain to see. The feathers on their undersides still look fluffy, and they lack the striking yellow facial features of the adults. For now she just stands over the pigeon, which appeared initially to be struggling, but quickly becomes still as she begins to pluck it. The youngsters look intrigued but wait patiently, occasionally reaching towards the female. Within a few minutes, she has cleared sufficient of the late pigeon’s feathers and begins to offer it, in small pieces as if to a nestling, to her offspring, amid a loud chorus of shrill begging calls from the youngsters. A male and female juvenile sit in front of her, and a few seconds later, another smaller juvenile arrives. The largest juvenile appeared to be receiving most of the food, but the others are fed too. The process of delicately removing small fragments of meat and passing them to members of her brood continues for several minutes, before she is off again, leaving the young to share the meat among themselves. The two larger siblings go in for the largest piece of meat, but a wing or some other substantial section of pigeon remains and, furtively, the smallest juvenile approached and dragged it away, feeding in peace a few metres from his siblings.  The process of breaking down and eating the pigeon has, rather to my surprise, taken the birds about an hour, an hour of squawking begging noises. Feathers from the pigeon are carried away on the breeze.

Another hour passes, and two of the youngsters remain on the ledge for some time, one of them, the smallest, laying down on it as if still in the nest. Raptors incubate their eggs as soon as they are laid, so the oldest chick gets a few days development in before the last youngster has hatched. The older chicks tend to dominate the younger ones, and in poor years, it is often just the oldest, or two oldest, chicks which survive. This juvenile though seemed strong enough, we’d seen him eating and holding his own, so, although some of us were concerned by his odd behaviour in lying around on his belly, wings hanging by his sides, I have no reason to believe his chances now are much slimmer than those of his siblings. Part of the difference in size at this stage could well be due to sexual dimorphism as much as age nutrition, and I do tend to think of what we saw as one female and two male youngsters.

An hour later the adult female returned with another pigeon for her hungry brood, two of which, the smaller youngsters, have waited patiently on the ledge for her. From somewhere, the large, and somewhat ungainly, female youngster appears as well.  Puffed up against the cold, she looks awkward, somewhere between being an adorable, fluffy chick and a streamlined, elegant, and deadly adult peregrine.  Her brothers, squawking, have no such pretences of adulthood about them. One could almost be forgiven for making “squee” noises in their presence. Almost.  The adult begins delicately feeding one of the young males, but their big sister barges them out of the way. At one point the cheeky youngster is engaged in a tug of war with her mother, apparently trying to wrestle the pigeon from her, or at least help to break it into more manageable chunks.   The adult female eventually turns her back on the youngster and covers the kill with her wings, offering a little to the smallest male who seems constantly to be standing behind her, keeping his distance from his siblings. Eventually the big juvenile works out what is going on and moves around to compete with her brother. The tug of war is briefly resumed, after which the female flies off, not to return that evening, leaving the youngsters to sort out the food between them. There is plenty left for the smaller juveniles once the young female is satisfied. Again, they make the meal last well over an hour, and they are still feeding after we’d had our dinner and Birthday Cake. When we look back the two little males are still there, but the young female has obviously left, perhaps to join her parents at a roosting site somewhere. We didn’t see the juveniles leave, but as the light faded, and the sunset shone off the glass Beetham Tower, they did leave the ledge, presumably to somewhere to roost and spend the night.  We took a taxi back to Tom’s flat in Hulme not long after.

The Peregrines in Manchester are not unique, a pair roost sometimes on the Tate Modern here in London, and Bath, Lincoln and several other cities also host breeding pairs. They are not harassed, the street pigeons are nobodies sport, and many welcome a bird which can, perhaps, manage their numbers, and volunteers are often forthcoming to watch the nests and guard against would-be egg collectors, or rescue the juveniles when they fall out. Their success is part of the partial recovery witnessed since the banning of DDT and protection from persecution, and Peregrines, which are cliff nesters, are well suited by towns which offer concrete substitutes for their natural nesting sites. Feral Pigeons, too, are descended from wild ancestors which bred on sea cliffs. Their iconic beauty makes them treasured, both by local experts and by nature-deprived urbanites, and cities offer something of a refuge from the human threats presented by the countryside.