Following yesterday's deathly blog, it was pointed out by those far wiser than me (thanks, Admiral), that it was likely that we had been visited by more than one Sparrowhawk. The theory being that with the first appearance resulting in the definite kill of a Starling, there would be no need for that hawk to feed again so soon. Therefore the second appearance was probably a different bird.
The theory was wonderfully demonstrated this morning when we caught sight of a male Sparrowhawk on the lawn, trying to flush a Dunnock from a small dense shrub. When landing on either side of the bush did not have the desired effect (for the Sparrowhawk, not the Dunnock), the hawk proceeded to crash down on top of the bush, wings outspread, in order to spook its prey into flight. The Dunnock wasn't about to fall for that old trick and cleverly remained in the densest bit of vegetation. This was a very brave thing to do, as it can only have been mere centimetres from certain death. Eventually, the sprawk's patience wore thin and it flew off to try its luck elsewhere.
All this activity meant that we were able to gain good views of the male raptor, clad in a cloak of slate grey on its upper parts and with a rusty orange underside. Definitely not the bird photographed yesterday, which was clearly female. So now the conjecture has moved on to whether this is a pair of hawks, and if so, how large is their territory. More research needed...
This morning, I was gently woken from my slumbers by the tell-tale sound of a mug of tea being placed on my bedside table. Our lass had braved the chill air and beaten me to the kettle.
As she opened the bedroom curtains, the first thing to greet my wife was a dusting of snow. Not a blanket, as some parts of the country had seen, but a lacy white veil, softening some features and highlighting others. The second thing to greet her as she stood gazing out into the wintry scene, was a flurry of activity as a Sparrowhawk flew into the garden, hurtling with undiminished speed into the Hawthorn tree and falling out of the other side into a Kerria bush.
Our lass's initial exclamation was sufficient to bring me to a full state of awareness and I struggled from my horizontal position in my own flurry of duvet and pillows. To the accompaniment of shrill and strident alarm calls from the local bird population, the hawk fluttered through the bush to the ground and landed behind the Hawthorn. In the low light, it was difficult to make out what was going on, but it seemed that the raptor had made a successful kill and was now hiding its victim beneath spread wings. A Magpie sat in a nearby Willow, firing out its staccato bursts of alarm, but the finches and tits were keeping well out of the way.
The Sparrowhawk continued to struggle, turning this way and that, tumbling out onto the lawn, as it sought to despatch its prey. A pair of binoculars had miraculously turned up in my wife's hands and she was able to make out a very distressed Starling, bill raised defiantly at the hawk. Then, bizarrely, dozens of Black-headed Gulls appeared from nowhere, flocking above the garden, presumably drawn in by the possibility of some easy scavenging. The hawk now had a better grip on the Starling, minimising the threat of that stabbing bill, and was busy plucking the unfortunate bird, irrespective of its life signs.
A few Blue Tits emerged from their hiding places and bravely flew to the Hawthorn, presumably safe in the knowledge that they wouldn't be on the hawk's radar for a while. Meanwhile, the hawk was now satisfied that it had subdued its breakfast and sat, wings still spread, considering the options. It was out in the open, but near cover and the focus of a great deal of attention, so when a cat suddenly appeared on the fence close by, it took to the air and, with a few wing beats, disappeared from view.
We clambered back into bed, musing upon what we had just seen and contentedly slurping tea. Our lass was still holding the binoculars (i.e. in bed, which is a bit disappointing for a bloke's ego!), and from a warm comfortable position, she was able to peruse the flocks of finches in the tops of nearby trees. We pondered whether a successful kill was more likely to mean that the Sparrowhawk would return, but with the number of bird feeders in the surrounding gardens, I didn't think this was likely.
However, whilst cooking breakfast, another shout brought me rushing into the lounge, to see what was occurring. My wife had spotted the hawk again, as it sat on the fence at the rear of the garden. With a slight increase in daylight, this was a better view and we were able to identify her as a female. She looked about keenly, turning her head this way and that, as she scanned the hedges and bushes for prey, giving me enough time to rush for the camera and capture a few images. She flew a short distance to perch on a Honeysuckle, somewhat unsubtly directly behind our feeders! The diagnostic pale stripe above her eye and the grey barring on her chest were now obvious and we enjoyed a few more seconds of quality Sparrowhawk time, before she took off once more and was gone. Much to the relief of our more usual garden visitors.
The recent weather has certainly helped lift the festive mood. It always seems "right" when the garden looks a bit like the myriad of Christmas cards adorning more and more of the horizontal surfaces in the lounge. I hasten to clarify that I'm referring to the snowy scene, rather than the herd of red-nosed reindeer being tended to by the portly gentleman with the white beard.
A cold snap does tend to draw wildlife into the garden. Under the bitter sun, it becomes an oasis in a barren, frozen desert. Over lunch, I spotted a male Bullfinch in one of our rose bushes, his chest incredibly red against the white snow on the branches. Then between these two paragraphs, a male Sparrowhawk has spent a few minutes sitting in the Hawthorn tree attempting to flush a snack from an ivy-covered fence with his icy stare. Several unsuccessful lunges later, he decided to take his custom elsewhere, to terrify some other bird feeder. There will inevitably follow a few nervous minutes until I can confirm the continued existence of the single Coal Tit to grace the environs of Tense Towers. Heck, a male Blackcap, just where the "sprawk" was hunting! But it's chased off by a blinking squirrel before I can bring the camera to bear. Bum.
All this action is set against the Test Match Special cricket commentary from South Africa, with soaring temperatures and waning England hopes. My mental clock is now on Saffer time, so I've felt a meal behind all day.
As the low sun sends the lengthening shadows slicing across the garden, the birds (who are a meal ahead of everybody) congregate for the final eating opportunity of the day. It will be another very chilly night and, whilst running the risk of mixing up my religious festivals, sadly for some, it may be their Last Supper.
Coal Tit! Phew!
