Bandits over Burwell.

Well, that certainly had the desired effect.  As Ben has made his long-awaited and welcome return with his fascinating in-depth account – or perhaps saga is a better word? – of his recent exhilarating encounter with a stray sparrow, I will respond with a tale of a somewhat more prosaic wildlife experience.

You recall that handsome male peregrine, coolly surveying the world below him from his perch high on an electricity pylon?  Well it turns out he’s not alone: I encountered three different peregrines during my walk on the other morning, and far from chilling out and playing it cool, this time they meant serious business…

The first clue I had that something was afoot was, as ever, an eruption of blind terror in the flocks of various species in the fields alongside the Dyke.  From lesser black-backs to linnets, everything went up in panic and I soon discovered why.  I picked up the young tiercel just as he effortlessly ate up the space to the frantic woodpigeon in his crosshairs, pulled alongside and then committed an absolutely scandalous two-footed lunge straight from the Ron ‘Chopper’ Harris playbook …  Ooof!  Right in the cloaca!  That’s got to hurt, Clive.  Both birds spun in a cartwheel, a cloud of feathers spiralling outwards before, improbably, the pigeon somehow broke free and accelerated away, still trailing feathers.  If anything, he’s almost hit that too well, Clive. 

The young peregrine, disgruntled at the pigeon’s escape, responded by simply dropping a gear and in a flash was striking again; this time the pigeon evaded by scant millimetres by executing an improbable high-G turn at the last second.  The pigeon had run out of that most precious commodity – altitude – now, and was low over the fields, making a beeline for the nearest hedgerow, but this young peregrine had clearly already learned a trick or two from its parents and, using the momentum from its failed attack, it pulled up into a stall, rolled onto its back and, with a couple of languid flicks of those long wings, put the hammer down, converting its potential energy into blistering speed as only a hunting peg can.  The hedgerow was close, but the wounded woodie didn’t stand a chance; the peregrine came in just a few feet above the wheat stubble and this time it read the pigeon’s turn, connecting with another silent explosion of feathers, giving the appearance from my vantage point of the pigeon being completely obliterated by the contact.  Unfortunately the hedgerow that so nearly provided the pigeon with its salvation then obscured my view of the peregrine enjoying its meal, and I reluctantly moved on.  Maybe I could find a tree sparrow further up the Dyke?

I’d reached the furthest point of my pre-work walk, just short of the Burwell Road, and was about to turn back when I glanced up to see a familiar shape in the sky above me.  Another peregrine, this time an adult female, heading for the pylon just north of the road, where she alighted to join her mate – the same white-breasted male I’d encountered at the weekend.

What followed over the next 20 minutes or so was amongst the most spectacular displays of sustained aerial mastery I’ve ever had the privilege to witness – and I have spent much of my life watching various raptors for a living, including a memorable five minutes looking on incredulously as an Eleonora’s falcon attempted to lay a glove on a male Mauritius kestrel.  But that’s a story for another time.

The two birds had a pop at anything resembling a pigeon that was foolish enough to fly past, seemingly hunting cooperatively and putting the wind up every bird from Burwell to Swaffham Prior.  I watched six attacks, mostly instigated by the male, with the female often following his stoop and making a second attack on his target or another member of the scattering flock when he missed.  Some were aborted quickly when it became clear to them that the selected prey was a little too distant or had seen them too early, but a couple were very close calls: one searing, stooping attack by the male on a desperately fleeing collared dove missed by millimetres, the point of almost-contact occurring at eye-level just 15 m from me, the dove saved from grasping talons by a lucky final split-second course alteration.  The tearing silk sound of displaced air filled my ears as the tiercel arced past on swept wings, although I’m not sure if the high-pitched stream of obscenities I’m sure I heard at that moment came from me or the escaping dove.

The sixth attack was the only one to be instigated by the female.  After a few minutes perched up she seemingly became bored of waiting for something to fly past and took matters into her own hands (talons?) and set off to the north in a shallow powered dive towards a distant hedgerow festooned with unwary woodpigeons.  They belatedly noticed the danger as she ate up the distance and the hedgerow erupted as the flock tried to gain altitude and evade the oncoming nightmare.  Everything that followed was a distant blur of stoops, turns and tail chases low over the distant fields, with flocks of various species scattering into the air in panic as the two hunting peregrines chased down whichever target looked most likely.  I lost sight of the female but the male, who had dutifully followed his mate in on the initial attack, eventually singled out another woodpigeon and, like the younger bird earlier, simply chased it down, missing once, twice, but remaining glued to its tail and after each miss effortlessly closing the distance again for another strike.  The inevitable took place far off towards Reach, another silent puff of feathers marking the end of the pigeon’s resistance and chalking up another kill for a master assassin.