I've always been interested in natural history as far back as I can remember, birds especially, they have a certain magic about them. Maybe because they can fly and we can't, I don't know, but each species has its own persona, its own character. Each individual bird within this species, having their own personality. Some of these little personalities have been enlightening, some amusing, some charming, all of them have been a pleasure. Some individuals among them, totally unforgettable and very enriching. The following accounts are of some of them we (me and my family) have been fortunate to know over the years.
Yarka
"Yarka" was a Starling. A drab looking Juvenile from Barnton in Cheshire.
We met him (we never did find out its sex, but called it a him) whilst visiting
my sister and her family. My brother in-law had found it at work one day and
brought it home for the kids to look after. It was in an old budgie cage and
seemed in good spirits, taking food readily through the bars. Knowing of my
interest in these things, Beb my sister asked me if I`d take it in hand. Their
dog, cat and hamster were enough for her to worry about she pleaded. So that
was that.
He soon settled in and to keep a constant eye on
him I began taking him with me to work. Being a self employed builder helped.
I was building an extension on the back of a young Jewish couple's house, in
a respectable part of the suburbs of my home City of Liverpool. As soon as we
had the roof on and had fixed windows and doors.in place it was safe to let
our Little Yarka fly loose about the shell. (Yarka by the way was the name given
to starling by the kids up in Barnton, eg- A flock of Yarkas). The Young Jewish
business couple were out all day at work. We let ourselves in each morning
and locked up each night before we left, Yarka became part of the firm, getting
into everything following me everywhere, treating me in fact just like a natural
parent. He became imprinted. One day the Electrician was chiseling a hole through
the toilet wall, lustily swinging his lump hammer, when in flew Yarka, to land
with a flurry on the head of the poised hammer. Another day we found a note
pinned to the wall in the kitchen reading. Dear Builders, we don`t mind you
bringing the bird with you but could you keep it out of the sugar bowl. Mr.
& Mrs. Goldsmith, thank you, and we thought they didn't know!
My old dad was intrigued with the little bird's antics and a bit of a showman
himself if he saw the opportunity. One day the three of us took a drive to the
pet shop to purchase seed for the hens. I had a Morris Traveler in those days,
a faithful old bus she was. Yarka on my shoulder, flew onto the steering wheel,
pleased with himself till we came to a corner but reluctant to give up his front
perch, sort of payed himself out, first one way, then the other, so retaining
his position on the wheel. A real character.
Anyway, we duly arrived at the shop I asked dad to
stay in the car with the bird whilst I slipped in for the seed and was awaiting
my turn at the counter behind a mature old dear when in walked dad, followed
of course by the bird, which flew up to the counter top and skidded to a halt
in front of the startled assistant."OH! " She cried and jumped not
a little way of the floor. As did the old dear in front of me.
"Its all right ladies he's with me (meaning the bird and not me old dad)
I leapt in and stopped the assistant following up her fright with blow from
her raised hand. After explanations and much "well -I-never". We left
the shop. I opened the shop door, holding it open for dad and the bird and unbelievably
the later flew to the floor and walked out with me to the car, on opening the
car door he just flew in to perch on the steering wheel again. I was as amazed
as the two ladies and my dad were.
Summer holidays arrived. We had rented a cottage
for a week on the Llyn Peninsular on the North Wales coast. we rented a cottage
for a week. The old Morris Traveler was packed up solid. Syl and I and the two
kids, with my sister and mum and our entire luggage, some of it piled on the
roof rack. Among this was a special box containing Yarka.
When we arrived I installed him in a small box room all for himself, but he
didn't like it in there so I decided to take him over the fields for a long
walk and just leave him there, as I wasn't quite sure what more I could do for
him and he was making a right mess of his room. So off we went.
The fields there were very wild as were the hedgerows. Yarka soon became engrossed in foraging for food and as we'd walked about half a mile by then, it seemed a good time to slip away and leave him to it. Back at the cottage I related the sad parting to the waiting family who were all sad to see him go but relieved to be free of all his mess "Never mind its the best thing for him. He had to go sometime, and so on. An hour later I thought I heard a familiar squawk coming from outside somewhere and poked my head out of the door to investigate. PLONK! Yarka landed strait onto my head. "FOUND YOU! FOUND YOU!" he squawked. At the top of his little lungs. I just walked back in and stood there with him on my head." Looks like he wants to stay folks" and so he did.
From then on in he went everywhere with us. To the
beach even, where we spent most of a very hot day on Black-Rock Sands. Forgetting
to take water with us for the bird, he drank orange juice quite happily. Using
our party as his base, he began a systematic patrol of all the nearby family
groups, cadging a meal where err he went, much to the delight of everybody. As
we got up to go he beat hastily back to ride my shoulder to the car, not wanting
to lose me a second time.
Each night we would take a leisurely stroll up a local heather clad hill to
allow our little tike to find some wild food. He would fly on ahead up the track,
stopping and gesticulating at any likely looking rock for me to turn over. He
then dived in to snatch up any woodlouse or such that were exposed. On one of
these forays we disturbed an Adder which slid quickly away in the thick heather.
Though I was sore tempted to pick it up wisdom won the day and we let it go.
We were near the top of this hill one-day and Yarka, pushing far ahead, disappeared
over the skyline. He was gone some moments when, from over the top he came in
a hurry, chased by a very determined little girl, who, every time Yarka stopped
to complain, which he was doing quite vociferously by now, would stoop to try
and sweep him up in her eager fingers. As they drew level to us I exclaimed.
"Don't do that love, he`s with me" She looked at me as if I was a
penny short of tuppence and pressed on with her quest. Doing her best to rescue
the dear little bird. So I whistled and called him to me. This he did gladly,
landing with relief on my shoulder. The little girl's face was a picture, She
was speechless and just couldn't believe her eyes.
Autumn was approaching, time for starlings to be off and away, but Yarka was too imprinted as yet. Dad and I, working together on a job, took a stroll around a nearby park with him in our dinner hour. There, in some vast rose gardens, we came on a crèche of juvenile starlings feeding on the ground. Yarka joined the throng of chattering birds so we left him with them and continued our walk. Some half an hour or so later found us back at the gardens, the starlings still there and Yarka unrecognizable amongst them. We debated the best thing to do. Shall we leave him with them or what? We decided to leave him and made our way sadly toward the exit car park. A hundred yards further on I turned to give one last whistle, just in case. One of the starlings then lifted off on pumping wings and made strait for us, to land on my shoulder in a flurry. He was back.
I still regret that last whistle. I should have let
him go then while he was with his own kind. Every morning I got into the habit
of letting him out into the garden to search for his own breakfast whilst I
attended my ablutions in the bathroom. This fateful morning I was interrupted
a short time later by a knock on the front door. I nipped down to open it, only
to be greeted by a young neighbor holding up in his outstretched hand, the bedraggled
body of a lifeless little bird. "Is this yours, our cats just fetched it
in?" It was Yarka.
House Martins
It was my old friend and former business partner Douglas Quine who started the
next interesting adventure. Doug sadly died suddenly some years later, so I
would like to dedicate this next piece to him.
Doug arrived early for work one morning some years ago now. Clutching a small cardboard box. In it were four tiny nestlings of the genus Delichon Urbica / House Martins. A man painting the exterior of his house opposite Doug's house had removed the whole nest from under the eaves, not realizing there were residents inside. We immediately set about saving them. The first thing to do was to get them some maggots and feed them. This was soon accomplished and the four half feathered chicks fed right away, with not the slightest hesitation.
Once again we took them to work to feed at every
opportunity. The slightest tap on the box had them gaping for food and they
grew very fast. Any one working near the box would automatically feed the little
devils. This time we were building a bedroom and shower room extension on the
rear ground floor of a house. By the time we had the walls and ceilings painted
the birds began to fledge. They would come out of their box one by one and fly
around the white painted bedroom like little jets. One day a large bluebottle
fly was at rest on the ceiling, standing out conspicuously. One off the brood
had a go at picking it off and nearly crashed into the wall, but at leased showed
that it did have innate hunting abilities. At home, all four chicks would sit
high up on the curtain rail in the living room, coming down when called to have
a meal of maggot proffered to them in the pliers by my two sons Gregg &
Dean (just children then) who would sit on the couch together and feed each
bird as it hovered in front of them before flying back up to the rail.
Transporting the birds to and from work in the Morris Traveler was uneventful until they reached the flying stage. Fixing a wire-mesh over the driving window gave them plenty of fresh air, so sometimes they were left sitting in their box in the car. One day all the birds were missing. We just couldn't figure out how they'd got out and all our searches around the area drew a blank. The birds had flown! They just had to be in the car somewhere. Our Steve, my nephew who was with me, climbed inside through the window to investigate, Yes! He could hear them, but where were they? I whistled through the window and four little heads popped out of a small hole in the roof lining. The little imps had made themselves at home up there in our absence. From then on they made this their own traveling speck and the journeys went smoothly till one day one of them slipped out of the open door and away into the blue. This incidence decided me, they must all be released soon, but how?
It was decided then to release all the brood simultaneously back at the original nest site. Choosing a fine day we took them back up to Doug's house, as many of the houses on the estate had house martin nests under their eaves. When we arrived the air above the estate was full of them, hawking about high in the blue. It was just a question of opening the box and standing back. They all peered skyward with heads a-cocked, seeing for the first time, with their undoubtedly marvelous eyesight, their like far above them. Calling to one another in 'martin`ies'. Without a farewell gesture of any kind they took to the air. Climbing with purpose toward the darting wheeling throng above, soon to merge with them and be lost to sight to us at last. We heard no more of them.
Some years later another brood was handed in. These fell, with their nest, off a house near the airport at Speke. About the same age as the first bunch, it wasn't long before these too were flying about the house.
I made a small hole in the side of a suitable little cardboard box - the better to emulate their own nest. Setting this up behind me on a shelf in my office. Just a click of the fingers would fetch them out one after the other to fly at great speed around me before eventually landing, one by one, on my outstretched hand with each bird selecting a finger. All four of them would wait to be fed.
At times all the birds would be in the air at once, flying about the living room, sort of cruising while waiting their turn to be fed. It was on one of these occasions that one over anxious bird flew in and clung to my beard. As I opened my mouth to say something it just popped in and sat on my front teeth with its head inside my mouth and its tail out. I had to physically extract it, as it seemed quite at home in there. After this incident any time I clicked my fingers it would fly from its perch strait into my open mouth. Which I suppose resembled its nest-hole.
When this brood were still nestlings I tried to put them back in the original colony. Making a cardboard nest resembling as close as possible a martin nest. Finding the exact house, I duly climbed up and fixed this box on the very spot the birds came from and sat below in the car to watch the proceedings. Before long a martin began to show interest. Swinging up to the box, but at the last minute pulling away. Although we sat for some time hoping for the best, it never did land and seemed to be distressing the neighboring birds, so reluctantly I retrieved the box and gave up.
I'm still not sure if one could even hack* martins
as one would other birds. How would they behave? It's a question I should dearly
love to know and some day may have the opportunity once again to find out. These
birds however I didn't hack. Deciding as before in just releasing them when
I deemed they were ready. And found them so when their flying skills outgrew
the room they flew around. At first they controlled themselves. Flying with
some care, but as they grew into the equivalent of human teenagers, so their
eagerness to be away went to their heads and their flights were bordering on
suicidal. They flew so fast they would sometimes lose control. A wing tip would
catch the ceiling, a turn maybe too wide and a near accident looking imminent.
This then was the time to let them go. I noted that on a good day the wild martins
were to be seen over our house Although not knowing where their colony was I
reckoned they would be suitable companions for my brood. So one day I set the
box up on the patio wall facing the sun. Once again they spilled out with hardly
a glance back and climbed up quickly to their awaiting brothers. We never saw
these again either.
See more photos of the house martins
*Hack: An ancient falconry term for control-releasing a bird into the wild.
Scully
"Scully" was a great tit. I don't remember where he came from, but
he was a charmer, full of mischief. I sat him on a plant we had then. A bread
tree plant, the type with large leaves that had holes in them. It was supported
by a moss-bound tube stuck into to pot itself. It was here Scully took up residence.
After a meal of maggots he would retire here and go to sleep on one leg with
his head tucked over his back.
We had a dog-called Max then. He was our first GSP (German Short Haired Pointer). A real hard case, but this didn't bother Scully who would fly down to the rug in front of the fire where Max was spread out asleep and explore all about him. GSPs are hounds and hounds have floppy jowls. Max was no exception. His jowls would flop open as he slept, exposing his cruel looking canine teeth and fleshy inside cheek. It was amazing to watch this tiny little bird hop up and begin pecking about in there Looking like something out of Disney. As soon as Max realized what was annoying him he would jump up and slink away. The bird showed no fear of him at all, landing on his back, head or tail, but on one occasion lost a few tail feathers under Max's huge paw.
He was soon hacking about the garden. Flying in and out of the house at will. It must have been a good summer, as we left the doors open for him. When he felt tired he would nip in and perch on the plant in the corner or on a little model we had pinned on the wall over the dining room door. This model was one I made myself of a Peregrine taking a Rook in the air, a picture of which appeared in an old falconry book I'd read. It was only about four inches or so in size and was held to the wall by a pin. Little Scully would balance on the back of the peregrine all night fast asleep. Just like the martin, he too would cling to my beard and peep into my mouth or peck up my nose. Generally making himself a nuisance. It was a sad day when he moved on.
With a little help from my friends
One year our wild garden Blackbirds built their nest just over the patio doors,
hidden in the thick ivy and wisteria just bellow the rear bedroom window. The
birds had begun feeding young, we could here them calling at feeding times as
the hard working parents flew back and forth, back and forth all day long. Soon
though it became apparent that the male blackbird had been killed for I'd seen
the remains of a dead cock bird in the road the previous morning and had kept
a special eye on things up there in the ivy. Sure enough it was our cock bird.
The hen was on her own. Sylvia, my wife, and I determined that we would help
her all we could and began throwing her some food, which she gladly accepted,
getting tamer by the day.
Out on the patio one afternoon Syl, having just fed the mother, watched as the
hen flew industriously up into the hidden nest to feed her waiting brood when
something all of a sudden flashed over Syl's head to crash violently into the
ivy where the female blackbird had just disappeared. There was much screaming
and fluttering as with great determination and shear bravery and pluck, the
hen blackbird fought off the deadly attack of a female sparrow hawk. It had
happened so fast Syl related to me afterwards, that she could only stand and
stare. Had the gutsy hen blackbird won the day on its own or was the presence
of Syl enough to put the hawk off its stroke? The attack being so close to the
nest undoubtedly gave the hen the extra courage needed. Whatever, it was one
lucky bird.
In the meantime, we'd had three wild fledgling blackbird chicks handed in. These
had now reached the releasing stage and were coming quite readily to us for
food, but how would their presence in the garden affect our trusty feathered
friend in the Ivy. I had an idea. I waited till she'd just fed her brood. When
she left I nipped up a ladder and peeped in at her them. Yes! There were three
of them. And what's more they would fledge anytime now, hopefully on the morrow,
Saturday when I could be with them all day.
Saturday had me up early, but I was nearly too late, for one chick had indeed
fledged, I could hear it calling close by in the hawthorn bushes. The female
however had returned to the nest to feed the other two. This was my chance.
As soon as she left I was up the ladder again with my own little brood, dotting
them amid the Ivy as close to the nest as possible. I felt a little guilty offloading
them all on her and her, a widow too, but it worked like a charm. She came back
and fed them all, unwittingly adopting them.
The look on her face when three of her charges would break away and come down
to me to be fed. She would cock her head on one side trying to understand. Yet
she accepted the situation and between us we raised them all.