NATURE: Early morning Mayo, wild and free

First light, mid-summer.
The wind that kept me off the lake last night has blown itself out, leaving a still calm in its wake. Overhead we find promise of a fine day, with a few horsehair wisps of cirrus cloud stretched across an otherwise clear sky.
A light mist rises from the river, seeping onto the road to create a low-level haze and clinging to cobwebbed gorse as gossamer. I find myself stopping at the bridge to peer into the stream below, where so many others paused before. Perhaps they, too, were absorbed by that silken sheet of water, with its delicate crease at the footed arch of hammered stone, and their spirit held, as mine, by the subtle splash of dog rose and honeysuckle scent. 
The road is lined with birds, all come to find grit: bullfinch, stonechat, dunnock and more. Pigeons clatter beyond the corner, one to sit in the fold of dying ash, the other to rise and glide over the meadow beyond. This early hour has none of the pressing fear of day, when all wild things flee the human gaze.
The sun, that great and spangled orb, makes a silhouette of stream-side trees and as those first rich rays fall upon the water we see anew the cloud of waterflies that rise and fall in gentle undulation.
Among others, only the wagtail appears to have seen them. She darts out from her rock to hover uncertainly, selecting her breakfast meal from the crowd. The insects appear unmoved by this intrusion into their passioned dance, for they have their mind on one thing alone, and as soon as one prospective mate is removed another quickly fills the void.
I wonder at their mind. There can be no question; they must have certain power of thought or reason. With their wings they sing, and with that dance hold court. How do they choose their partner from that throng of thousands, the one with whom their life must end? 
Such things are a mystery, as well as a miracle, and a worthy spectacle the likes of which is only too easy to miss.
Apart from that humming undertone the world is nearly silent. If I listen hard a distant thrush gives voice, but even his normally persistent song is hesitant and broken. I do have somewhere to go. Yet here, for a moment, is a peace hard to find, one impossible to hold, one that must be indulged.
The world slowly wakes. Among roadside ivy some small thing moves, causing leaves to tremble, then grass to quake. A face appears: two button-bright eyes set in the soft fur of youth; round, cream-tipped ears; a whiskered, pointed nose gathering scent.
Out comes the owner on legs too long. I see the half-collar of cream, then a thin and rather ropey tail sparsely populated by long and ragged tufts of hair. Not long from the nest, the pine marten is but a youth. Though not afraid, he is wary and keeps close to the hedge while loping in my direction, more fluid than the stream itself.
Just 20 years ago our pine martens were few and far between, with loss of habitat and their status as vermin responsible for their near extermination. Reforestation projects combined with a better understanding of their ecology brought them back from the brink.
Yes, a marten in the chicken run will wreak havoc – didn’t I lose my own few hens to one such beast? Yet other tales of malevolence and murderous intent are unfounded. 
Just eight years ago a report in the Longford Leader warned of the damage potential posed by these small predators to livestock, stating that ‘Just last week (in 2016) a particularly savage attack saw flocks attacked and killed across farms in Drumlish and Ballinamuck.’
Rather disconcertingly, that same report presented the view that even humans might fall victim to the pine marten’s rapacious nature: ‘… believes they are also capable of hurting or killing small babies and this is an issue (some might be) particularly concerned about.’
The issue of pine martens killing lambs has yet to be proven. Like many other animals, they frequently dine on carrion and might be seen feeding on an animal already dead. Further, the suggestion they pose any kind of threat to humans is simply not correct.
The moment my marten saw me seemed to change the day. A car passed. He disappeared. Birds departed with their fill of grit. The shine went off the water and I went along my way. But those moments might be there again tomorrow. We shall see.

Michael Kingdon, a naturalist and keen fisherman, lives on the shores of Mayo’s Lough Carra, the best example of a shallow marl lake in western Europe, and therefore an SAC of enormous ecological and conservation importance.