Heron’s return

“In the heat of a long day herons doze … they seem to lose some of their sensitivity to movement, so that I, even I, clumsy and heavy-footed, can stand over them”

Country Sights and Sounds
John Shelley

The heron was there at the weir again, ankle deep in the shallow stickle, motionless apart from the long crest and neck feathers that wavered in the breeze. It spends too much time in this one place, but understandably so. The small trout that abound in this one stretch of the river like to lie here with the sun on their backs and well-oxygenated water rippling overhead, and here they make an easy prey. In the heat of a long day herons doze as well as trout can; though they cannot close their eyes they seem to lose some of their sensitivity to movement, so that I, even I, clumsy and heavy-footed, can stand over them.
The heron is different than I. A master fisherman, he makes his living from this river pool and others like it. He blends with the bankside vegetation, not so much in colour, for he is blue-grey and the banks are green, but most certainly in form. Slender and waif-like, he stands motionless to watch and wait, to wait and watch, until the little fish have quite forgotten he is there. Gradually, so slowly, they drop back with the current, under the reach of that big, round eye with its eager colour, until they finally fall within range of the bird’s beak.
The head snaps forward on that long, sinewy neck. Heavy mandibles snap together in a splash and the troutlets flee, apart from one that, mortally wounded, gyrates momentarily before being picked from the water like a cherry from a tree, and is swallowed. But one small fish is not sufficient for such a large bird. The fisher waits, as still as a post once more, watching, waiting, for another tender morsel.
Above and below the weir there are artificial spawning beds for the trout, and each autumn a good number of fish arrive to make use of them. The better fish come here in a flood, get their business done quickly, and are away again before we know it. We only know they have been here at all by the scars they leave in the gravel, a sort of footprint that lets us know the general health of the trout population. Plenty of disturbed gravel means a good stock of spawning fish.
Likewise, the heron only comes to feed because there is plenty for him to eat. The fact that he comes to this place at all tells us the river is reasonably well populated. Yet his predations have a considerable impact on fish stocks. He must eat every day, and so must his family. Three or four little fish will not be sufficient for him. Over the season, the benefits of having spawning beds installed are largely negated.
Still, the heron should never be seen as the enemy of the trout man. Commercial interests would certainly like to dissuade the local herons from visiting their premises, but for the rest of us, for those for whom trout are a hobby and not a living, the heron is a valuable part of the landscape.
Anglers talk at length about the days of yore, when the rivers and streams were cleaner than now and when fish stocks were correspondingly better. There were herons then, too, and quite probably a good deal more of them than we encounter today.
We might lament the lack of fish and even feel a twinge of animosity toward the bird that swallows a dozen while we struggle to catch even one, and then flies over the hill to take another half dozen elsewhere. However, the problems lie more with water quality than with the birds.
Excessive drainage of farmland, while good for the farmer, leaves waterways perilously low in times of drought. Sewage, silage effluent, slurry, all find their way into places they shouldn’t. One episode of pollution can affect a long stretch of river, doing damage that is unseen by our eyes, wiping out the insect life that supports the aquatic food web.
Kill the insects and the fish will disappear. With no fish the heron will not be calling. The heron tells us we still have fish in the water. For that we should be grateful.