NATURE Delicate balance, easily disturbed

DUCKING RESPONSIBILITY Mallard numbers are falling at Lough Carra, once famous for holding a very large population, but are we too quick to blame the mink?

Delicate balance, easily disturbed


Country Sights and Sounds
John Shelley

This month belongs to the ducks. I hear them at night, flying over the house, their powerful wings scything the air as they make their way to the sheltered bay just beyond the trees. Tufted ducks growl at each other; mallard peal with maniacal laughter in response. The wings of teal sing like a hyperventilating kettle. Only the goldeneye come quietly in.
Early mornings find the entire company gathered in the shallows, but as the day begins they make their way slowly out to deeper water where they float and bob, holding their own against the breeze, dibbing and diving for their various foods. Those goldeneye! Smartly suited in black and white with that wonderful gold-rimmed eye, the drakes are more crisply cut than any film star spy. I would like to get close up with the camera. They are wary.
The mallard are already paired for breeding. The few that hang around at present will soon be away to the secret places that they know, where grassy nests will be lined with down and filled with creamy green eggs. At one time there were scores of them here. Now there are few. We blame the mink, that great killer of waterfowl that has taken over our land. Of course he kills; that is his nature. I think we might also look a little closer to home and make an honest appraisal of our own habits. Could we be equally responsible for the demise of our wildlife?
A friend killed five mink in a short time and entertained the notion of making a nice fur hat for himself. At the last report he had succeeded in skinning his chosen trophy, a large male with tattered ears and a battle scarred muzzle. The pelt had been stretched on a board, scraped clean with a sharp blade and rubbed with salt. Perhaps a third of the accompanying mink odour had been successfully removed from the man’s hands. The rest remained and likely still does. Mink smell atrocious.
Mink are not hard to find. They are bold, fearless animals that care little about human presence, but carry on their lives as if we were not watching. Even when they are not seen, that certain smell gives them away. Traps are laid, baited with cat food or a fish head, and very often the resident male is captured and killed.
However, that male has been holding a territory, defending it vigourously against younger, smaller and weaker mink than itself. When this animal is eliminated these others can move in. Where there was one, now there are three or four, and each one of them equally as much a bloodthirsty, unremitting killer as that big old male had been.
There are not many animals to despise. The mink is one and the rat is another. Adaptable, opportunistic and resourceful, both are plagues and a blight on the landscape. Unsurprisingly, were it not for our endeavours to improve our own lot we should be free of them both.
Rats were imported from Britain and Europe in the 18th century, more than likely as stowaways on the large ships that were being used at that time. Mink arrived here in the 1950s, to be farmed for their fur.
Of course it wasn’t long before a combination of accidental escapes and deliberate releases allowed the mink to become the environmental calamity that it is today. At least rats are an important part of their diet.
While walking the riverbank I was pleased to hear the song of the mistle thrush, something like a whistle in a tin can. He is a bright bird, an early riser and a cheerful if rather tuneless songster. Back in the autumn he defended the rowan trees from other birds, even though he ate very few of the red berries himself, preferring to scour the surrounding pasture for invertebrates while such were available. Only when the rowan fruit began to fall did he tuck in. Then he stood guard over the whitethorn and spent his days fending off finches and others of the thrush tribe. Now the haws are eaten and the ivy berries are beginning to ripen, so he will not be short of food.
By the middle of the month his mind will turn to nest building. We will hear rattling voice more clearly, together with that of blackbird and mallard and so many more.