NATURE Call out for Carra’s mallard

COLOURFUL CHARACTERS?The mallard population at Lough Carra has dwindled significantly.

Call out for Carra’s mallard 


Country Sights and Sounds
John Shelley

This morning Carra was flat, calm and still, last year’s dead reeds a soft, golden grey in the first light. Last evening they were were a brief yellow flame that lit three sides of our beautiful bay; the far end is open to a greater expanse of water, deeper, darker, less inviting.
Between here and there a raft of ducks luxuriate in the early sun. Their plumage hints at metallic, their reflections are perfect and unrippling. Yesterday they were quarreling and garrulous, each of the males ready to confront his neighbour, chasing and fighting, bragging with clapping wings, posturing and briefly dominant. There are too few females to keep them happy. Nobody knows why.
There are several species here: goldeneye, tufted duck, teal and gadwall, each with its own glory, but it is the once-ubiquitous mallard that stands out among them.
A good portion of these have dispersed to their favoured nesting sites. Some prefer out-of-the way lakes where nobody but the pike angler goes. Others might choose a bramble thicket adjacent to river or stream. I knew one mallard to nest at the edge of a housing estate and another that made use of an abandoned crow’s nest, some twenty feet up in a tree.
I always had a soft spot for mallard, ever since we robbed a nest (which is now illegal) and placed the eggs under a broody hen. Among the hatchlings was Charlie, a particularly friendly individual that must have been introduced to us within moments of emerging from the egg and imprinted. Convinced either that he was human or that we were ducks, he was never happy unless in our company. He did his best to follow us about the farmyard, cheeping eagerly at our heels as we tended to livestock, while the rest of his family swam contentedly in their pond.
One unfortunate day he was crushed by a cow. Although we thought we had lost him he amazed us with his attachment to life and survived. He had, however, lost one of his legs. From that day he could only swim in circles and was unable to keep up with the most sedate stroll. Falling behind, he would set up a plaintive and heart rending appeal, so that we carried him everywhere he wished to go.
Charlie fell out with us in his first adult spring. While competing for a mate he was at an obvious one-legged disadvantage and as always there were not enough females to go around. Determined not to be left out entirely, poor Charlie fell in love with our boots, which he took to mounting at the least opportunity. Nor was it just us. Any visitor to the house would have his footwear subjected to Charlie’s amorous and, we must emphasise, most determined advances.
It became embarrassing and – take my word for it – it is most difficult to maintain a sensible conversation while one’s duck is engaged in such licentious behaviour. We were only relieved when he became infatuated with the cat, which he pursued with admirable tenacity.
One day Charlie went missing, and we never saw him again. I like to think he finally found himself a mate and produced a family. Who knows, of those mallard on the lake, those in the bramble thicket, those that nest in the reeds, some might be his progeny.
In the early 1970s there were as many as 2,500 mallard wintering on Lough Carra, making this lake one of international importance. These numbers have dwindled greatly. What can be done to save them?