NATURE Herons, heralds of springtime

Herons, heralds of springtime


John Shelley

Croagh Patrick was a picture. A soggy, water-washed picture perhaps, but beyond the thin cloud was a blue sky such as belongs to spring; the clear blue that belongs to innocence, the pure, innocent blue of the heron’s egg.
As evening settled quietly so other colours appeared, taking their time to drift in and out of view, tinting the broken clouds along their way while a snow-white layer of mist crept slowly over the shoulder of The Reek and lay there, draped like an ermine robe, while evening fell.
The night became clear and cold, with so many stars that once again we were compelled to wonder at the smallness of ourselves, the comparable insignificance of our planet, the only place in the known universe where intelligent life exists.
I find solace and comfort in the woods and fields, and, towards the end of February, among the trees where the herons have their nests. They have used this small woodland for more generations than I know of, building new floors on the greatly untidy piles of sticks that are their homes.
Twenty years ago I tried to scale one of these trees, one with regularly spaced branches throughout its entire height, determined to see for myself the chalky blue eggs that I knew were there. The parent bird had at first ducked back out of sight but, finding the noises brought forth by my exertions compelling, had craned its neck over the rim and watched with contempt my ungainly attempts to reach it.
I had made two misjudgements; the branches were farther apart than I had realised, so that by standing on one I could scarcely reach the next, and the elevation of the nest was daunting, causing me to abandon my task before I was one third of the way there. I never did have much of a head for heights. I swear that bird was laughing as I climbed clumsily back to the ground.
I stayed there into the dusk that evening, to watch the return of the rest of the extended family. How many there were, and what a clamour they sent out to reverberate through the trees! With such honking and rasping they could not possibly keep their location secret, but then, I suppose they do not need to, for they have few natural enemies. The raven would delight in a heron’s egg dinner. What are the chances of the eggs being left unguarded? Slight, I imagine.
I thought there were 20 birds. However, when I made a count some weeks later, on a longer, brighter evening, I found there were only a dozen or so. This year a similar number of adults are converging on the heronry, some of them carrying sticks from where these have dropped from windblown branches into nearby fields.
I cannot help but think that such a big bird as this ought to nest somewhere on the ground; surely it would be much more comfortable there. Was it on Inis Mór that we were directed to herons’ nests on rocky cliffs? I think so, but that is the only time I saw them thus, and the only reason the herons would choose to live in such a way is likely because there are no trees in that place, at least none of any account.
The harsh winter has accounted for a good number of birds of many types, heron included. With streams and drains frozen over for weeks on end these will have found great difficulty in getting enough to eat. Those that were close to the sea will have done alright for themselves. Each receding tide leaves much food in its wake. There are blennies and shrimps for all, together with so much other food it might be impossible to starve there. It is many months since we saw a heron on the lake; we fear our local birds will have perished.
Perhaps not, though. Could one of them have been the bird I heard uttering angry cries at the peregrine as she stooped over and again at her head? The falcon had pulled away at each descent, and I’m sure she was only toying. The heron’s bill is large and heavy and, while of cumbersome appearance, severely pointed; one blow from such a weapon could have ended the falcon’s days. It was enough to claim a moral victory and send the heron to fish elsewhere.
It is hard to believe that in ten days from now each nest in the heronry will contain eggs. May they be there always.