There’s a bend in the river, where the water runs deep
There laying and waiting is the fat pike sleeping deep
Ducklings happily bobbing on the pond
Soon these carefree antics will end
When the mother decides it’s time to grow
Down to the river to learn they all must go
If the pike is still in the river, with a crash
He’ll drag them down, leaving only a splash
Anxious mother jumps the fence with wing powered leap
Showing her little ones how under the fence they can creep
Seen it before, I’ll see it again, with heart in my mouth
I watch the rusting little ones follow her south
Across the paddock and into the field where danger lies deep
Tonight these images will disturb my sleep
With motherly movements and tender quacking
Slowly she shepherds her treasured ducklings
She guides them on through rough grass and bramble
Guards them as they hasten and tumble
The river is near
Is the pike waiting?
If only she’d taken the path to the lane
Maybe tomorrow I’d see all her babies again
But even there lies danger, of cars hurtling past
Uncaring, unseeing, and much too fast
A swift drop over the bridge to the water
The current drives them forward to their slaughter
But, this year, there’s hope in my heart
If the mink ate the pike they’ll have a good start
Thursday, 1 May 2008
Wimpole Hall in Royston
The day of our visit to Wimpole Hall was grey and overcast, with a chill wind, but we were well wrapped up and it was delightful to see our countryside in spring. We came upon fields of cowslips nodding their pretty heads and braving the cold winds. There were two lonely birds on a lake: one an attractive grebe, and the other a beautiful white swan. Each kept its own company of silent reflection. We were admiring banks of primroses leading down to the lake when we noticed a heron nearby, who suddenly rose from the water’s edge and came to rest not more than twenty feet away in a field full of sheep and their lambs. We walked through this field with the little lambs racing and chasing, jumping and climbing on to fallen trees – it was magical.
The staccato sound of a woodpecker drumming high in a tree caused us to pause, lift our heads and search for him in vain. High on a hill, on the edge of a field, we came across the remains of a hare: bones bleached and weathered jutting out from the last remnants of fur. This caused me to wonder if there were no foxes in the area, for surely the hare’s remains would have been carried off, and if not foxes, were there no carrion crows in these parts?
We turned toward the car and then headed for home through the lanes or minor roads across the beautiful Hertfordshire countryside. The first thing we saw was a bird of prey, strong wings silently slicing the air as he searched the field below for prey. Across the road a seemingly small blackbird sat in the fork of a leafless oak tree, as if seeking shelter from the cold northerly wind.
The roadside verges were prettily peppered with bluebells, coltsfoot, dandelion, daisies, primroses and cowslips. Two pheasants lay on the roadside, probably struck by cars, and countless live ones flocking the fields and verges. A ford glistened over the road topped by a lone wading moorhen, while up on a slope were two dozen mallards dozing, heads tucked snugly under their wings.
We passed a rookery full of noisy cawing birds and two badgers still and in their final sleep. I wondered if they were a pair.
Between Standon and Much Hadham we chanced on two muntjac deer cropping the roadside verge.
It was a beautiful ride home. So many trees with their pretty fresh green frocks on to welcome spring, quintessentially English views of fields broken by mile upon mile of hedgerows, woodlands, rolling hills and, in a dip, a village marked only by roofs, chimney stacks and a church spire. All the while, the birds chorused overhead.
The staccato sound of a woodpecker drumming high in a tree caused us to pause, lift our heads and search for him in vain. High on a hill, on the edge of a field, we came across the remains of a hare: bones bleached and weathered jutting out from the last remnants of fur. This caused me to wonder if there were no foxes in the area, for surely the hare’s remains would have been carried off, and if not foxes, were there no carrion crows in these parts?
We turned toward the car and then headed for home through the lanes or minor roads across the beautiful Hertfordshire countryside. The first thing we saw was a bird of prey, strong wings silently slicing the air as he searched the field below for prey. Across the road a seemingly small blackbird sat in the fork of a leafless oak tree, as if seeking shelter from the cold northerly wind.
The roadside verges were prettily peppered with bluebells, coltsfoot, dandelion, daisies, primroses and cowslips. Two pheasants lay on the roadside, probably struck by cars, and countless live ones flocking the fields and verges. A ford glistened over the road topped by a lone wading moorhen, while up on a slope were two dozen mallards dozing, heads tucked snugly under their wings.
We passed a rookery full of noisy cawing birds and two badgers still and in their final sleep. I wondered if they were a pair.
Between Standon and Much Hadham we chanced on two muntjac deer cropping the roadside verge.
It was a beautiful ride home. So many trees with their pretty fresh green frocks on to welcome spring, quintessentially English views of fields broken by mile upon mile of hedgerows, woodlands, rolling hills and, in a dip, a village marked only by roofs, chimney stacks and a church spire. All the while, the birds chorused overhead.
Demise of the Ducklings
On the 23rd, two days after my last report, we awoke to find our female duck and 12 ducklings waiting for breakfast under the side window. We had two days of pure delight watching them. WE marveled at what a good mother this female was – 12 offspring to watch over, but she managed admirably.
The next morning, she was there waiting with her 12 babies, along with 4 female and one male pheasants, plus a few pigeons, blackbirds, dunnocks, thrushes, chaffinches and robins. The goldfinches were feeding on last year’s seedheads. A pair of bullfinch and a greenfinch were on the lawn and two wrens did a wonderful courtship display on the back lawn. Across the middle side lawn were our other pair of resident ducks. Later in the day, we decided not to allow them to spend the day in the garden. We just fed them and gently moved them on each time they returned – easier said than done when they consider this their home. We had to do this because the male found the female with 12 ducklings irresistibly attractive and would harass her until she flew off leaving her dozen ducklings scattered in disarray across the garden, and while she would eventually return, the male was waiting and the scene would repeat itself.
The third morning we rose and on looking out of the kitchen window saw eight ducklings and no mother. We watched and waited, an hour passed and still there were eight motherless ducklings. Mike scoured the lane – had a fast-moving car run over the mother duck, and maybe the four missing ducklings? I visited our next door neighbor and after explaining the situation asked if I could search their garden. We searched under bushes and hedges, in flower beds and down to river bank, but found no sign. Then on rounding a bend I saw a piece of downing fluff, and in two more steps I saw the unmistakable scattered remains of a duckling on the path. Back home still only eight ducklings and no mother. We wondered did they make their own way to the pond or did she bring them? Either way, what had happened to her? Was it that the other resident male had driven her away? If so, was it a bird of prey that took the missing ducklings? Or was it a fox? A few years ago I watched a fox decimate our family of ducklings even though I went outside and tried to intervene. The fox stood his ground, skirting round me all the time then rushing in to snatch another duckling. Why didn’t she get on the pond with her ducklings? I did not know. I was beginning to wonder if the same fox had paid another visit and was responsible for the situation.
The eight surviving ducklings were amazing: they swam on the pond, caught flies, played, climbed out, groomed, and slept in a huddle. Previously we had only seen them tucked safely under their mother to sleep. They went to and fro to eat, marching like little soldiers in close formation across the lawn, down the path to where the food was put out. Yesterday when their mother was here they had run hither and thither investigating everything, jumping to catch flies, and climbing into flower pots. Now they moved as one, tightly packed together. Just after lunch they decided to leave. We followed them out to the lane, over the weir and down to the marina, stopping cars for them and trying to keep them safe. I must admit I breathed a sigh of relief – they had left of their own accord and maybe they would find their mother. We watched them happily swimming on the water and then returned home. Two hours later they back by the pond, but only seven this time. They continued to eat, swim, groom and sleep for the next few hours. When they slept they huddled together in the impression left by their mother’s body. The next morning there were none.
The next morning, she was there waiting with her 12 babies, along with 4 female and one male pheasants, plus a few pigeons, blackbirds, dunnocks, thrushes, chaffinches and robins. The goldfinches were feeding on last year’s seedheads. A pair of bullfinch and a greenfinch were on the lawn and two wrens did a wonderful courtship display on the back lawn. Across the middle side lawn were our other pair of resident ducks. Later in the day, we decided not to allow them to spend the day in the garden. We just fed them and gently moved them on each time they returned – easier said than done when they consider this their home. We had to do this because the male found the female with 12 ducklings irresistibly attractive and would harass her until she flew off leaving her dozen ducklings scattered in disarray across the garden, and while she would eventually return, the male was waiting and the scene would repeat itself.
The third morning we rose and on looking out of the kitchen window saw eight ducklings and no mother. We watched and waited, an hour passed and still there were eight motherless ducklings. Mike scoured the lane – had a fast-moving car run over the mother duck, and maybe the four missing ducklings? I visited our next door neighbor and after explaining the situation asked if I could search their garden. We searched under bushes and hedges, in flower beds and down to river bank, but found no sign. Then on rounding a bend I saw a piece of downing fluff, and in two more steps I saw the unmistakable scattered remains of a duckling on the path. Back home still only eight ducklings and no mother. We wondered did they make their own way to the pond or did she bring them? Either way, what had happened to her? Was it that the other resident male had driven her away? If so, was it a bird of prey that took the missing ducklings? Or was it a fox? A few years ago I watched a fox decimate our family of ducklings even though I went outside and tried to intervene. The fox stood his ground, skirting round me all the time then rushing in to snatch another duckling. Why didn’t she get on the pond with her ducklings? I did not know. I was beginning to wonder if the same fox had paid another visit and was responsible for the situation.
The eight surviving ducklings were amazing: they swam on the pond, caught flies, played, climbed out, groomed, and slept in a huddle. Previously we had only seen them tucked safely under their mother to sleep. They went to and fro to eat, marching like little soldiers in close formation across the lawn, down the path to where the food was put out. Yesterday when their mother was here they had run hither and thither investigating everything, jumping to catch flies, and climbing into flower pots. Now they moved as one, tightly packed together. Just after lunch they decided to leave. We followed them out to the lane, over the weir and down to the marina, stopping cars for them and trying to keep them safe. I must admit I breathed a sigh of relief – they had left of their own accord and maybe they would find their mother. We watched them happily swimming on the water and then returned home. Two hours later they back by the pond, but only seven this time. They continued to eat, swim, groom and sleep for the next few hours. When they slept they huddled together in the impression left by their mother’s body. The next morning there were none.
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