Walking down the garden to my study I could hear a single male curlew calling from the field. They had bred down below the house, but his partner and their offspring had already gone to the coast.
I eased open the curtains in front of my desk and knew that with the warm sunshine it would be difficult to concentrate on writing. The only recourse was to do what I call a “wildlife watch”, concentrating solely on what was around in nature. Out came the telephone link to the house, the binoculars, camera and notebook, and I was set.
A metre away, the siskins and goldfinches, with a scattering of juveniles of both, were already squabbling over their favourite feeder filled with nyjer. Yesterday a lesser redpoll had joined them, but I could see no sign of it today.
The pond, which measures 30 by 15 metres, with its scalloped margins and its two islands, was a hive of activity. The three broods of mallard ducklings were chasing around after insects or seeds, and some of them seemed almost to be running over the surface of the water.
The females looked on as if they had no control. That is, until a hooded crow came over and they called their offspring into the cover of a long clump of wild iris on the margins. The crow went its way, but it was fully five minutes before the ducklings were allowed out again.
At the far end, the dam – which is made of bottom silt from when the pond was re-excavated last year – was still devoid of vegetation. Eight mandarin ducks were loafing around there, along with some mallard. The mandarins had no ducklings in the nestboxes this year and I suspected predation by pine marten.
Then a distraction and I turned away for less than a minute. When I turned back the scene was transformed. There was a roe deer doe looking calmly around as if she had been there all the time. The colour of her summer coat was just beautiful.
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