Bog Myrtle & Peat

The kestrels are settled and well.

It has been almost a month since they began to pair off in the pine tree above the pig sty, and the little birds call throughout the day. The male brings prey for his partner, and she scrambles out of the nest to gobble down his gifts. Long periods of sitting seem to make her numb and stiff, so she tumbles through the pine needles towards him like a drunkard, trilling with glee.

He returns every hour throughout the day with some fresh morsel. I can see the whole affair from my office window against a greening world as chiffchaffs sing in the willows and the moor is hung with larks.

Working on the new cattle pens last night, we sat out for a beer in the gloaming and listened to the male kestrel’s long, noisy display. He flew high up in huge circles around the farm, gliding strangely and holding his wings at odd new angles. We were being put to bed; this is his place, and he was riding the marches.

A few herring gulls laughed at the wind and flew out to the Solway. Lapwings turned and tumbled in the distant flooded fields.