A trout from Canterbury by Izaac Walton

A gallant trout

Izaak Walton wrote a charming little book on Angling, ranging through many topics, including the trout in all its varieties. We often see them in Canterbury, indeed I was once presented with an excellent trout, caught by one of my pupils, whose mother would not let it into the house, but he did not want to waste it. It was not as big as a salmon, but plenty of ‘rare meat’ for two. That fish had an empty belly, in November, but was caught on a grain of sweetcorn.

There is also in Kent, near to Canterbury, a Trout (called there a Fordig Trout) a Trout (that bears the name of the Town [Fordwich] where ’tis usually caught) that is accounted rare meat, many of them near the bigness of a Salmon, but known by their different colour, and in their best season cut very white; and none have been known to be caught with an Angle, unless it were one that was caught by honest Sir George Hastings, an excellent Angler (and now with God) and he has told me, he thought that Trout bit not for hunger, but wantonness; and ’tis the rather to be believed, because both he then, and many others before him have been curious to search into their bellies what the food was by which they lived; and have found out nothing by which they might satisfy their curiosity.

Izaak Walton, The Complete Angler, 1653.

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13 April: A summer visitor – or a permanent resident?

I was the only person at the garden, so could not share the sighting of a hen blackcap at the time. She was too grey for the house sparrows, and quite different to a redpoll, then I had a good look from within the greenhouse – I’m glad I washed the windows! – yes, a redcap, as George used to call then when he was little, because it was ‘only fair’. That idea fell down when we were looking at a female blackbird: there are so many brown birds!

I wonder whether my blackcap was one who had spent the winter in England, or was just arriving back from the South? She was certainly looking for food in among our willows.

photo: Chris Romeiks via Wikipedia

Those pigeons again.

One of the pigeons has discovered the feeder by our kitchen door. Not that the bird has learnt to alight on the narrow perch and peck grain from the trough, but this morning, when the door curtain was drawn back, and more than once since, it was pecking up the seeds dropped by sparrows, who can be messy eaters.

Is it the lengthening days that led the pigeons to be paired off in the two trees, lime and birch, sitting closer together and calling to each other? The views of the ground feeder at our door reveal how splendid their plumage is.

Killers

September had turned warm again, it was a good day to enjoy a sandwich in sight of the sea near Rye Harbour, and watch the world go by.

There were fewer humans than the last time I was this way, which was in August, but there were plenty of birds, as always. What first caught my eye was a small group of sand martins, swooping and swirling, stirring themselves up for the long flight to Southern Africa. Not quite ready to go yet! Was it a family group, the parents imparting their final advice before taking off in earnest?

A cormorant passed by, purposefully facing the light westerly breeze. A different spectacle altogether: its flying looked like hard work, though we know the grace they acquire as soon as they are in their watery element.

It must have been the frequent sightings of fighter planes this Battle of Britain month that set me comparing the martins to Spitfires, all speed and aerobatics and the cormorant to a ponderous Wellington bomber: killing machines both. So are the martins and cormorant killers, but not of their own kind and no more than necessary to feed  themselves and their children.

We humans know better than that of course.

(Another day at the same place.)

Less unexpected birds in the city.

The garden spectacle this week has been the two fledgling sparrows that have left the nest in next-door-but-one’s roof to flit and flutter to our back gate where they can perch, and cheep and flutter their stubby wings in the hope that their parents – or any passing sparrow for that matter – will feed them. There must be hope they will live, now they have spent two days out of the nest!

Here is one of them watching intently as his mother (or is it his aunt?) pecks at the fat balls over the gate. The fact that he was fed did not prevent him starting to call again as soon as he’d finished swallowing.

Although the adults are very tolerant of humans moving about the garden we share with  them, Chico took off as soon as the back door opened. Three metres’ flight to the washing line, where he could not get a grip, turned base over apex before achieving enough co-ordination to crash into the holly bush.

The two chicks were soon back on the gate, ‘Please Sir (or Madam) I want some more!