Daily Larry & friends: Green Heron at Heligan

Tuesday, October 19, 2010

Green Heron at Heligan

For once in my life I was actually going to the right place at the right time to see a rare bird. Rare in a sense that's it's not meant to be here - it's meant to be spending the Winter in the swamps of Florida, but in fact it's been blown off course or got very lost & has turned up at the Lost Gardens of Heligan in Cornwall.

So there I was sandwiched in-between serious bird watchers - or twitchers with their HUGE camera lenses & £1000 tripods - & me with my little 26x zoom on my Nikon P100 bridge camera! Still no matter, I got some shots & here they are:

Can you spot him? Typical he was hiding!

He's coming!

John Cleese silly walk!

Behaving just like the native grey herons here

Poised

Ready to stab at a fish - which he did successfully!

Then he was off again to patrol the edge of the pond

And then sat facing me, he looked so comical!

Spotted another fish

His new home for now - Top Pond at Heligan - plenty of fish to keep him happy!

More posing for the cameras

If he only knew all the attention he was receiving!

It would surely go to his head!

He seems very happy, I wonder if he'll stay there as an extra attraction?

1 comment:

Steven ScottJanuary 15, 2011 at 12:34 AM
Nice Green Heron series. Great blog!
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Robin's aren't just for Christmas (2011)

Just now, it seems I’ve known them for ever. The dearest, sweetest - and I suppose, red-est - friends I’ve ever had. Two robins, one called Larry Legs and the other (one of his fledglings), Little Larry. Although as I write this, he’s not so little anymore.

It was in April, in fact, that I first noticed a very distinctive, elegant bird, gazing at me from out of the hawthorn. A robin unmistakably. But not just any old robin. It was his legs. Long and thin like stilts. Back straight as a Royal.

Continued...

I’d just started to feed the garden birds live mealworms - easy when you get used to it - to help them feed their young. At first they stayed away, uncertain of what was on offer. ‘That’s no worm,’ I heard them tweet. So I drowned a few and left them on the bird table (live ones would have crawled off).

And that seemed to work - except for the bird I’d seen in the hawthorn. He was having none of it. I could see the table from out of my study window, and there was the robin staring straight back at me. Then he started to have a tantrum. I stood mesmerised.

He picked up a dead worm, stamped his feet, then threw it back on the table. Not just once, but repeatedly. This bird was angry. And he was telling me in no uncertain terms. ‘I want live - these things are dead!’

Continued...

And that was the beginning of a beautiful relationship. I sped outside, placed a bowl of live worms on the granite mushroom - a proper, authentic one - then sat on the bench and waited. He came immediately. The small robin on stilts. He gobbled up a few and then took a couple more away. Within minutes he was back. I’d won his appetite but, as yet, not his heart.

Now I’m one those people who can’t help naming some of the wild creatures who come in regularly to the garden. I have, for example, Mr. & Mrs. Lupin the hedgehogs, Jeremy the bank vole and Palmer (after Samuel) the barn owl.

But what was I to call this amazing robin? Then I remembered the Bonzo Dog Do Dah Band (how strange the mind is). One of them was called Larry Legs. Perfect.

Continued...

Larry (with Mrs. Larry) was clearly raising a family. He started coming to me every day. I’d put out food for all the other birds. But Larry just wanted complete, personal attention. He’d stand upright on the bench, flap his wings as if begging, and then follow me into the garage where he knew I kept the worms. He’d perch on the dustbin lid, watching me open the box. Once the worms were on the ground (his own little patch) Larry would whizz down, pack them in his beak, and then fly off like a little red arrow to feed the scrum of gaping mouths in the nest.

I photographed Larry with a passion. And he took to modelling almost as much as to worms. I never encouraged him to feed from my hand, but one day he had no choice. He was surrounded by dozens of demanding house sparrows and tut-tutting, scolding blackbirds - notably Mr. & Mrs. Elgar and their siblings, the Godzillas (but that’s another story).

So, being Larry, he simply jumped the queue. He flew straight onto my hand where I’d quickly placed a few worms.

And then came the moment. I suppose it’s the sudden realization that you’re in love and that you’re loved in return.

Continued...

Instead of taking one of the wriggling victims on my hand immediately, Larry paused. He looked straight into my eyes and held them for several seconds. It said everything. A precious moment in time. This was trust, respect, an understanding between both of us. ‘I will always look after you Larry Legs,’ I said. And he knew it.

Late in July, Larry appeared with two fledglings. (I never did locate the nest but I knew it was somewhere close to the front garden.) A few days later, while dad sat high up on a branch singing - as dads do - I stood watching the children. One of them hopped to the front, and I began to take his picture. He let me get closer and closer. I switched over to a macro lens. And suddenly I was inches from his beak. The shots were amazing.

Continued...

The events which unfolded from hereon have, I suppose, taken over much of my life. For this was the start of Little Larry. Not only a chip off the old block. But I have to think, a bird simply from somewhere else. Numinous, more intelligent than any of us. He knows something we don’t know. And that’s all I know. Except that I’m crazy about Little Larry.

I’ve watched this little bird practically every day, photographing his transformation from a speckled brown fledgling into a brand new robin with a smart grey school cap and red blazer.

Throughout Little Larry’s development, Larry Legs watched over him - his offspring following him around and copying all of his habits. He would hop into the garage after him and stand at my feet as if begging too.