I started feeding the pond fish yesterday, I was sat in quite contemplation, marveling how the fish seem to grow in size through the winter months, as though it is warm water and sunshine that makes them grow ( it can’t be so, can it? Or fish of the northern Arctic waters would never grow bigger than tiddlers, would they?) When a large shadow swept across the pond. The heron was back for second helpings
It looked a bit startled and more than a little miffed to see me sat there, no doubt the heron could see all the fish, gobbling up their feed as it approached, looking like easy pickings. It banked away into the trees; you might remember in the last post on this topic, I was wondering how they know which branch can hold their weight? The answer is they don’t; there was a loud crack and an undignified fall and flap through the canopy as the tip of a sycamore sapling gave way under the herons weight: now I understand exactly how my young alder tree lost its lead shoot, and I was blaming the squirrels, sorry squirrels. This heron is rather bold, I managed to get much closer than last time.
It strikes me you don’t get much meat on a heron drumstick. (
I watched it and it watched me, for quite a while, click away now if you are bored of heron silhouettes