Burnished Copper

Burnished copper glinting in brilliant mid morning autumn sunshine, a cock pheasant strutting deliberately in slow motion on his way back from my feeding point under a lone hawthorne bush. Between the stems of the broken hedge line between winter wheat and lush green rape he was following his path until Emma appeared in the sky. The cock disappeared, had he clamped, had he retraced his steps? My female peregrine climbed hard, 300feet on her first pass into a huge out swing downwind, climbing back into the wind from nearly a mile away she was over 1000 feet on her second pass but still not satisfied she took another circle and was half as high again when she held station, beating with half closed wings into the southerly breeze above the working dogs.

The younger cocker ran up the hedge but nothing appeared, he disappeared into a bramble patch, the obvious retreat for our cock but still nothing appeared so he took another beat and repeated the exercise. Meanwhile his older brother, more experienced and used to this part of our ground where he had flushed several birds during his eleven years, he waited until he found fresh scent, then slowly, working deliberately followed across the short grass of the mown headland and on out into the rape. Well grown this year the foliage was almost up to his shoulder, overnight dew sparkling as he disturbed the leaves in the sunlight until with a spraying clatter and cackling call up sprang the cock flushed outwards across the huge field of rape. It was fortunate for us that he was not sure of his direction and drawn by safety he turned a banking arc to the left taking him back over the emerald green freshly germinated winter wheat, powder blue feathers on his back spectacular as he banked in his turn, rocketing upwards to about 100 feet, making his best pace for the small copse half a mile away. 

Over the years it has become my habit to count the seconds of a stoop. A descending teardrop falling, falling, falling through crystal air Emma took fully twelve seconds before she came into attack, enormous roaring speed, outpacing the fleeing cock, she stooped behind and below before she threw up from underneath him, no doubt in his blind spot, talons extending at the last moment to bind to him with ease, the head in her left and breast in her right foot. He was 1400 grams of solid muscle and slashing spurs but her rowing backwards now protected her from the collision with the earth as the cock became her cushion but then quite some adversary on the ground. Emma's grandmother once took a similar bird in almost the same location, it had broken both wings and both legs in the impact but once on the ground it sill managed to give the falcon a serious pasting! Not so today, Emma held firmly to the struggling bird for a few chaotic moments and with an expert bite behind the skull it was soon all up for the cock.

Open mouthed, panting from the exertion, she stood proudly over her prize. The younger cocker sat by her side admiring their conquest, ready for any sudden escape. No need to run, all well in control, circling crows soon left as they saw me approach. A few minutes to regain breath and composure, then plucking began.

East Anglia, end of October, the last of this years pheasant poults are now fully feathered and uniquely this year it still seems like summer!

Transitions!

Weaning with our pups has always been a simple process at a time when the mother is pleased to have us take over responsibility for her youngsters. It is a leisurely process over about ten days so that when the moment arrives it is hardly noticed. With our hawks it is a similar process at fledging when the falcon has worked herself extremely hard for a few weeks and is only too pleased to be taken out of the chamber and leave finishing of the eyasses to us. I have developed a system of adjacent chambers so that the door can be opened for her to choose to sit out of sight of her youngsters which she readily does for relief from their constant screaming for food. When the day arrives it's a very simple process to just close the door and her period of parental duties is done.

However weaning our horses has always been a more stressful time for all concerned, not least for us when kept awake at night by the sound of confused horses shouting in the darkness. The process is somewhat easier with fillies than a single colt. Last time, a couple of years ago our filly was just left in a stall next to mother and nobody seemed to notice the milkbar had closed but this year we have a single colt and his change of lifestyle is set to be very different.

Sound carries in the stillness of night, mother and foal can still faintly hear each other at opposite ends of the yard in separate buildings. Barking muntjack, bulling cows echoing for miles on still night air, owls from screachers to hooters, moorhens and roosting cock pheasants, all join in the cacophony when usually peace and tranquility prevail under the starlight.

Not having bred horses for a few years and not having weaned a colt for 24 years one simply forgets what it was like but today our concern is much increased from our harsher youthful exuberance of many years ago. In those far off days of our youth we just bolted stable doors and left them to get on with it? I am sure we didn't do quite that but I don't remember this trauma we have now. Today our treasured colt has his hoof prints on the white walls around the eaves! He seems to have spent as much time on his back legs up against the walls as he has on the floor. Unseasonably warm weather has helped keep him dripping with sweat, his fine skin like dark wet silk, spectacular to look at but harsh on the nerves.

Obviously it was all extremely exhausting for him with unrelenting tension, his adrenaline kept him going and going, wet and dripping with sweat but by mid afternoon of the following day it seemed he was a little more thoughtful, not much but I sensed we could make a step forward.

Before we made our new stabling in the barn, where our colt had spent the first five months of his life with his mother, we kept our horses in our yard of loose-boxes adjacent to the house - an intimate arrangement that worked well for us. One of these stables was brought back into use for his weaning. It was after four days our colt Asti stepped confidently out of his new stable into the strange surroundings of the yard, house and garden. With some care he relied on my confidence and walked among the fallen conkers under the horse chestnut tree to the paddock where he was familiar with his surroundings. He stopped and looked back to the yard from which he had come, his mother called from her stable in the barn reigniting the fireworks and we had our first experience of lunging on the grass. For this I had been prepared with him already on the long lunge rein and with appropriate lunge whip just for guidance.

Only twenty laps or so and he refocused again, back onto me so we had a cuddle and set off back to the yard. He was still feeling the heat of this very warm day and was quite wet so a shower from the hose provided welcome cooling, cleaning and refreshment. The bath was not new to him as during the heat of summer we had taken care to ensure he got used to it as one of his additional experiences at his mothers side. The sweat scraper got most of the water out of his coat and without being in any way perfectionist about the process Jenny and I kept things changing and  moving along quite rapidly before is thoughts might get the better of him. As soon as he looked respectable again he willingly walked back into his new home, sharing the busy comings and goings of life in the yard.

Some brief neighing soon died down and when I looked about thirty minutes later he was flat out in the straw, fast asleep with his legs twitching as he dozed. The first sleep he had for several days. This evening the progress was remarkable, his attitude most welcoming, evening meal all finished up and obviously delighted with my company in his box, reveling in having his body stroked, shoulder scratched, ear pulled and head rubbed.

His mother also turned a corner, stopped pacing the box and was this evening chewing hay as fast as she can get through it. Of course hard feed was restricted now that milk is not needed, water had been restricted briefly but as the worst of milk production had eased, her bag contracting, she was composed enough to drink a full bucket.

So after a few days we now start to look forward to organising ourselves to the new routines and way of life that an extra occupied stable brings. Our stallions have always lived as part of the family adjacent to the house and for Asti, an unusually friendly foal from birth, the prospect is proving very welcome. After ten days or so he is happy to have a paddock to himself, to peacefully graze for three or four hours, visit the gate if we appear and now he responds to a whistle. With an Indian summer we are all enjoying unexpected sunny autumnal weather, Asti has learned to pick his own blackberries, dried leaves crackle under foot, fallen apples brighten up his evening meal. Pleasure of creating a new character in the family our daily joy. At last the trauma of weaning is over, another transition complete.

The blessing of autoimmune

The blessing of autoimmune!

There are many social network forums about autoimmune conditions. Answering somebodies question a few days ago brought to mind my lifelong experience of dealing with autoimmune implications first hand and it got me thinking about my autoimmune experiences over the last few decades. Since so many seem to be in shock upon their diagnosis, frightened, in pain and almost hopeless at the prospects, some of my experiences might help understanding and give some hope with something in which confusion is almost the means of its nourishment and perpetuation.

For a seven year old boy living in our home fronting the beach of a tidal estuary was simply an idyllic lifestyle until 2.30 one winters morning when mother woke me, telling me to get dressed in a hurry. We were leaving immediately as the sea was coming in! I looked out the window and sure enough, by the light of the full moon, the beach was submerged under storm tossed waves flooding over the sea wall not thirty feet from my bedroom. We left our home and the life I had known was completely lost along with all we owned and the drowning of my grandparents.

About fifteen years later after sudden temporary blindness amongst other symptoms, my experiences of the medical profession started off with my diagnosis for sarcoidosis - over decades my autoimmune condition progressed to Isaacs Syndrome, Neuromyotonia and a couple of years ago I have been told I am up to Morvans Syndrome, what next? I am now coming up seventy and mother made it to 91, I hope to do at least the same.

Various forms of medication and management over many years helped me cope or so I believed at the time. Over recent years my viewpoint has evolved, I have come to see my changing conditions as my body doing its very best to protect me following many years of inappropriate self management, nurture and nourishment which of course amounts to abuse. My life had started off as a combination of childhood traumatic experience in a natural disaster, post traumatic stress, family crisis, unintentional emotional abuse and poor nourishment. Mine is not unique or even particularly extreme experience, just watch the news any day to see hoards of people being given life changing experiences, character building experiences, without judgment good or bad "what does not kill me strengthens me"!

Through this abuse my body became sensitised to many, many things it detected, some physical, some emotional, some what we have come to see as 'normal' in our world today. By its experiences my body had been conditioned to quite naturally be alert to even minor signals of impending abuse. It developed extreme sensitivity and responses to what amounted to my misguided management of myself, my choices driven by my current beliefs and values often ignorant of true consequences.

Progressively, as I became ever more 'successful' I also became increasingly very sick, very close to death at one point as I didn't know how to pay attention and respond to my body's messages. A pain in my side one day, it just needed some brandy so I could cope with that days meetings - it was only two days later, a ruptured gut with gangrene and septicaemia was more than an emergency! It can happen folks!

As my blood pressure ebbed away in my hospital bed and nurses were working hard to bring me back from going over the brink it dawned on me this very near squeak was a show stopper, unavoidable as a salutary message.

So I had to study up even more on my condition, learn to accept that things might not be as I had believed them, relearn how my body was naturally designed to function and how my expectations had exceeded, relearn about the medical profession and their medications and then learn a new management strategy that deals with cause. We are taught to deal with symptoms, doctors like to prescribe drugs to manage symptoms and this approach makes changes and provides some help for a while? But none got to any root cause because that is not the remit of this style of approach. Its all a matter of perspective and insight.

Like many other people I assumed and expected that I could drive 50,000 miles per year, fly around the world at will, plenty of people do it, drinking soda, snacking on convenience food as I travelled, itself designed to be addictive and disruptive of my bodily function. My whole life was structured that way and the whole support system is designed to enable me to do it. What a great life, I was a great success but my body was growing ever more insistent that it did not like what I was giving it, coming up with ever greater means of attacking me, attempting defence against the perpetrator, autoimmune in action!

My actions and lifestyle amounted to simple but comprehensive inappropriate self management. In a society with its own priorities making demands upon me and without limitation, the shocking truth was an inability to provide for my body in the way that it was designed to function. Slowly I have learned one technique after another to give my unconscious being and body more consideration, listen to its responses and act to look after it. Daily I fail in an environment no longer properly supportive of my wellbeing but overall I make slow progress to nurture and nourish my body with things it finds naturally in harmony with the way it was designed to function. I recognise that each man made fix is just another cause for autoimmune escalation even if it appears to offer immediate temporary relief.

The body is infallible with perfect self healing mechanisms when given respect and opportunity but it does require me to know its needs and design parameters. My body needs me to make choices for its support, nourishment and management in harmony with its natural world and values - anything else and it feels abused and attacks its abuser! That's me, it's real pain it attacks with, it hurts but is just a message to be understood.

Everybody has a unique character and individual way of being. It's taken 69 years to condition and train my body this way, it now has many unique talents and abilities, it even knows how to get my attention! It doesn't need curing, it needs understanding, respect and proper support so that it can support me. What others call chronic disease is my body's adaptation to its experiences of life dictated by my reactions as this unique character. There is no good in trying to drug me into what others see as 'normal' when my character just can't see things that way. If there are any normal people out there they have not had my experiences. By its choices of response my body unconsciously rejects their 'normality', ultimately having come to recognise medications as the next trigger for attack!

It took many years to understand that I have a wonderful life with much fulfilment in which my 'disease' is my blessing! Yes its painful and very risky at times. It all depends upon how understanding and submissive I am to my individual needs which express themselves in this condition. What support I can get from others is dependent upon how clearly I can explain my individuality to them - its nothing like 'normal' and many can't hear it or want to cope with it - can't blame them, its often hard to see the joy in it all! My body is miraculous, adapting to whatever I give it but when my ambition or the ambition of others has not properly considered the demands it makes on me then I do become my own enemy and my body responds accordingly.

Spontaneous remission can occur for varying periods whilst long term damage may remain with ongoing changes, often leaving me wondering just what is going on? It is a never ending adventure in the unknown and unknowable as my life finds its own path from one uncertainty to the next. Some days I wake up to find it all exciting and enjoyable whilst other days blackness is hard to deal with, a lifetime of pain can do that. For me and people like me it's become obvious that there is no 'cure', no magic bullet or drug that does not have its own consequences,  just ways for understanding to cope with the current circumstance and move on, listening to the next message the body comes up with, the next symptom to be interpreted, usually pain. Others don't have this blessing, I must be the lucky one! Maybe you are too?

Weasels

Andy Ellis writes :

Recent sketch idea for a painting of a weasel trying to catch a wagtail . Seen a few weasels in the dry stone walls up here and my best view was a few years ago when I was sat in the car in a gateway when a rather athletic weasel proceeded to climb up the lichen covered gate right be my car window . You have to admire such tenacious little predictors as these . A weasels skull is said to be able to pass through a wedding ring , whether this is fact , I am not sure , ? ... Depends on the wedding ring I suppose ...?

Andy's spectacular accompanying sketch brings to mind a couple of related surprises.

A hazy, windless, hot autumn morning, a light greyish blue sky, the colour of the bloom on unripe damsons,  I was flying my female peregrine Judy on the local airfield. I suppose she would have been about four years old at the time and had turned into a good dependable gamehawk who on such days as these might mount to tremendous pitches and go out of sight upwards. Too high for practical hawking but a wonderful experience in its own right. On such occasions the only sign of her approach was a roaring, ripping canvas sound as she stooped. I love this time of year before winter has arrived and the dahlias are gloriously still in full bloom, blackberries a regular snack as we hawk, picking a few whilst the hawk gains pitch and again after the  flight is over. All seems perfect and complete somehow. 

For falconers in the lowlands this early autumn period, before the real hunting begins with the start of the pheasant season, is an enjoyable time of getting hawks fit, bringing on youngsters and enjoying the last of the warm weather, often in an Indian Summer preceding seasonal change often quoted in Jorrocks observation ' Hurrah, blister me kidneys! It's a frost - the dahlias are dead, now we can go hunting.' Master of the Handley Cross Hounds, John Jorrocks got so excited at the prospect he danced a jig in Regents Park, his relations concluded he had gone mad and had him committed to a lunatic asylum!

On this day Judy was off about half a mile and gently working a thermal off the Tarmac of the main runway. She had got to about 1500ft (500mtrs) with every sign of going much higher when suddenly she tracked towards me a couple of hundred metres before folding into a vertical teardrop straight at the paving below! Nothing had flown, our covey was still clamped in the fresh drilled soil, it was strange, there was no throw up and Judy was no longer in the air. Scanning with binoculars showed she had settled on the pavement. Swinging the lure produced no response and she just stayed there with no sign of moving. I could have walked to her but instead got into the car and drove to her location, swinging around to come up alongside her.

She was standing on one leg whilst looking into the other foot but there seemed to be nothing visible? Obviously the flight was over and so I dismounted, a pigeon breast in my fist I started to approach but suddenly recoiled as the acrid smell of her prize overwhelmed me - she had caught a weasel. I recognised it instantly recalling the time about thirty years before when I had been so delighted my Gos had caught a stoat! Little did I realise the power of that aroma until I had spent days trying to rid my equipment, my clothes, my hawk, my car and myself of its nauseous pervasiveness. No matter what I tried it simply did not work and in the end I had to replace everything possible whilst vowing to do all I could in future to avoid a recurrence.

Now here I was, years later, with a high flying game hawk who for some reason known only to her had decided that the novelty of this opportunity was just too much to resist! Judy's foot was clenched around a small, tan coloured, furry ball, clearly dead, but still with potential to ruin what had hitherto seemed such an enchanting day. As an imprint Judy was much easier to handle that that passage Gos of years gone by and as she was somewhat intent upon sharing her success with me I at least had the opportunity to take things slowly, wait a little until her lust subsided a degree or two, get her attention with the more attractive meal of a fresh pigeon breast. She was keen to get on the fist, flying to it and landing with one foot, the other still holding her prize and overwhelming me even more with the stench. A female peregrine obviously has little sense of smell even though their taste is sharp enough when offered different foods, Judy seemed entirely unphazed by the circumstance.

She was soon into her meal and as it became awkward for her to feed on one foot she adjusted herself, released her grip on the small body and I was easily  able to ease it over the back of the glove and let it drop to the ground.

A weasel is such a delicate and smartly dressed little animal, attractive to look at but potent in the extreme with its defensive aroma. We walked smartly away leaving it where it had fallen. The following day it had disappeared, cleared up by the crows no doubt, obviously they had little sense of smell either! We drove home with all the car windows wide open, I held the glove out the window in the wind and then  gave Judy a bath on the lawn, also showering her back with the garden hose! In the morning there was still a mild aroma in the mews when I went to the screen perch but by the end of the day it had mostly dissipated.

She never caught another! And now synchronicity takes a hand as I write, Jenny calling me out of the mews " its not every day you see this - there's a weasel on the lawn!" And it was, there outside the conservatory seemingly playing but more likely searching and working out some lingering scent. It was  the first we have seen in the garden in 41 years.

Swallows and our clean car.

All the buttons in us are pushed announcing summer is here with the arrival of our swallows. Some years they turn up in May to build adobe nests in our barn from the mud collected in puddles and the edges of the pond. The last few years they have come earlier during April. Its always thrilling when the first bird arrives and dives straight into the barn to check out last years nests and chatter greetings as he flies around the yard awaiting arrival of his mate. Awesome feelings well up when we stand in admiration after their winter journey to Africa and back, happy at last to greet old friends. 

One of our daily delights before breakfast is as we walk through the summer grass in the paddocks with dogs running and horses galloping through clouds of butterflies when we turn them out from overnight stables to graze, our swallows already skimming between the buttercups and wispy long grass stalks of seed heads, now around our legs and under the horse's belly. Daily routines intimately exploited by these elegant blue coated creatures of delight, they buzz our legs to snatch a flushed insect with unexpected audible thwacks when close enough to hear. Doesn't it hurt their tiny beaks?

Our bedroom, opposite the barn, from dawn is filled with sunlight and the happy sounds of our twittering visitors, so conversational, full of pleasure, joyfully raising broods of young, our early morning music as we come awake slowly drowsing early summer mornings. Usually each year at least one of the growing flock will make a mistake and fly into the house through our open window, needing rescue as it panics itself into clattering against glass panes trying to find an exit. One evening it was a bat whirling between the beams - Jenny dived under the sheets with orders that it had to be caught, no doubt it would have become entangled in her hair? Ever tried catching a bat? They know how to fly and in the end it was a case of opening all windows wide until it happened to find a clear path for its sonar and it was out in the yard again, no doubt feeding its young under the thatch.  

The whole place is busy at breeding time. For a few weeks in Spring background sound starts with my Jerkin calling for my attention long before I am out of bed, sometimes hecking at the early morning visit of muntjack raiding garden tulips and other tender shoots. In his seasonal excitement he often starts at 4.15 giving me concern that neighbours in the village might complain but nobody has. As the season progresses a month or so later the calls of screaming eyasses demanding breakfast from their mother take over but it is the sounds of swallows in their early morning conversations in the barn roof that cheer and unlock the emotions of summer. When the first brood nears fledging there is much excitement and swallow chatter, parents re-nest with excited mating for the new clutch of eggs, a second and sometimes even a third round of breeding. One pair might produce eighteen young to make the journey to Africa.

We often lunch under the parasol in the yard by the barn doors with busy swallows flying in and out, feeding their young. Our weather this year has been consistently warm and pleasant, farmers are delighted with harvest almost completed by the end of July and crop yields 25% increased. It is amazing how many changes agriculture has brought to our countryside. Sadly the village swifts have left early, along with the house martins and we are wondering whether our swallows are to follow on fledging of the second clutches? Unusually the first round youngsters have disappeared when in other years they have helped with feeding the following brood. Its unavoidable to notice that their food supply has gone as familiar insect life has been eliminated not by familiar sprays but by far more efficient seed dressings that change the whole plant. This summer we can drive around the county and come home without one insect having been splatted on the car! Not many years ago it was usual for my car lights to be dimmed by the buildup of dead bodies, the windscreen impossibly smeared but today we have clean lifeless air. Boys used to earn pocket money working at the filling station cleaning windscreens as customers filled up with petrol. We are offered comfort by one scientific research project after another assuring us of the well being of our countryside, of the amazing research projects demonstrating survival of wildlife, somewhere. 

Reality is the food chain is broken, our fields have become the factory politicians and economists dreamed of and all other life is eliminated whilst increased production is not for food but for energy. In Spring I worked my setters in the spring corn and rape as I have done for many years for the pleasure of seeing partridge, pheasants, hares, skylarks and many small birds living in harmony with our agriculture, our farmers known as 'guardians of the countryside'. But this year there were no points, vast acreages devoid of life, not even a pipit did we find. A silent spring.

Meanwhile our Swallows are driven away, in the evenings the sky is empty, screaming families of Swifts no longer thrive in our village, House Martins and  Swallows have no food, and silence prevails at the height of summer.  

Christmas Day

This post has sat in draft in my outbox for four months now so perhaps its time to get it out of the way and move on with the new season. Christmas day has now changed for ever in our memories as my close friend of many years left us.

Following the death of my friend Frank Bond, on Christmas Day, Robert Bagley sent an old photo he had taken on the occasion following Frank being elected president of IAF and my retirement from being Executive Secretary of IAF. As well as our being close friends Frank and I had worked closely together for many years helping others reform and expand the Association. At that time it had seemed to be completion of what we had set out to do, an appropriate time for change. It was for Jenny and I an emotional meeting in France when the President and assembled delegates presented me with a wonderful bronze sculpture as memento for my years of service marking my retirement.

This photo was sent after these intervening years as one of many recalling Franks presidency, following which I wrote:-

Tears on that occasion and now more tears today,
I will miss my friend Frank.
We have spoken with each other most days
By Face Time during this past few weeks
As we approached this inevitable moment,
Recalling our many adventures together
From when life brought us together twenty five years ago.
Each day during these last weeks we have shared my flights,
Often recalling memorable events from years past,
What else do falconers talk about?
And for those minutes life was normal, we were both happy.
However the time had come,
Last weekend he gave his remaining female Gyr to a friend.
The moment shared by the wonder of real time pictures on Face Time
We both knew its significance.
Frank died on Christmas day.
I am grateful for our friendship over many years,
For so much that now lives on in my life,
Even though we can no longer chat about it today.

And then somebody else sent this by Henry Scott Holland.

With passing season now it's Spring, our garden full of flowers, my falcons laying eggs with the promise of new life. Our new foal has arrived three days ago, Frank will not see him even though we talked about the dream of what he might be, his own horses moved on in their lives. The seasons move on relentlessly, new life all around us bringing joy in place of grief. All is well.

Unexpected, Lapse of Attention

All day my team of falcons sat hooded on the screen in the mews as wet and squally weather repeatedly lashed the yard. We had hooded up to weigh everybody after breakfast and hopes of a later flight just kept being delayed by the next gust and darkening sky.

Cloud base at times was no higher than 300 feet scudding towards the south east. After lunch, end of daylight approaching fast and with still no flight the Cockers were anxious to get in the car dog box. With them in place everything just seemed to go on autopilot as I sorted meat for the whole team, fed those no longer flying so near to the end of the season, found Emma a place on the cadge and drove out the yard just to see what might happen?

As we passed the barns there were brilliant flashing lights of welders, the lads both hard at work indoors, out of the harsh weather. A large set of agricultural rollers being repaired in the half light caught my eye and from the gateway to the yard the farmer stepped out into the road, nearly under my wheels, turning his head away from the rain! We exchanged a few dripping wet words before we each were anxious to get on, the rain beating down and windscreen wipers working hard.  The farm track was flooded as the car splashed along, stopping every few yards to scan fields and copses with binoculars. Not much hope of seeing any game in this weather until I neared the small wood where the release pens used to be, several cocks crept along in the dank, dingy light, obviously unconcerned about our arrival. I parked the Explorer on the wet gravel by the new cart shed and steadfastly decided to get ready.

Across the north west skyline the sky lightened although it was still heavy rain with us. It would be a fine judgement to get the hawk in the air before a heavy wind resumed with the passing of the rain clouds and arrival of brighter conditions. We waited about ten minutes as the rain eased a little. Bleep, bleep, bleep as I switched on each telemetry tag and soon had Emma unhooded and on the car roof. She scanned the fields for only a few seconds, roused and took off to disappear over the wood and downwind before coming back over to see where we were.

Still raining, gently now, I set off towards the small pond about three hundred yards upwind with the cockers milling around. Now Emma was about five hundred feet, the cloudbase lifted, still climbing hard and as I watched her Will, the younger Cocker, decided to take this momentary lapse of attention to explore the hedge. Half way to the pond I looked about for the dogs. Where were they? The shrill sound of my dog whistle brought no response as I also became aware there was no sound from above, Emma's ringing bells were no longer in position.

Will has two seasons under his belt now and it has taken until this year for him to become reliable in flushing and following the bird in flight. He is now very familiar with the game and a real partner for the falcon in the air; he watches the flight, is always aware of her position and respectful of her role. But on this occasion my distraction missed an unexpected and unwelcome flush from the far side of the copse. The rain had eased and was gentle, things much more normal but it was time for telemetry, reassuring when it instantly bursts into sound indicating direction and some sense that she is not far off.

The winter wheat is well grown, soaked from the rain it washed my boots as I walked diagonally across the field towards the Victorian hedge,  keeping heavy clay off my feet. Its hard not to make assumptions and when the telemetry tone starts to change, remaining open minded to options is quite difficult. Will and James had returned but I was unsure of what had happened. Crossing a deep ditch, plastering my cords with clay in the process, I struggled up the far bank through brambles and frosted nettles to meet Will at the top staring me in the face to dab my eyebrow with his cold wet nose. "Well where is she them?" I asked him. It seemed like she must be in the ditch somewhere, probably on her kill? Will did not answer and skipped off.

The sound of a bell often carries well alerting my senses to the subtle sounds of nature, a crow calling some way off, a magpie scolding in the nearby hedge. Added to the clues from the bleeping receiver it was just frustrating not to have discovered her nearby  - unexpected, now here she is, she's come looking for me! Skimming over the hedge top and dropping to eye level she just circled closely with a lazy wingbeat. Will looked up as he emerged from the ditch, saw his partner again in the air and set off down the hedge line seeking new quarry.

Good - I wonder what happened? Better get back to it so I turned expecting her to remount in the usual manner as the dogs and I headed back towards the pond. Again through the deep ditch, more mud on my trousers, and out into the soaking wheat but it was obvious she had enough of the outing and would have no more of it. No mounting flight in this unwelcoming weather. As the lure came out of the bag she turned towards me gratefully, picked up as soon as I offered her the fist to take a full crop of wood pigeon by the time we arrived back at the car. Under the raised tailgate, at last out of the rain, we cleaned up, changed the tack, hooded her up by the lights of the car to leave with headlights showing the way home.

Unexpectedly it had been satisfying to fly Emma without seeing any of it! More than likely that Will had flushed and she probably caught a cock. On many occasions she has relaxed too much as she plucked or, just held it too lightly on the ground allowing its recovery for a sudden burst for freedom.

Anyhow, whatever had been her quarry she lost it and was not saved by Will's close attendance to retrieve the errant bird and bring it home to me! On this occasion it didn't happen but we had a flight against all odds and still enjoyed doing it. The relationship between us all brought warm satisfaction as I tied her back on the screen amid the rest of the team sitting with full crops.

Encouragement is not always measured by what is in the bag.

Why do we do it?

Why do we do falconry or any other way of life with animals for that matter?

This week a friend sadly lost his falcon in a tragic accident - something only too familiar to anybody who does. His sincerity in the words he wrote of the incident seem to say it all.

To those on Facebook Simon Higham wrote:

"Thanks all for your kind words, Jimmy was the one constant in my life for the past 3 years, when times were difficult he was never questioning or judgemental, he was the perfect tonic to a stressful life and we each shared a passion to hunt in exquisite style. He just loved to fall from the clouds and I loved to watch him, he opened my eyes to what is achievable and for that and many other things I am grateful to him. I have so many memories of days where he left me in awe at what I had seen and very few where he left me wanting. In a hunting companion I could have asked for no more."

"It's hard to quantify just what a special a falcon means to us, or hard to qualify what exactly makes that hawk special. But if tears on the page of the hawking diary are anything to go by, my late star hawk 'Jimmy Riddlebritches' was very special, at least to me. Done to death by man's destruction of wild habitat once again, he went out in the best style it is possible to show. Bottoming from a 2000ft stoop and with eyes on partridges scudding 200yds ahead he didn't even see the power lines, he hardly made contact but at that speed it was enough to kill him instantly, he never pulled out. I hope he is still stooping now with his eye on his prize."

"Simon Higham thanks everybody for your support, it's comforting to see how many people care about a little hawk that many of you never saw, it really makes me feel good about humankind. It is a long time since I cried over the loss of a hawk but then he was a bit different. Jimmy was a big part of my life for three years and I am very proud of the pinnacle that he reached in Falconry terms, and now I think it fitting that the way he went out was doing what he loved. Isn't it weird how the happiest memories hurt the most? I don't envy the job of his successor, Jimmy set the benchmark pretty high!"

For those who don't share their lives with the natural world it would be hard to grasp the relationships we live within the values of a natural world where love is harsh and sincere. Whether our friends be people or animals their loss in the hurly burly of life takes much coping with. 

Prickles

It's been a good year for apples and our store is overflowing. There are still Bramleys on the tree unaffected by the frost, not dropping till ripe but with the warm autumn many are not storing as well as hoped. The earlier varieties are in danger of going past their best so every day is a challenge in how to consume more! One of my favourites is a baked Bramley filled with sultanas, cloves and a little brown sugar, all smothered in custard of course. Today we had some left over batter in the fridge and lunch was apple fritters with cream and a drizzle of honey. My word what an appetising sight and smell as I carried them into the bright sunny conservatory but what a surprise to look at the weathering lawn to see a hedgehog walking amongst the blocks. The hawks had already been fed but Fleur only lightly nourished and as the prickly waddling ball got within leash length, just as I arrived, she inevitably attacked with some enthusiasm.

Her surprise was immediate with a foot full of prickles and after a couple of attempts to arrest what must be a tasty meal she returned to her block in chagrin, watching the rest of its perambulations with much interest, head upside down at one point presumably to see if there was another angle to it all?

  

About thirty years ago I built a small brick and thatch shed overlooking the lawn where I had attempted to keep a Goshawk. A couple of bales inside and a bow perch outside, she could choose which she preferred, whether to be in shelter or out in the prevailing weather. Yarak is everything of course with a Gos but every time we approached that desirable keen frame of mind and wellbeing I would find her at home, fluffed out feathers, foot up and a huge crop full after she had helped herself to the wandering garden hedgehogs grazing worms and slugs around her home. all that was left was a few spines, mot seemed to have been swallowed with no adverse effects. The whole idea simply did not work out.

Seeing Fleur so fascinated brought it all back to mind. The Gos-house still stands on the edge of the weathering lawn although I tiled it a few years ago when the thatch gave out but of late I have been wondering about a Gos and how an outdoor way of life might be recreated.

The apple fritters made with ripe desert apples made a delightful lunch, the dogs most disgruntled that they did not have even a small share. 

The following day our friend Spiny was back having learned that around the blocks small pieces of discarded meat and bone are available.

My tiercel Blue must have seen it all before since after an initial glance he studiously ignored the interloper at the foot of his block. After an hour or so chewing on the end of a chicken drumstick it shuffled off into the adjacent flowerbed, out of the chill north wind to enjoy the warmth of winter sunshine and some windfall apples. Recent gales have built piles of leaves under the Leylandii hedge where the family can find ample bedding for winter hibernation, even for these half grown young.  It was after last light, in the first dark of night a few months ago that Jenny had called excitedly to me to see something unique? On her way through the garden after shutting up chickens her torch had happened upon a pair of mating hedgehogs beside the trunk of the large Ash tree. It certainly was pretty unique to see, surprisingly noisy and rather frenzied it seemed with all those prickles to negotiate. But it must have worked as this half grown youngster now shows. 

What are friends for?

A couple of days ago I was all ready to go hawking, hawks hooded, dogs in the car, all the equipment ready to drive out the gate in rain and a stiff breeze. It would be challenging conditions to make a flight worthwhile.

The phone rang and Jenny answered to find my friend asking for me. There was no rush so I took the call and after some time chatting about the flights of the past few days, news of friends and general speculation I said I was going to hang up and go hawking. "In this weather" said my friend, "the forecast for tomorrow is sunshine and windless, why don't you postpone?"

So I came into the house, checked our local forecast since he is a little way from me, nearer the coast so that often our conditions are quite different. But on his occasion he was right, my timetable was rapidly redrawn, hawks on the lawn for a while, dogs disappointed and new chores to be done instead.

What a good idea it turned out to be as the following day dawned clear blue sky following overnight rain, autumnal chilled stillness and perfect flying conditions. 

Once again we loaded up, hawks, dogs, equipment and set off. It was entirely with thanks to the suggestion of my friend that I found myself with Emma waiting on as a twinkling speck at an enormous pitch as the cockers flushed two pheasants from the long grass and scrubby brambles. Emma's approaching presence was announced by the sound of ripping canvas from her enormous stoop. A classic game hawking experience savored as we watched her plume her prize, all regaining our breath.  It had been quite the most satisfying flight of this season so far! The day then made all the more surprising when this was followed by her sister Fleur giving a repeat performance. 

What had been a brilliant day in Norfolk ended with a delightful sunset, the more appreciated as I reflected on how blessed we can be by the consideration of good friends.

Death of a friend

Jenny and I are much saddened in hearing that Vic Hardaswick has died, a man who did so much for falconry over many years. 

It was with his partner Don Hunter that I first saw what accomplished Gyrs can do in falconry when handled with understanding and sympathetic management. Don showed us a Jerkin waiting on as a twinkling speck with concentration, loyalty and aerial style in mastery of any quarry, awesome to see from a creature of such charismatic beauty and presence. I was captivated when twenty five years ago captive breeding of hawks was quite new and it was Vic who bred and imprinted my first Jerkin. 

When the Jerkin came to me in England he never disappointed either in the field or as a charming character in home life and the breeding chamber. Over following years Gyrfalcons were constant members of our team, their humour and unmatchable flying ability often combined to amuse and astound, demanding attention in our relationships emotionally draining and fulfilling far beyond other aspects of our art.
Clearly Vic put so much into his falcons and my Jerkin showed me just how accomplished he was as somebody trusted in his creations. By his individual talent Vic contributed much to my falconry in subsequent years for which I will always be grateful. 

It was my good fortune to have known such a fine man. I feel loss of a friend tonight whilst appreciative that all of falconry is much indebted for his contribution in many ways over many years. All falconers have much to celebrate in his being and all are the poorer for his passing. 

Thank you Vic, even though you have left us you are still giving me pleasure today, there is still a Jerkin amusing us in my team.

Off to do life now.

As the day approaches for pups to go to their new homes everything gets a little tense, not least because the moment of choice arises when we have to finally commit to one of the litter. It's not easy to select one over another other than by sex of course. When we used to be a little more commercial about it all and sold the whole litter we only had to concern ourselves with making sure clients were satisfied and no mishaps occurred before collection. Today we breed less often as we are really only producing a litter to retain a youngster for ourselves to follow on and keep the line going. Its quite amazing just how complicated that process gets since to have a trained and reliable dog at any given time means in our case that we usually have several dogs, a youngster for three years being trained, one or two that are field trialing with Steve, a mature dog to work with hawks and who will also produce the next generation, and then one or two pensioners.

Our 'pack' is a constant delight but choosing the new addition seems to become increasingly difficult as the years go by. Maybe it's experience that introduces more and more things to be considered which in the early days blissful ignorance hid from awareness.

Modern food and maintenance seems to make all the pups fairly even and breeding seems to have eliminated many of the physical problems so that today choice mostly comes down to character. Many hours of observation over the eight weeks of rearing and weaning is the secret but even then it always seems like a risk in the end.

Somebody once said to me that a fishing rod and a pigeons wing helps, somehow it stuck and is now one of the routines that we do in the last week when we take the litter around the paddocks with the spaniels. This year our recent trip to the moors provided a more appropriate grouse wing, they all enjoyed it from the first appearance and it never seems less enjoyable to have a whole litter on point!

Steve arrived on time soon after breakfast and took four of the pups north to their new homes leaving us with just one bitch who was a little surprised to find herself sitting alone on the bales in the kennel wondering where the rest had gone? But all reports have been good - Ken sent a message to say he arrived home in the Isle of Man and was sitting reading 'The Field' with his pup asleep on his lap feeling 'heaven' had arrived.

Shades of Red

As I was picking my breakfast tomato the rising sun blinded me from the east and from that direction my friend in Moscow came to mind! Perhaps he is already flying his sparrowhawk around his garden? The mailman brought me 'Orientations' and 'Adriaan Mollen', books he had thoughtfully sent me.

In recent correspondence with my friend I had reflected that having been Executive Secretary of IAF for many years I have watched its evolution and growth with much satisfaction.

For many years I was Editor for the British Falconers' Club, first in creating their upgraded Newsletter (controversially introducing advertising and sales) and then the 'Falconer', the club's annual journal. It was all very interesting and great fun, a good preparation for my term as BFC President during which we produced a very large book, free to all members. During this period publishing became available to everybody as technology rapidly evolved.

It is rather sobering to recall that I was first a member of BFC in 1967! A very long apprenticeship in the world of falconry politics, hand in hand with my career in the creation of airfield commercial bird control and industrial bird control I have long appreciated the niceties of differentiation between the art of falconry and the world of commercial raptor use, very hot topics whenever the subject is raised!

When a group of us first got together in the 90's to restructure IAF and move it forward with Christian de Coune then at the helm, onto the path that has today resulted in this vibrant organisation, such things as the recent recognition by UNESCO of the 'Intangible Cultural Heritage of Falconry' were a distant dream. It has been a long journey, attending many conferences, dealing with governments, clubs and individuals from all walks of life, encouraging harmony and optimism. At times hard to resist the inevitable challengers and special interest group agendas it is wonderful to see IAF's integrity enhanced and in tact with its unique credibility in so many areas worldwide.

Last weekend we shot grouse over our setters on East Allenheads in glorious weather, it could not have been more enjoyable. I was watching the sire of my current litter of pups working the beautifully managed heather, still with honey bees working the few remaining blossoms for them to fill the hives lined up in the shelter of the dry stone wall.

Brochan was on the highest part of the moor with a magnificent view across to Muggleswick and Wemmergill, all so refreshing in the crisper northern air after the mildness and almost Mediterranean climate of Norfolk. We lunched in the heather with a few brace in the bag and Andy Ellis speculating about the wolf spider crossing his boot.

Our litter of pups have grown apace and now past the cuddly stage they are starting to become real fun. Each day we now load them all into a kennel and barrow them out to the paddocks, avoiding the distractions of the setters in the yard, and with the cockers to lead and respond to the whistle, their first explorations of this wider world can start. They will soon pick it all up and already it's an adventure looked forward to each day.

Next week sees the official start of the pheasant season when my Peregrines can really start their business. Three of the team have now fitness enough to be high flyers and the fourth is nearly there, I wonder where the pheasants are hiding? They keep eating the wheat I distribute and ducks are coming to the ponds - my farming friend has finished his sowing for another year, the fields become tranquil again but it takes a while for confidence to return. What a wonderful way of life blessed by autumn mists and dew, mushrooms litter the paddock, brilliant afternoon sunshine with long shadows across the lawn reaching for the concrete yard, late afternoon pink glow shining through the open door deep into the mews making the hawks magical with colour on the screen before evening. Some call it an Indian summer but no, it's just Norfolk!

Of Bikes and Mowers

Most days I take a ride around our village on my bicycle. There is something very intimate about a bike that puts me in contact with my environment, sensations that are lost in a car. It's a great way to stay in contact with what is happening in the community, to notice as the seasons change, gardens bloom, lawns are cut. Wildlife seems to accept me on my bike just as it does when on a horse, not so on foot.

Friends who visit often smile as they see me using my bike around the garden but its surprising just how far one has to travel in even a confined area, putting hawks out to weather, feeding poultry, doing stables, checking the paddocks, it all adds up to several miles each day and many years ago I learned that its a great saving on the legs to use my bike. In my experience bikes are like mowers, one ends up with a fleet in which each model has a different job to do. A look in my barn shows we currently have five different mowers, each with a particular role - we fitted a new engine and renovated the 50 years old Ransomes Auto Certes, it is a great delight as it makes the wonderful stripes of a well mown lawn and should now last another 50 years, an old Hayter rotary mower for the rough stuff, a newer JCB rotary for the more civilised areas, a big ride on for the large areas, and then a tractor mounted topper for the paddocks.

I have often wondered just why I find bikes so familiar and reflect on years of their use. When I was at school I did an early morning newspaper round on a very worn out old frame to earn money and buy my first 'proper bike'. At preparatory school my morning journey took me by bus into town followed by a walk of about a mile through the town past an old fashioned bike shop, dank and dusty with that unique smell of rubber and oil familiar to any bike shop. It was a small shop owned by a local biking enthusiast and in those days, not long after the war in the 1950's, when money was short and people were used to making do, there was little stock, the arrival of a new model for sale was quite an event. A Holdsworth, Dawes or Raleigh was something to be inspected and drooled over, feeding a young boys dreams.

Then when I moved to senior school there was another longer walk through Colchester town centre to get to the Grammar School on the other side of town from the bus terminal, again past another, better, more extensive bike shop. At senior school there were of course bike sheds to house a couple of hundred bikes of pupils who rode to school, for some of the boys bikes became a passion. Cycling was not just a sport or pastime it was a necessity for most people and for many it became an absorbing hobby as well.

In later life it seemed second nature to carry on. My old bike was still with me when we were married but the temptation and dream of the bike shop window became possible at last. I bought a duo of Claud Butlers, one for me and one for Jenny, nearly forty years ago now and they still delight me. Today my favourite bike still lives in my barn to take me on my frequent rides around the village. In subsequent years we accumulated a couple more, a mountain bike to cope with the garden and fields, then another that had some suspension but it soon broke and now hangs from the rafters awaiting repair. There is seemingly always something in the barn being renovated.

As we have aged the sport has become more interesting and now with satellite TV we can watch the big European tours all summer - how wonderful that in this era our British cyclists have won the most famous race, the 'Tour de France', two years running. The Giro d'Italia, opens the season and the Spanish Vuelta is near the close at the end of summer, we have just watched its finish and autumn is now here, hawks are on the lawn. Funny, mowers never seemed to get a sporty side but the seemingly ageless technology seems to hold a fascination of its own. Most women don't seem to get that somehow?

Peach Peregrine

Many years ago when I was a small boy the early TV gardening program on BBC was called Gardeners World and Percy Thrower had the whole viewing audience amazed as he was able for the first time to show people gardening ideas from his lifetime's experience. Almost another universe from today's slick shows but it brought a world of wonder and exotica to the average person.

John Wayne in one of his many westerns shared his cowboy's love for canned peaches which he intended to satisfy when he got off the trail, a love which I have shared for more than half a century now. When Percy Thrower planted a peach tree against a sheltered brick wall I was enthralled to think we could actually grow them in this country. The variety he healed into the soft loam was 'Peach Peregrine', quite the best variety available he assured us and the fireworks exploded in my mind, another variety of Peregrine! What could be better?

A few years ago I happened upon the framework for a large Poly-tunnel and with the help of some visiting Belgian and Greek falconers collecting a tiercel we erected it unexpectedly on the spur of the moment to the south side of the barn in a sheltered position. It became an amazing addition to our life and in the first autumn the local garden centre had some bare rooted fruit trees on offer, low and behold there was Peach Peregrine!

To say that it has thrived would in no way describe the immense joy it brings. From the early flowers in February, protected in the sheltered environment of our poly-tunnel we hand pollinate with the aid of a peregrine's primary, what else? Through until late July and August when the fruit ripen it has been a constant source for optimism. Last month we held an evening BBQ for local falconers and friends, what better opportunity to use some of the abundant fruit. Jenny cooked them and in a bowl of cinnamon juice, with added cream and ice cream what could be better for a group of Longwingers, peach Peregrine desert!

Send the Cavalry

I had been in the poly-tunnel and picked a large beefsteak tomato which was fried with basil in olive oil for my breakfast and whilst enjoying the flavour I thought about a message from the eo-sphere. One of my Iberian friends, a member of our small hawking club, sent a message challenging we British with his comments about 'Spanish Gibraltar' and wondering whether we might send the Royal Navy to deal with him although he lives in Madrid! Reconsidering he then suggests we send Bengal Lancers instead?

Strange this should be mentioned since only last month Jenny and I were with the Household Cavalry at their summer camp near our home here in Norfolk, their camp being in the grounds of what was Elveden estate, the decamped home of the Champagne Hawking Club during the Franco Prussian War.

As secretary of our ressurected version of the Champagne Hawking Club I am ever attentive to members concerns and noted that British Gibraltar was barely on the radar at the time of our visit to the cavalry but during briefing and contingency planning sessions we have little doubt it was of course included, although I must admit that I doubt Madrid was mentioned......during tent pegging and pig sticking exercises we saw clearly that skills with the lance and sword have not been lost although perhaps I should make enquiries to ensure that our Iberian club member is given special consideration, troops being made aware of his extensive experience with the sword in the bullring! Of course it might also be of some value that one of our UK members has now considerable experience of horsemanship in his tailor made suit of armour equipping him for the many jousting competitions he has undertaken. With cavalry backup surely there would be no match and Spanish pretences about a land grab easily routed.

Recently pups have arrived here at home and now they start to be amusing as they take their first steps and their first dishes of milk. It can take a while for them to learn that it is not for swimming but once they have licked themselves dry and got the taste they soon come running to the recall whistle which Jenny blows at mealtimes. We have done this for many years with the result that training is half done at weaning, the pup imprinted with the sound of the whistle. It's  just a small step to add the stop whistle so that the often seen period of chaos and loss of control in young pups can be avoided.

About a year ago we moved the dog kennel to a different stable in the yard when the last of our stallions died at the age of twenty three, his box became vacant. A better location for the dogs in a sheltered corner and more involved in general household activity their boredom was changed to relaxed loafing watching events from the concrete bench in the run. Now with the approach of weaning kennel space is required for the bitch who leaves the whelping room having come home to live out the rest of her life after the completion of her field trialling career and this her last litter. A fresh coat of white paint and shiny black tar splash band around the bottom of the walls makes it all gleaming black and white, a pleasure to see and somehow makes the dogs seem much more desirable. The new galvanised pen sections arrive on Monday and it will all be up and running, ready for our new pup to take her place in the pack and Ember to start her new career with the falcons.

These days we only breed our dogs when we want a follower in the team. So every three or four years is quite enough and something to look forward to, and now our new pup has arrived. Meanwhile our politicians seem to get ever more in a muddle - going to war with Syria is voted out so now we have to wonder whether British/Spanish Gibraltar might be jacked higher up the ladder to take everybody's mind off the austerity! Perhaps the Argentinians might be asked to mediate?