Gyrfalcons in a puddle

I found a group of Gyrfalcons in my paper as the puddle dried!

Irish Setters

Irish  setters have come to me over the past few  years through  a series of coincidences, establishing our 'Tiqun'  family which has been a most wonderful experience. It has been my privilege to own many good dogs,  some  even achieved notoriety either on the  shooting field, in field trials  or for their charm in the hawking party. Heidi was  a  German Shorthaired Pointer who could not help her German background but  did  her very  best  in every way to be beyond reproach;  she  rarely broke  wind,  at  least in company, and used her  large  nose with  the greatest sensitivity. From Goshawks to  Peregrines she  soon  learned  the nuances of the game and  was  relied upon  often when other dogs disappointed their owners  expectation.  For many years Jemima was her flushing companion,  a black  cocker spaniel gifted by John Bell-Irving in a rather too  well  lubricated, merry moment of generosity. His impetuosity proved  fortunate for him in the end since he later lost the whole family of his dogs under the ice in Scotland and Jamie was able to restore Cockers to his pack with a litter of pups late in her life.

Setters  were  perhaps  the greatest  pleasure  of the pointing breeds and  the Irish  reds stole our hearts early in my career when Trudy joined  the pack of odds and strays. She was simply stunning but never easy as I didn’t really understand the character of the breed at that time.

Many years later on 25  January  1990 it was Jenny’s birthday and  also  the day  that  we drove in a gale to London Gatwick  airport.  I was leaving England to fly to Albuquerque with all sorts of dreams and hopes. A severe gale countrywide when we had boarded the aircraft it was alarming to watch activity outside.  Large baggage containers were being blown around  like paper  bags  as  the aircraft itself  rocked  severely even at the terminal gate.  Our scheduled  take-off time came and went; we just  sat through  four  hours  waiting before unexpectedly a voice  on  the intercom  apologised  for delay  and  said  we  were taxiing out to the runway. All the passengers looked skeptically at each other  fully expecting to unload rather than take to the air.

A  small  aircraft  lay at a strange angle  and  still things were blowing around as we rolled along, lurching here and there in the gusts of wind. We stopped on the end of the runway in takeoff position and again just waited. It was the last  shoot of the pheasant season at home and I was thinking  about my friends  out  there  in this weather - fast birds,  they  would never  have seen birds at this speed and I wondered just who had managed to shoot any at all?

About  a quarter of an hour we sat there with the whole aircraft  rocking  about  as  the gale  raged  outside  when suddenly the engines revved up, the brakes came off  we  were  alarmingly accelerating down the runway. Nobody said anything but  the  fear amongst  my  fellow  passengers could be  scented, white knuckles gripping the armrest as  the plane  lifted  off the tarmac with a sudden jerk instead of the smoothness  we were  all  accustomed to. Like a roller coaster  ride it  climbed rapidly  in leaps and bounds, this huge DC10 as it met  the tumbling  air  head  on until that moment when  the  engines throttle  back  and  takeoff  changes to  cruising.  We  had climbed  quicker and higher than usual until we were now  above the  clouds - at around 15000 feet the voice came over the sound system  'Sorry  about that, maybe I shouldn't have gone  for it?’ the captain himself sounded relieved. Then  there was silence for a few minutes before  he returned  and assumed a calmer tone to tell us that all  was well  and  the  flight was to proceed as normal,  if  rather late.

Unknown to me this  was also a shooting day in Ireland as we flew in  the  afternoon on our  way  out  over  the Atlantic.  Irish friends who are so enthusiastic  for  their dogs  and  horses, passionate in a way that bridges  a gulf between us that  we ‘cold’ English  find hard  to  come  to terms with. As a nation for many years the British have  just  had  to manage  the  'Irish question' when they have shot  and  bombed each  other  year  after year.

We passed just  to the south  of Greenland  and Davis straits from where Newcombe had obtained Gyr falcons for the Old Hawking club and had flown them at the herons  from Diddlington in the sky above my trout river  at Cranwich in Norfolk.  The spectacular view was bathed in winter sunshine. A frozen snowscape reflecting electrified colours in the afternoon light. Green glaciers flowing from vast snowfields down into the chilled sea of Cerulian Blue. Dick Bagnal-Oakley had once gifted me a pure white stuffed Jerkin, one of the hawks of the Old Hawking Club and labelled ‘Davis Staits’ on the bottom of the case. Now here I was flying over that very scene. Today the  land in Norfolk where these hawks were flown is all  forested  since  people considered  the Breckland sandy soil worthless as open heath and they planted trees .  Over the last fifty  years the Forestry Commission have created to biggest forest in  Europe - no longer  can we see the coast from High Ash or fly the falcons out of the hood although we do manage to wait on for pheasants flushed from WW II bomb craters. With trees came deer and now I often sit and dream of Gyrs past whilst in a high  seat  in Hockham, Diddlington or Cranwich just as  the hawking  party  used to sit and wait in Cranwich  High  barn for the herons to fly up from the fen to their nests with that unique aroma.

Our plane ride was not an uneventful flight! As we were approaching the North American continent the  voice came  on  again to say that as a consequence of the storm we had experienced such a strong head-wind  we had  run  out of fuel. Late in an arctic afternoon  we  flew low  over  the  snow covered brush and  small  frozen  lakes where  animal  tracks  could be seen as a  tracery  of  gold rivulets  in  the  snow  across the ice, the  watery  winter sun of the high north reflecting  back  at  us. We were landing in  Ganda,  a  cold deserted  place  where we were obviously a novelty  observed by  the  few  locals looking out from  their  air  conditioned warmth  of  the  terminal buildings.  Trucks stood  deserted  on  the taxiways,  motors constantly running to cope  with  the intense  cold,  wisps  of exhaust  gas  drifting in the icy air. One of the officers briefly left the aircraft to file new flight plans but he did not linger long outside, being poorly clothed for this unexpected climate.

We  flew  down  the east coast to New York  later  than expected  and  found ourselves circling Kennedy  airport  in the  stack  for  more than an hour. The voice  spoke  again 'Sorry  about this but we have been diverted to Washington.' Nothing about this flight seemed to be working out. Late  that  night  in  the   Hyatt  hotel, Washington by courtesy of  American  Airlines hospitality  we were to see pictures on the TV of the  plane below  us  in  the  New  York stack. It had crashed on approach killing  its  passengers  and crew!  This was no uneventful day.

John  Nash  was  an Irishman, the charismatic owner  who created  the  Moanruad (pronounced Monroe) kennel  of  Irish Setters,  he  was 'Mr Irish Setter' to all who had seen  the photograph  in  which  he  stands  smiling  with  five  dogs leashed  in  each  hand,  everyone  a  current  Field  Trial Champion  owned  and  bred by him, an amazing  total  of  43 Field  Trial Champions in his life. On this day that I flew to America and in  this gale  he  was  out  with friends handling his  dogs  for a shooting party in  his beloved  Ireland. It was the gale of the century all over western Europe and its first  landfall was in Ireland. The party apparently  passed under  a large old tree when it cracked, one of its huge old limbs  broke  and  fell. John Nash was killed by that  branch in that gale and the world of working dogs lost a treasure.

Jo-Jo  had  been his latest excitement and of  all  the dogs  he had bred he had told Isobel that he felt this one to be one of the special few. After the storm Joey had  suddenly lost his  master  and  Isobel’s kennel  in  Norfolk  was his rescue home. But life  was  not easy  for  Joey and he could not settle to life without  Jack,  he  pined for what he had lost, he became thin  and nervous  but  still enjoyed the fields and the work. We met soon  after  I returned from America, some dreams  shattered others  fulfilled, some dreams just starting afresh.  My  team  of  dogs  was  now  depleted, Feather  having died in the Rio Puerco with the scent of her last  green  winged  teal  under her nose,  killed  by  Jim’s tiercel  after being found and flushed by her. Now I needed more  setters  and  had happened upon Isobel and  her  happy team of setters to stimulate a new dream from old memories of our beloved Trudy.

Joey  went  to  Scotland for the grouse in  August  and worked  well  for  the  walking  guns  until  he  was  badly frightened  by a fool who just did not know dogs and how  to behave.  By  this time Isobel decided that perhaps he  would be  more  happy with a man again as his working partner  and so  he  came  to live at Sneath Farm. Isobel had moved to Yorkshire that summer and it was by a telephone call on the spur of the moment that she had let me know of her decision. I drove up to the moors early the  next morning. As Joey got into the van he laid down in the back and  breathed an audible sigh. Isobel remarked it seemed like relief  and he just  went  to sleep. A four hour  drive  home normally  seemed  a  long  haul but on this occasion magical Irish music seemed  to  fill the  atmosphere,  people laughing and talking - the  journey seemed  just  a moment somehow. Joey never looked back from that moment and together we had many adventures.

"How sane are we?"

I once wrote about some thoughts which inspired somebody to quote me in full whilst he was asking "How Sane Are We?" In the Editorial of the International Journal of Falconry - Spring 2009, I had written:

"Patrick Morel and I have lately shared in an ongoing conversation about our motivation in falconry, much like most of our members do in their local pub, wine bar, BBQ and social event.

Like Patrick I too lost interest in shooting many years ago and gave it up until a few years later when I realized that it was not about my ability to be a good shot but was about being a way of life experience creating enjoyable sensations I could not experience any other way. One certainly does not remember many shots but there are the few magical ones that really mean so much –  also the sight of a woodcock flying through the wood, a green woodpecker calling as it escapes the beaters, my dog making a superb retrieve, my cleaning the gun with the smell of cordite and oil all touch something deep inside. Falconry equipment and paintbrushes litter the tables and maybe annoy my wife but for me are so inspiring.

It has been the same with my falconry. I gave it up twice, years ago, as I became disillusioned with experiences from what I was doing. But I missed the hawks on the lawn more than anything and noticed that the triggers they provided for my moment to moment thoughts were missing - I found myself struggling to run my life. – everything I see is understood through my falconry, every moment of every day is clarified by what my falconry is doing. Daily routines of managing my falconry as my way of life create my way of acting, my relationships, enjoyment or misery. Over my lifetime I came to realize that my world comes to me through my falconry

The Sparrowhawk that flies through the yard as I walk out the door confirms to me my authenticity somehow, the wild passage Peregrine that was waiting for me on my airfield this week and who gave me the perfect flight at a wood-pigeon seemed to link my own hawk to her natural world as she flew in the following minutes under the same sky, in the same air.

My desire for weather and artistic flight confirms my being and provides me with context which previously, without falconry, I missed. My just doing it as my routines in action creates me as it creates its own flight, as each flight is its own unforeseen surrender to creation and a magical experience in my chosen daily routine.

Today I have flown three falcons – two went quite well for where they are at in their lives, green plover passed over us at a great height arriving for the new breeding season. Continuity is the thread of life in my falcons and dogs in the world around us and around which I weave my life – my life given me by my falconry, providing joyful experience for my falcons in every aspect of their lives. As I now visit them on their screen perch for the night we talk, each with pictures in ourselves of what life has been and will be – it’s enough, so long as I maintain focus on my own being and its way of life. Greater still when several lives can come together in experiences of a shared dream of a field meet as we did recently in Sezanne, attraction was created bringing unforeseeable fulfillment in so many enjoyable sensations, now added to memories that live forever somehow. Enjoy your falconry."

Magic of Scent

Setter, Peregrine falcon and falconer,

Team in the field as light is fading,

Pheasants leave the woods to feed.

Bahri skimming the ground

Flying as hard as she can,

Ahead by some two hundred yards

Determined in her own mind.

Climbing away over the Hall

Before turning, still hard in her pace

To the dying light of the western horizon.

Frost is heavy on fields cold white,

Ice hanging long dead grass.

Blaze running hard in work

Her solid point melts.

The falcon ever higher

Wings beating thin crisp air

The quarry runs

Under this frightening silhouette.

Not to get anxious,

Recognise the urgency of serving,

Waiting for the Setter doing her part.

Quartering the ground searching

Chill air for the magic of scent,

For the trail of a running pheasant.

She has it again 'Good girl',

It has soon moved on.

Again the point frozen

Like the scene around.

A splintering cloud of ice.

Confidence coalesces in flushing pheasant

Mystical being of another world.

Passing close over my head,

Thrilling moment of action

The falcon rolls into her stoop

Falling teardrop in fulfillment of being.

Tough late season cock pheasant

In peak of condition

Beating hard on stiff wings

For the safety of trees.

In awesome inevitability,

Bahri explodes feathers,

In a gently floating cloud.

The cock falls

Into the icy green of winter corn.

Tight turn losing speed,

Talons grasping in thrilling enthusiasm,

Slashing spurs against sure footing.

Old year ends in shining wonder,

In awesome style under the evening star.

Of Black Falcons and Heat

My friend asked for my memories of Black falcons 40 years ago when we trapped a few in the outback of Australia, way beyond the tarmac west of Windorah in the prickling midday heat among clouds of flies. Where  the black falcon chooses to rest, is in full sun, laying on bare dusty ground of clay pans, slightly cooled, a constant slight breeze of air being sucked into a vortex as birth of a thermal known locally as a 'wee Willy'. Shade in our camp a real luxury after riding our Land Rover with no air conditioning and a blast furnace draft through the open ventilator, a place where temperatures were more extreme that I had ever believed possible. That a local falcon should be jet black along with large flocks of local Black Cockatoos squabbling in the water of slowly rusting cattle troughs is a fascinating result of evolutionary logic.

Peregrine Virus

In the summer a couple of years ago I was given a seven year old imprint tiercel from Switzerland that was very nearly dead, it's feathers looked bleached and brittle with almost no markings and very pale grey. Its moulted feathers were stunted and shorter than the older ones. It's mutes were splashy and had large amounts of red fleshy material in them. He would cast his crop frequently, flick his food about, was too weak to fly, eyes were slitty and his feet/ nares very pale cream. He weighed 520 grams.

I sent four sets of mute samples to Forbes with no result. Initially I wormed him with Appertex, Spartacon and then Panacur. There was little improvement but he was alive. I noticed that when fed chicks or quail the red fleshy stuff (which I later learned was gut lining) was abundant in his mutes, when I fed him other meat it was not and mutes were slightly better.

I recalled Nick Wilkinson's discussions about Merlins and cocci dosing with Appertex and so started a new regime. No chicks, no quail and a new diet of chicken legs from Sainsburys (they don't like Tescos!) racing pigeons, steel shot wood pigeons, hare, rabbit, ox heart, venison, moorhens, partridge, pheasant. At the same time I gave him one Appertex tablet per day for four days, fourteen day break, repeat one Appertex per day for four days - then each time he showed any symptom I gave him another course of Appertex - this went on for a few weeks and I decided to fly him for exercise. At first he could not do 50 yards and after about two weeks he managed a couple of circuits at about five feet off the ground. After a couple of months he could do several circuits up to about 100ft at best. After six months his weight was still increasing and he was up to about 650 grams and doing about 300 ft. After 18 months he weighed 710 grams and was waiting on normally at about 800 ft but was not bothered about killing. Reducing his weight to about 680 changed his attitude but he became too keen and only waited on at about 600.

During all this time he was redosed with Appertex and then Coxitabs which replaced Appertex each time he showed any sign of change in behaviour, attitude, mutes.

Today he is back to being normal, has moulted perfectly and today has a large scrape in the nest and is almost ready to donate semen voluntarily! No symptoms and still no chicks or quail.

I forgot to mention another female peregrine who seemed prematurely ageing and with similar sensitivity to chicks and quail. In all I decided to apply this regime to eight peregrines and a jerkin.

The main point that has struck me in my experience over the past year, apart from the cure it has provided to this tiercel and female, is the effect this regime has on healthy fit birds, hawks that are flying well and appear in good health. The effect was so dramatic that I am still shocked. Female peregrines that had been flying very well at 1020 grams who after dosing and changed diet raised their weights to 1120+ and performance with increased pitch, waiting on with unceasing dynamic flight, no loafing or soaring, for anything up to an hour! I have a tiercel who had never been over 735 grams in his life but who then went up to 850!!! Admittedly he was just fat but I did then fly him well at about 800.

Something is happening. As well as the medication the change of diet with exclusion of chick and quail seems very significant to me. It has transformed eight peregrines and a jerkin, two of the peregrines facing certain death. Some friends of mine have tried it and report similar transformations in otherwise normal flying birds.

My Friend Jim

​In modern falconry we have devised many techniques to exercise our falcons and encourage them to use the sky, one of which is to suspend today's meal underneath a kite so that they have to climb hard with lots of exercise for their reward. 

My friend Jim recalled a story of his Jerkin who was unexpectedly presented with an unsecured quail from his kite release mechanism. Jim had devised a parachute mechanism so that his falcon can be free of the kite line when it collects it's reward but restrained by a drogue chute. On this occasion the whole mechanism unexpectedly detached from the intended meal and the Jerkin found himself in a novel situation with his quail in his talons and no restraint! What Was to be done with the open sky of Idaho to be searched to find his familiar dinner table? 

Usual caution when flying a Gyr is to ensure a full tank of petrol but what should be the reaction of the falconer in this unintended circumstance? For Jim it was none other than to realise that inevitably the Jerkin  would be back in a while when he finally remembered Jim would be waiting. It took a while but after about fifteen minutes, with much chupping, the Jerkin arrived overhead - out came the lure and in a spiralling descent the Gyr landed beside where Jim had placed it carefully on the ground. The Jerkin still had the quail untouched and unplucked in his foot; he hobbled to the lure, placed his meal carefully on his familiar dinner plate, arranged it to his liking and then took off for another fly around.

With amazing presence of mind and 'sang froid' Jim calmly tied the quail on the lure and without any option he waited for some time - sure enough the Jerkin returned after quite a few minutes. With much discussion this Jerkin settled down to pluck and eat his meal whilst still telling Jim all about his new adventure in garbled tones amongst each mouthful of feathers and meat. 

Jim put it so well when he observes a Gyr is just something else in the falconry experience, demanding a whole new mindset to read his actions and remain in harmony with the spirit of the day’s events. So easy would it be to set one’s goals and find confrontation where understanding and cooperation is the essence of need. 

In one of my Editorials I outlined a need for an understanding and appreciation for where our falcons are in their own minds when we choose today’s action that will be falconry for us. This stimulated some comment that it is also an important perspective to remember where we are in the falconry arrow of time with our individual creative action in the art that is falconry. In Greenland somebody took a bore sample from a historic Gyrfalcon nest site which showed that it had been occupied for more than 2500 years, from the time before Christ and before the Romans, of course remembering that the whole of the period of life on earth has taken less than a tenth of one percent of the earth's existence. 

Falconry becomes truly an artistic creative event in an ongoing meaningful process - as my fourth season female Peregrine Emma waits on above James, my working Cocker, in the same sky above the same landscape in which Henry VIII flew his falcons, an appreciation of this event in its own moment is of wonder and somehow enabling.