The Kingfisher's Return 11th June 2022

Some years ago I and many others could enjoy the sight of a Kingfisher that would come to fish very close to a hide by the River Thames, near to my home in Oxfordshire. Sadly the bird's visits ceased and the hide reverted to its usual unpopulated self, no longer entertaining a constant passage of birders, photographers and anyone else wishing to see such a lovely creature.

This summer a Kingfisher has returned to the self same location, a quiet pool that is hidden from humanity by reeds and bushes, and there it fishes from a post especially placed in the shallow water overlooked by the hide. 

The Kingfisher is a young bird, not long fledged from its nest hole and can be told by its brown rather than wax red feet, fresh plumage and a pale tip to its bill. The pool it frequents is ideal as it is not visited by its fiercely territorial parents who will be busy rearing another brood and certain to be hostile if they encountered the young Kingfisher. Half of all young Kingfishers die in the first two weeks of their life due to their inexperience in fishing and finding enough food, hence adult birds have up to three broods a year, so this individual is doing well to survive so far, mainly on a diet of water beetles and young newts that inhabit the pool.

I entered the hide on an afternoon of summer warmth, the old planks of the ancient hide having absorbed the heat to create a sultry, soporific atmosphere inside, the smell of the sun infused wood not at all unpleasant. I had the hide to myself and opened the viewing slats wide to allow what breeze there was to circulate.

 

Commandeering one of the hard wooden benches I sat and pondered. All was still. Some words from the famous poem 'Adlestrop' by Edward Thomas came to mind - 'no one left and no one came'

Outside little moved on the pool apart from dragonflies, which cruised in  erratic and constant fuss over the shallow water, sometimes settling to cling to the thinnest of the reed stems and sun themselves but never remaining long, the urge to investigate precipitating them back into flight. Dragonflies are an insect from science fiction, terrifyingly alien in their primitive beauty, having arisen from under the waters they have lived in as larvae, to cruise the aquatic surroundings above, in the brief final stage of their lives.

An hour passed dreamily with no sign of the Kingfisher as I resisted the onset of drowsiness. A Grass Snake, swam across the pool, only its head above water while its long body, a living ripple of scaled olive green skin curved with sinuous grace its slow passage across the water's calm surface. I watched, as like a beacon, the black and yellow colours on its head reached the bank and it wound its long body up to the top of a dead tree stump half hidden within the reeds, to coil there in part shade, part sun. Safe for now from prying eyes.

A Grey Heron flew in to fish by the emerging lily flowers, huge, waxy, creamy white cups with egg yolk centres, floating exotically amongst plate sized, flat pads of deepest green and brown.The heron's infinite patience in its quest for prey matched the mood. 

It stood silent and motionless for many minutes on end, its reptilian eyes, expressionless, focused unrelentingly on the opaque water in which it stood. The slightest of ripples came from the edge of the lilies and instantly the heron reacted, extending its scrawny neck low to the water. A minute or more passed and then came a slight adjustment, its neck stretching further, to its fullest extent, projecting a narrow head and huge bill, pointed arrow straight, to within an inch above the water. The violence and suddenness of the stab when it came, although anticipated, still sent a pulse of surprise through me.The heron retracted head and bill from the water to reveal a small carp held firmly in its bill. There was to be no escape for the luckless, still struggling fish, its merciless captor clamping the fish between its mandibles for half a minute before tossing the fish up so its head faced towards its throat and then the fish was no more, oblivion coming in one convulsive gulp.

Satisfied, the heron rose from the water and flew slowly away towards the river on bowed wings as I resumed my vigil. Another hour of heat and silence passed and then the Kingfisher sped silently before me and landed in a willow by the far end of the hide. It sat there contentedly for another half an hour. 

Like the snake it was half hidden in the long leaved security of the willow  branches overhanging the pool, the sun dappled perch it had chosen giving it an outlook on the pool without revealing too much of itself. It eventually stretched its wings and flew to the post, settling, wing half extended, to nibble at an irritating feather.

Once this was attended to, it flicked its tail in nervous energy and expectation before setting about the task of snatching  a few water beetles from the water below. 

Its large head and impressive bill are normally held at right angles to its body but when anything caught its attention in the water below it would immediately turn its head and bill to point down at the source of interest, before dropping into the water with a resounding splash to seize its victim.

Then, flying back up onto the post, it would manouevre the tiny invertebrate in its bill, still insisting on whacking the beetle on the post, an instinctive action but in this case unnecessary, before swallowing its prey. 

The beetles it captured looked hardly adequate as a meal but it caught several, so presumably its hunger was satisfied. It sat on its tiny feet for a further period before departing through the surrounding trees.

I waited for over an hour before it was back, landing on the post and repeating its earlier performance. Occasionally, after capturing a beetle, it would fly to settle on a small branch of a tree overhanging the pool but for the main part the post seemed to be its fishing spot of choice.

It returned several more times during the late afternoon, usually after a considerable wait on my part but that is the way with watching Kingfishers, and despite the long hours sat doing little the time was not wasted on me. A period of silent contemplation is ideal therapy in these increasingly worrying times and there is no better place than in the Kingfisher Hide.