Gos in the Woods 3rd March 2025

c Richard Tyler
richardtyler.zenfolio.com

I looked out of the window. It was 8am. A cold morning with a light covering of frost shimmering on roof and pavement under a bright sun shining in an ice blue sky. My mind turned to Goshawks ( Gos for short).

This supreme killer of the forest hunts squirrels and pigeons through the woods, taking them by surprise as it weaves at speed through the trees.Not for them the open air, high speed stoop beloved of the aristocratic Peregrine or the persistent hovering of a demure Kestrel that silently drops on its prey from the sky..

  

Early spring days of sun and light wind, such as today are when, for a brief two month period, Goshawks forsake the shelter of the woods and trees to take to the  open sky where they will indulge in display flights before resuming their secretive existence.  

Mornings are best to encounter the displaying birds and so it was that I passed through a gate  and before me lay a broad path, a mulch of mud and last year's fallen beech leaves downtrodden into a broad  dark stain of ruts and bootprints from others that had also taken the path over the preceding winter months. I tread carefully, the ruts frozen to the hardness of iron by the overnight frost are now thawing where the sun reaches, creating slippery and treacherous patches requiring extreme care to avoid a slip and subsequent mud plastered clothing which would ruin the day.

Walking onward through a mixture of deciduous and conifer woodland,  the path steadily but gently rises to where I can stand with my back to a wood of mature conifer and beech trees, the trunks of the latter, a silent regiment of smooth grey columns. A Jay's harsh shriek startles me and then all is quiet.

There is a sense of serenity today, the trees seeming to absorb the wind and providing an effective shield against a gentle northeast breeze. The sun even at this early hour is warm and comforting in this sheltered corner and I rejoice in its unaccustomed warmth and presence.  I am entirely alone, the path I had come up although used by others is, on weekdays and at such an hour as this not so popular.

The woods are never silent for long as unseen avian vocalists interrupt whatever thoughts are passing through my head. The monotonous throbbing of Stock Doves comes from deep in the wood behind me but most typical of all are the ringing notes of Great Tits, teacher, teacher, teacher they call, over and over amongst the sun pockets forming in the  latticework of bare twigs and branches. An anthem of Spring.

It is half past nine and I am in position too early to see a Goshawk but it is no hardship to stand here, relaxed and contemplative. I can see for miles, across trees mainly and some farm fields and on to the very edge of eyesight, where another ridge of bare trees forms a distant blue freize.

A startled pheasant croaks loudly and blunders noisily away through the undergrowth. Fortunately there is no pheasant shooting on the estate and there is an enlightened attitude towards predators such as the resident Goshawks. In former times, like most raptors they were ruthlessly persecuted wherever they were found in Britain, almost to the point of extinction  but the decline and breaking up of many large estates has meant fewer gamekeepers which has allowed them to multiply and although still rare there are now more Goshawks than one would think in woods that were formerly a no go area for anything with a hooked bill

Superficially similar to the smaller Sparrowhawk to which they are related by genus. They are, when adult, grey above and barred white below. reaching maturity at around two to three years of age

My routine is to scan the sky above the trees before me with a telescope.It is an endless repetitive process and the rewards have to be worked for but the thrill of expectation holds me in a suspense of excitement. It could happen at any time and maybe this scan will be the one. Ever present Woodpigeons come and go above the treetops, singly or in fast moving scattered groups hurrying away from possible danger or to feed in the fields. A Mistle Thrush, high in a lone tree that has survived to antiquity without being felled, rambles out its reflective song as another answers it from afar. 

Two Ravens croaking in conversation clear the treetops behind me and I watch them head up and away into the clear sky- their purposeful flight always creates the impression of them having a definite destination in mind.

Of course other birds of prey are here too and normally appear before any Gos. This is hardly unexpected as Red Kites and Common Buzzards are present in good numbers. The Red Kites are often the first to appear, gently floating on long wings and swinging forked tails, laconically searching for animal remains to scavenge. The comparison to window shopping seems a somehow appropriate impression as they move slowly above the trees scanning the ground.

As the sun warms, moving higher in the sky and the minutes pass Common Buzzards rise from the woods, dark, with broad wings and blunt tails, presenting an obvious chunkier shape than the kites and with wings held slightly above the horizontal, they search for a thermal and on finding one spiral upwards, sometimes five or six together to incredible heights where they are almost invisible below a blue sky crossed by the white vapour trails of aircraft 

I keep scanning as an unfulfilled hour passes. I am not to be denied or in any way deterred. Previous encounters tell me a Gos will come eventually. Birds are never close here so it is the bird's profile rather than plumage that is crucial to confirm its identity. At just before eleven I find a bird of prey in the sky that is flying towards me, head on. Its flight is slow but obviously powerful and it is yet to deviate its course or flap its wings, content to glide on the warm air currents. It turns and in so doing presents itself side on to me and flaps its wings, three, four times, exaggeratedly slowly and purposefully, displaying, then resumes its gliding. Circling higher there comes another exaggerated flap of wings and then more circling in glides and undulating flight. I note its muscular bulging breast, overall robustness and long tail. No doubt about it, a Goshawk. A buzzard sized female,larger than any male Gos

Although I see one or more Gos every time I come to this favoured spot the thrill of discovery never palls.It is my private pleasure as I am rarely with company and the knowledge that these secretive magnificent raptors  are here is one of a multitude of inconsequential lifetime experiences that contribute to a sense of self worth and fulfilment.

The female Gos continued to cruise around in the sky before me. I am glued to my scope unwilling to let this moment go, after waiting so long to see one. For five more minutes she patrols the sky, affirming her presence then descends, wings held half closed, in a long  glide back into the wood from where she came. Gone.

This painting by Darren Woodhead that hangs on my study wall depicts
displaying Goshawks, accurately depicting how they appeared to me
in the sky

I carry on scanning and another Gos rises from the woods and again that familiar pulse of excitement and achievement grips me. By noon I have had ten sightings. I have no idea how many individuals I have seen. Once unforgettably I had five in the sky together. As Gos do not breed until two to three years of age there must be a population of younger birds also inhabiting the woods. 

As I slowly gain more insight into the Goshawks here  more and more questions arise but it is a labour of love and no hardship not to know all the answers about this enigmatic bird that has so captured my imagination.

At noon I call time. There is always tomorrow and as long as the weather holds and even if it does not  I will continue my pilgrimage to these woods

As I depart through the trees a Gos chatters from the deep cover of some tall pines.

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