I see buzzards. It is not a medical condition. It is not caused by concussion. I am not lying on the ground like Wile E Coyote after he has fallen off a cliff chasing the Roadrunner with stars floating around his head. I see buzzards, real buzzards, almost every day in the sky above my head. Buzzards are big up North. In the 20-plus years I have now spent in the wilds of mid-Ulster, the buzzard – and other birds of prey – have become a very common sight. Thankfully so.
I like a good nature documentary as much as the next man. I can happily watch wildlife on the Savannah or in Yellowstone Park or in the mountains of South America. Creation seems to offer countless little gems of wonder.
However, that is abroad. Not here. It is only when you lift your head out of the television and look around your own corner of Ireland that you realise just how many wild birds there are. Yes, the native garden birds are wonderful. The blackbird, thrush, wagtail, sparrows, finches, wrens and robins are all welcome and regular visitors in the garden. (The killer magpie, in his black balaclava, not so much!) I will even put up with the constantly pooping starling. It has its moments when it takes to the wing in numbers.
The grey heron is a constant feature too where I live. It is often to be seen by the lough, stalking silently the shallow waters, standing, with a sniper’s patience, waiting for a bit of food. Once – just once! – I saw a kingfisher in flight, its blue and red body flying down a stream. I find myself, while out cycling, craning my neck towards the spot where I spotted it in the hope – vain so far – of seeing it again.
Still, there is something about our local birds of prey that draw our eyes upwards. The buzzard is easily spotted because of its size. When I first saw it many years ago, I could not get over how big it was. It was perched on a post down by the father-in-law’s place. Unlike the heron, it did not seem just as easily startled. I thought – in my townie ignorance – that I would not see it again. I was wrong. I have seen the buzzard many times since, down by the lough and indeed across the whole of Ulster.
Wheeling high
I started a trip to Donegal one year that travelled along a line from south Antrim, through a sliver of Down, into Armagh, across Tyrone, into a slice of Fermanagh and then into Donegal. I saw a buzzard wheeling high on the border of Antrim and Armagh, saw another in lazy circles over Tyrone, and was greeted by the sight of a third and its unmistakable wings, turning high up, as I crossed into Donegal.
I regularly see buzzards on the motorway into Belfast, as they search for carrion or the thermals that carry them upwards into the heavens.
That said, not everyone welcomes the buzzard and its presence. I have seen one mobbed by sparrows, its huge wings beating and slowing across the boggy land while the sparrows wheeled at it like fighter planes from the first World War.
Fell to earth
The buzzards are not alone in their hunting of course. The kestrel is a familiar sight around these parts too – quartering along the country fields with great determination. It too is unmistakable – those little wings beating hard against the air while it patiently searches for a meal down below. I saw one drop on its prey once. It just fell to earth. What it caught, I do not know, but whatever it was did not survive the encounter.
More incredible again is the sparrowhawk. Not just as common as the buzzards or kestrel, I have been very fortunate to see this bird in flight and what a sight! A few times, in different locations, it has shot across my path, flown over a hedge with breath-taking speed and agility and hunkered down in haste across the field, ready to strike. I pity the poor bird who meets its talons.
Even more incredibly, once, just once, I was driving on the road between Broughshane and Carnlough in north Antrim, glanced out across the moorland and saw a harrier gliding its low way across the land. I stopped the car and watched it for the few seconds that I managed to track it. I had never seen one before and I never expect to see it again. That said, every time I take the road to Carnlough, just before I turn down into the village, I cast a glance to my right – just in case that I might be fortunate enough to catch a second glimpse of donnish feathers trailing east towards the Sea of Moyle.