Ireland Through Birds. Conor W. O'Brien
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Both the monks and the miners, the pious and the enterprising, left their mark on Glendalough. The round tower, now restored, still stands proud, keeping company with a smattering of other monastic buildings. More solitary, the church of St. Saviour, now haunted by nearby nesting goosanders, lies in ruins, though the Romanesque curves of its arches and blotches of lichen crawling across its stonework still lend it colour and grace.
The miners’ legacy is somewhat less striking. You can still find the rusting remains of the crusher, lying otherwise much as it was when working. Among the other remnants they left behind are piles of excavated stone dumped on the valley floor. During childhood visits with my family, I can remember climbing among them, the miner in me looking for the crystal that would make my fortune. And there were indeed crystals to be found on the slag heaps, encrusted onto stone like icing on a cake. But the generations that came before had left no great mineral treasure in Glendalough. Far from twinkling with every caress of the sun, the crystals I unearthed were murky, like frosted glass; hardly the stuff of wedding rings.
Today, the most striking living legacies of human habitation in Glendalough are the feral goats that still patrol the valley. These are not native, but were introduced to provide meat, milk and labour to bygone settlers before escaping (or simply outlasting) their masters, who would desert the valley. Now, they can be seen grazing out in the rushes on the valley floor, or picking their way with delicate care up the scree-strewn slopes of the mountainsides. Crowned with great ridged horns and curtained by flowing coats of grey and black hair, they remain as a visceral reminder of the shifting fortunes of this valley.
Even in boyhood, when its history had not made such an impact on me, Glendalough left a strong impression. This was especially true of the upper lake, its shoreline of flattened, silvery stone blurring into a vast dark abyss. It was like a black hole at the heart of the valley towards which trees marched and mountains descended to their doom. Chinos rolled up above my knees, I’d splash through the shallows, never fearing I’d snag my foot on a sharp rock, for the stones that made up the lake floor had long since surrendered their hooks and corners to the perpetual caress of gentle waves.
Looking back now, I can understand why pious folk found peace on its shores. Rarely stirring to a swell, the lake exudes tranquillity, and an ethereal quality. I imagined that peace would come undone at any moment. My boyhood self hoped this would come in the form of a monster surging up from the depths, for in my head I compared the upper lake to Loch Ness, and used it as the setting for my own fruitless monster hunts. Though no unknown beasts ever greeted me at their end, childhood vignettes in Glendalough helped awaken my yearning for nature. And hikes up its slopes exposed me to the sheer beauty buried in Wicklow’s mountainous heart.
The waters of the lake might be too shallow (and devoid of prey) to sustain a hidden monster. But the goosanders find all the food they need in the two lakes (lower and upper) that give Glendalough its name (Gleann dá Locha, the glen of the two lakes) and the streams that feed into them. Clear, shallow waters suit them down to the ground. Seeing them here amid the drumming of the great spotted woodpecker (another recent colonist) adds a whole new dimension to Glendalough for me. It feels like a potent commitment by the natural world to restock this space with wild denizens, among them a new cast of characters to augment the fauna of the Wicklow Mountains.
Otters and minks might provide some competition, but not enough to threaten the goosanders. The biggest danger they face comes in the form of another mustelid (weasel) and, ironically, another species that every effort is being made to preserve: the pine marten. Wicklow is one of the strongholds of the pine marten resurgence in Ireland. And while this arboreal sharpshooter is the ideal tonic to the feral population of grey squirrels now rampant throughout the county, it certainly won’t refuse the succulent eggs and chicks of goosanders. Nesting in trees puts these ducks at risk of pine marten predation. That’s why many of the trees bearing goosander nest boxes are enclosed with sheaths of metal on their trunks; the marten’s claws can get no purchase on the metal, and their designs on the goosander’s brood can be thwarted.
…
As can happen, the end goal can be found back where you started. Having staked out the riverside for over an hour, we make our way back to the car, content with the fleeting view of fleeing goosanders.
On our way, we approach a bridge fording the same river. That’s when we see her. Right on the riverbank, perched on a rock, almost completely obscured by the overgrown grass, is the female. As with almost all ducks, her livery pales in comparison to the male. But in the shaft of sunlight breaking through the canopy, she’s still stunning: her head a rich copper, her back silver cut through by the outline of her feathers. Slowly, like a ballerina in motion, she extends her neck, perhaps forcing a stubborn fish down her throat.
We’re much closer than before. And yet she shows no signs of panic, even though she can surely see us towering on the bank above her. It’s only then we notice the male, approaching her on the languid current. She slides into the water beside him, and together they make their way downstream. The light on him is less forgiving; he clings to the shadows of the opposite bank, frustrating my urge to get a decent photo of his stunning green head. But the pleasure of seeing them so close – and so unhurried – is compensation enough.
As the procession slips downstream, a second female joins the couple; the second male is nowhere to be seen. Breaking into a light jog, we follow them to the bridge, watching them pass under us. Once again, their heads are angled to keep us in view, but there is no urgency in their cruising. They’re more than happy to let the stream dictate the tempo of their journey: free birds, floating.
The amber water beneath them glistens and sparkles, as if the riverbed were studded with gold. It’s like the miners of old have foolishly left a fortune behind. And as the goosanders float over it, they pass under branch after branch, until finally they melt away into the overhanging undergrowth.
GREY PARTRIDGE
Lough Boora
The setting is rural Ireland at its most pristine. Offaly is among the flattest of Ireland’s counties, with only a distant plateau adding any bulk on the horizon. Closer to, the fields are lightly dusted with frost, the morning dew crystalised by the March chill.
In the early morning the rooks are in full voice. From the unkempt balls of twigs in which they nest high in denuded trees, they make a raucous chorus. It’s as if each bird can’t help but want to out-call its neighbour, and soon the canopy is awash with cawing. Atop a scots pine a lonely mistle thrush watches on in silence, positioned to sing but hesitant to do so, knowing its solo will be drowned out by the relentless chatter of the rookery.
Closer to the ground, more modest songbirds, which don’t feel the need to proclaim dominance by assuming a lofty position, make easier purchase on the morning soundscape with their calls. Male blackbirds are on territory, crooning in the low branches of the undergrowth. They share the stage with cock robins, orange feathers bristling with the effort of expelling their rich stream of song. Agitated, they flick from branch to branch, eager to see off any interlopers that might stake a claim to the best perch. Enshrined in menacing thorns, one of their nests sits in a stunted bush by the side of the road. The still-radiant green of the moss woven into the structure is about the only colour to be found amid the tangle of dark twigs and briars. It’s like an outpost of spring, a flag declaring to all about the farmland that after a long, cold winter, more fecund days are at hand.
Beyond, the fields spread out across the landscape. In the one closest to me four horses with heavy woollen boots graze, the sun right overhead casting long, four-legged shadows across the grass. They share the fields with a panoply of farmland birds. Hopping along the ground, the mistle thrushes and fieldfares, silver heads glistening in the morning light, frustrate my urge to pick out a distant partridge among the jackdaws, starlings and woodpigeons. Time and again I find myself squeezing a partridge into a thrush, only for the hopping motion to shatter the delusion. They share the upright stance I expect of a partridge, and the mistle thrush even has the same pot belly. But