The size of magnificence – blue whales in Sri Lanka

“You are guaranteed to be seeing them, no problem.” Our skipper smiled and nodded vigorously to assure us of his claim. I’d never heard of certainties before when it comes to wildlife, particularly wildlife like this – elusive, once-in-a-lifetime, glimpse-if-you’re-lucky creatures living as far as its possible to be from human company. Ghn beamed with confidence. We were keen to believe him, and the day was as good as we could hope for – bright skies, calm water, and a guide who’s been fishing these waters all his life.

In the harbour there were crested terns. I amused myself in the first half hour heading out and south of Mirissa trying to keep my binoculars steady enough against the swell to identify seabirds – dark shearwaters cresting the waves and some sort of tern plummeting from height. Briefly a flying fish cleared the water, momentarily on the birds’ plane. If you were able to keep going from here in a straight line, the next stop is the Antarctic.

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The first hour is silent. Some are busy being sick as inconspicuously as possible, but most are fixed on the ocean ahead, scanning from near to horizon for any signs. The crew come round, slopping weak, early morning tea into mugs as best they can. “We are looking for the blow,” Ghn says, facing us, with one hand on the wheel and memory steering. “It is 30 foot high or more.” He is full of impressive facts, and it’s easy enough with these leviathans, because they really know how to do big: tongues the weight of elephants, hearts like cars, blood vessels wide enough for a human to swim through, a mouth with the capacity to hold 90 tons of water, and males with the longest penis of any organism (between 2.5 to 3 metres, if you’re asking).

It is only in recent years that we’ve begun to know anything of substance about blue whales at all. Once the target of commercial hunting (like pretty much all whales species), these 130 foot, 173 tonne mammals have become one of the great fascinations of the modern, high-definition documentary age: we adore their cinematic scale, revel in privileged access to a little of that unfathomable oceanic secrecy. As a child this was what I wanted to see first and most when we made yearly trips to the Natural History Museum – the staggering life-size cast of a blue.

Despite its size, though, the vastness of this whale’s deep-sea home makes it extremely difficult to see. Until a decade ago, that is, when marine biologists made the remarkable discovery that one blue whale population (a ‘pygmy’ subspecies, a little shorter than others) makes a yearly migration from the  Bay of Bengal to the Arabian Sea and back, taking them through the deep waters of the continental shelf and unexpectedly close to the southern tip of Sri Lanka. There is nowhere else in the world, in fact, as far as we know, that blue whales come this close to land.

Since 2008, Mirrisa has become a busy tourist spot between December to April, and blue whales are now stars of an ecotourist cetacean phenomenon. It’s blue whales you are most likely to see, but there are also sperm, fin and Bryde’s whales in these krill-rich waters, and several species of dolphin. Ghn’s boat was one of twenty or thirty out that day pursuing blue whales. Even in the excitement of immense expectation, I pondered the impact of all these boats – and more each year – on the whales themselves. What must all this commotion sound like to creatures whose hearing is so acute it is thought they can sense each other up to 1,000 miles away? Wildlife on this island can do so much for a country still recovering from civil war and a tsunami, still suffering poverty, but if there are no regulations put in place, there will certainly be complications in the future.

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(Image: Wikipedia Commons, Peter van der Sluijs)

Shouts from the front of the boat drew my attention and I saw it immediately – a great white spume of surging water-mist. The boat sped up, as did the others around us. The whale was gone, but Ghn cut off the engine and crossed his arms. Nothing for several minutes but gentle plashing against the hull. Another blow broke surface 300 metres or so away, but we did not move. Other boats roared off. This is Ghn’s tactic – others can make the wild whale chase, but he will gamble on the luck of waiting it out.

I saw it as the crew did and shouted, “There! Over there!” A quick acceleration and sharp turn. Stillness again. And then the whole of its lithe, long body rolled out of the water just ahead of us, tipping itself back down towards the deep, first the snorting blow hole, then the great length of its back, the dorsal, the bulk of everything turning without even a splash, right to the very tips of the 25 foot flukes.

We saw five or six blue whales that morning, but none like that. I cannot comprehend how these mammals are so wonderfully at home in this realm, descending to such depths that I shudder at the blackness. But right then I wanted to slip down and take to the vastness, piece together the size of whale magnificence.

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(Image: Whale and Dolphin Conservation, Andrew Sutton)

A little medieval poem on birds’ voices

A quick browse through any field guide to birds reveals that the standard ornithological method for conveying bird vocalisations is still transliteration – a careful substitution of complex avian sound patterns into a phonetic sequence that is broadly understandable in another system – a human language. You’ll come across some striking examples, including some that are just ludicrous, or seemingly untranslatable into human spoken utterances. There are the well-known classics: from the Collins Guide, ‘goo-ko’ (cuckoo), and ‘kewickhoooouh’ (tawny owl; better known, of course, as ‘tu-whit, tu-who’). But then what about a willow warbler: ‘sisisi-vüy-vüy-vüy svi-svi-vi tuuy tuuy si-si-sviiy-sü’? Or maybe a greenfinch: ‘jüpp-jüpp-jüpp jürrrrrrrr tuy-tuy-tuy-tuy-tuy juit chipp-chipp-chipp-chipp-chipp dürdürdürdür jürrrrrrrr …’?

These modern examples of ornithologists’ mimicry, though, are in fact no different to much earlier efforts to translate animal and human sounds – they merely continue a long and rich legacy (see here for a fuller discussion of this topic in an earlier post). I have been prompted to think again about the lines of transmission between medieval and modern approaches birds because I am currently working with three manuscripts from important monastic centres of the late Anglo-Saxon age containing a copy each of a little birdsong poem titled ‘De cantibus avium (On the songs of birds), which is, largely, a catalogue of phonetically-rendered, onomatopoeic bird calls. The three versions are all the same, and suggest a lost, earlier source. What seems pretty clear is that this poem, wherever or whenever the original was composed, was designed to teach the typical Latin translations of particular animal and bird sounds. The poem appears in manuscripts that all deal with grammar subjects, and in two cases, it actually appears directly after a standard prose list of nonhuman sounds – what is known as the voces animantium ‘voices of animals’ genre (see here for one of the manuscript examples). The formula, developed from classical models, goes a little like this:

apes ambizant vel bombizant, aquilae clangunt, anseres crinciunt vel trinsiunt,
aves minuriunt vel vernant vel vernicant, accipitres pipant vel plipiant,
anates teritisant …

[bees buzz or buzz, eagles sound, geese hiss or honk, birds chirp or make noise
or twitter, hawks screech or cry, ducks quack …]

Much of the ‘De cantibus’ poem reads almost word for word like these lists, but it also draws attention to the great and enduring fascination of birdsong – its supreme variety and diversity. However hard we might try, it is beyond our capabilities to record, catalogue and know all bird songs:

Quis volucrum species numeret, quis nomina discat?
Mille avium cantus, vocum discrimina mille.
Nec nostrum (fateor) tantas discernere voces.

[Whoever counts the types of birds, who learns their names? A thousand are sung of birds, a thousand differences of voice. Nor do I myself claim to discern such voices.]

Many of these medieval examples might sound ridiculous to us. But they probably did to medieval writers as well: many of the invented onomatopoeic verbs in the sound lists are such nonsense that they basically mean nothing more than ‘cranes make a crane noise’, or ‘blackbirds make a blackbird noise’, as though the writer draws attention to his own complete inadequacy in trying to replicate birdsong. Perhaps this translation tradition highlights a serious point about all translation though: even though these efforts aim to bring us closer to another being or mode of communication, they ultimately reminds us of essential difference – when you try to turn birdsong, or any nonhuman utterance, into human language, the result doesn’t quite manage to do the job. Crucially, though, this difference does not make birdsong irrational goobledygook (a word, in fact, that was coined to mean nonsense precisely because it sounds like turkey gibberish). It is simply that their voices are not our voices.

Writing on Nepal wins competition

If readers will forgive a brief moment of self-admiration, I wanted to post my entries for a travel/nature writing competition that recently won me first prize. ‘Tiger Trace’ was the judges’ favourite, but they’re apparently going to include all three in a forthcoming publication. These pieces began life as posts on this site, so it seemed fitting to share the news here. So, courtesy of Naturetrek, my wife and I will be off for an all-expenses-paid 10 days in Romania this August. Hoping for my first brown bear!

Tiger Trace
We have spent the last two days driving and walking tiger territory here in Chitwan National Park. This morning, whilst others sleep on and before the sun is fully up, I join our guiding ornithologist through misty savanna on the banks of the Narayani. A nine foot marsh muggar crocodile is half submerged with a fleshy limb clamped in its jaws. We push slowly through tall grasses (the tallest in the world are here in the Terai-Duar lowlands) quietly searching for rare cisticolas and grassbirds. A little ahead of us is a local guide and his protective bamboo rod.

In the sand, he kneels to examine. Pug marks. Tiger. He lays a pen beside the indentations to indicate the size of the creature’s print. “Last night,” he says, pointing back along the path. “It came through.” Two evenings before, riding out high and safe on elephants’ backs, we’d come across a crisp and mealy carcass, almost a week old beneath a putrid haze of flies and nearly black from sun. Another lay half covered in high grass nearby, fresher, the stench carrying to some way off.

It’s not difficult to see why predators fascinate us: a creature that can be part-tamed, or captured at least, but which remains well on the distant side of loveable or predictable, of that we think we can come to know. Minacious and fierce, striped and barred, fire in the eye. The largest Royal Bengal Tiger population anywhere in Nepal – 125 of just 2,500 or so in the subcontinent – lives here in Chitwan, an internationally important park in the Inner Terai. But they are no easier to see for that. The most elusive of creatures, fiendishly difficult to locate, they can be right there, camouflaged perfectly in dense undergrowth or the slightest stand of grass, and you’ll never see them. They will see you.

Yesterday we took a day-long, dusty journey through the reserve, driving narrow tracks through subtropical, riverine forests. The leaf litter is ankle-deep here, dry and tiger-orange, beneath big-leaved sal and rhino trees, saj, rosewood, the sailing buttress roots of kopak. Thick strangler vines coil like pythons round trunks, slowly suffocating their hosts. Way up, langurs, old man-grey and quizzical, swing easily from branch to branch. We spot a predator’s prey well enough, deer herds keeping mostly to the shadowy spaces among and between the understory. There are four species here: the small and numerous hog deer; muntjacs; the elegant spotted deer (or chital), akin to the European fallow; and the biggest, a tiger’s favourite, the dusky, skittish sambars.

In late afternoon, the cicadas are lulled, light shifts and the air is pungent with jasmine. We happened upon a small flock of great hornbills – 10 perhaps – planing one after the other through the canopy into the tree tops. They picked and fed delicately on finicky fruit with their preposterous turmeric bills, which look double the size for those huge casques (the bizarre appendage on the upper mandible used for aerial jousting) so that the whole thing looks like some ludicrous high-society hat.

We never expected to see tigers. And we did not. Why should we? To see the tiger would be exhilaration, a marvel, but to not see it somehow seemed as it should be too. It is never our right. This beast deserves our committed protection – we are, after all, largely responsible for its grievous demise – but also deserves its isolation, its right to be and to be unseen. I will make do with enigmatic traces that signal its absent presence; sandy depressions of movement just last night, the remains of attack and kill, uneasy yelps and alarms from deeper into the forest. It is here.

Heights and Kites in Kathmandu
At the hotel I head up for the highest point. Even on the rooftop there is more – it spirals up three levels, each appearing just as you make the last, well beyond most buildings’ top floors. The air is spice and warmth. Up here I am with the kites who turn on the city’s rising heat, and monsoon-washed house crows who fuss raucously from roof to roof. The birds are lodestars to new places; I begin with them.

It’s a habit I’ve adopted in many cities, but here seeking height feels doubly instinctive, mimicking the birds’ advantage. Nepal is the land of heights – from sea level to the highest point on earth in under 200 km, the world’s rooftop; a country with the highest elevation in the world reaching up to Tibet, the globe’s highest region. It’s a yearning for height that brings thousands here in the peak season to attempt ascents, or trek along the great Himalayan wall – Annapurna, Machhapuchhare, Langtang. Nepal has eight of the world’s tallest mountains and over 250 peaks over 20,000 feet. Everest (or Chomolungma as the sherpas call it – Goddess Mother) is the highest and most famous of them all, of course. It reaches beyond the clouds five miles into the sky – near aircraft cruising level at 8,848 metres, 29,029 feet – where there is so little oxygen and the air so cold humans cannot ordinarily survive, though many take on the dangers to reach its summit. And it’s still rising: colossal tectonic movements drive the subcontinent further under Eurasia and the snowy mountains upwards, upwards.

This time, our travels in Nepal will take us no further north than the foothills of the Kathmandu valley, but my preparations have still been fervid viewing and reading on Himalayan adventures, of sherpas, of Hilary and Norgay, Mallory and Irvine, of the disastrous 1996 Everest expedition, and high-flying bar-headed geese whose lungs can cope with rarefied air at Everest height – twice that – on their annual migration to the lowlands of India and the Nepal terai, to where we will travel in a few days. I’ve brought mountain literature, too, on snow leopards, on Tibetan monasteries and wilderness.

From this rooftop in a city 4,600 feet above sea level, I watch for birds – bulbuls and magpie robins, swifts and sparrows. Their bother and busyness make me think of the bustle down there, all that dense, high-rise living; mucky children, cadaverous dogs; of grand civic monuments tumbled in earthquake or unrest; chickens scratching at earth in between cars, and their dead kin garroted and gutted to bleed in the street. A flock of white egrets flaps past. Below our bedroom window, a man cooks in a battered pot on a wood fire at the doorway to a corrugated shed.

Kathmandu, formed at the confluence of two rivers where an ancient lake once existed, is the heart of a country of commingled and harmonious differences. Here are Buddhism and Hinduism, Christianity and Islam; Tibetan peoples from the north and Aryan tribes from the great plains of the Ganges that meld like all elements in nirvana; the many into one, single minds into universal mind, as ‘waves do not derive from water … [but] are water, in fleeting forms that are not the same and yet not different’ (Peter Matthiessen, The Snow Leopard). Here we will seek all that difference and beauty, of people, foods and lands, of birds.

Phulchowki Mountain – a Twitching of Warblers
The air is tight, desperate for rain; it was forecast last night but did not come. This morning we head out of the city, beyond the brown heat of Kathmandu – the colour of dust and fumes and sultry air – south to the green valley foothills. Behind the oily smog, the sun is copper, rhododendron-pink. We are headed right to the peak of Phulchowki mountain, the highest in the region at 2760 metres. On a good day you can see the Himalayan range from here, but mists are low, and they linger all day.

Birdwatching these temperate forest slopes can be hard work – so much song and exotic frenzy, but high up, or flitting fast between dense tree lines. But stand still for long enough, and let all that thronging abundance come to you, and you understand Phulchowki’s reputation for sheer range of birds; one third of Nepal’s species can be seen here, one third of the one tenth of all the world’s species that can be found in this small country.

Barbets and cuckoos echo across the valley all day, but it is the birds right here, in front of us now, that I have come for. Minute by minute the trees and shrubs just feet away fill and fill with twitching passerines – some here to breed; others feeding up before flying north to the high Himalayas, or on to Siberia; some that winter lower down the slopes and now ascend to precise heights in spring – so active and so many it is difficult to make a start and the trees and rhododendron shrubs quiver and mutate. Our guide, Hathan, has expert ears and lists them all on song, the briefest snatches – ashy-headed warbler, chestnut-crowned – here a black-throated tit – Blyth’s leaf warbler here – buff-barred warbler – black-faced over here – here, here, green-backed tit, next to the grey-hooded warbler, just right of the fire-breasted flowerpecker. I am unused to abundance and vibrancy on such scale.

The famous French philosopher Jacques Derrida’s last work engaged with the overwhelming variousness of species, what he called the ‘multiplicity of the living’, all categorised into that most limiting, singular, and superficial of terms – animal. I think I am seeing something of what he implores us to recognise in all this shifting brilliance – not simply bird, not simply warbler, but individual; this being and that being; here curious, elusive, aggressive, now loud and fleeting, flicker, momentary stillness; creature and creature, bird colour and song, alert and quick to living on these leaves the same greens and yellows in one great, assembled movement.

All these birds, the coming and going up and down this mountain and valley, across the country, across continents. The privilege of moments like this I see now can and should inspire wonder at the natural world, re-engage our sense of the everyday, which is suddenly and marvellously ignited when the new and mysterious come upon us. Degrees of familiar and unfamiliar shift, for a time, though novelties – however strange or fine – so easily become ignored ordinaries. This twitching of warblers brings to me an elsewhere, carries a farness to this here, now and near. It speaks of the world’s vastness, but collapses it, too, by connecting me briefly to long-travelled distances and encounters, shared lines of occurrence and being.

Finding the fieldfare

When it comes to favourites, certain British birds nudge their way into the top ranks repeatedly: the robin – unofficially Britain’s top choice – is predictable enough, as are other garden species, such as blue tit and blackbird, or perhaps something less commonly seen; a barn owl or kingfisher. I suspect my own favourite, though, is shared by few, and would never occur to anyone curious enough to hazard a guess. Fieldfares are unfamiliar to many, a birder’s bird maybe, unnoticed in the hedgerows of sodden ploughlands in such short and dreary days. But these mobster thrushes are mysterious and attractive. They exist like the promise of hard snow – overnight, sudden and thrilling, they come with the boreal cold.

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Fieldfare in snow. Image: RSPB (https://www.rspb.org.uk/birds-and-wildlife/bird-and-wildlife-guides/bird-a-z/f/fieldfare/).

This year, as every year, I have been walking and driving the lanes in search of fieldfares and their thrush cousins, redwings, mostly across the flatlands of Romney Marsh not far from home in Kent. These winter nomads breed right across sub-arctic Scandinavia and the Baltic regions, making their annual incursions each October and November to wander and raze berry harvests in southern Europe. I found a roving flock last November, one bright and blue morning when it was painfully cold. I knew the birds were there long before I saw them, announcing their presence with restless stony calls, a ringing magpie ‘chak-chak’. For all this commotion, they can be frustratingly difficult to catch in good view. They remain teasingly invisible in the bare but impenetrable thorns. Suddenly, at the moment you become just too close, they burst from cover as though the trees have kept their leaves all along to release just now in a brisk gust. The action is surrounded by accelerating notes that rise in pitch and dynamics, scattering with as much force as the birds themselves. These cackling fits disappear again just metres down the frosted path, though some birds veer upwards to sit defiantly at the top branches. They mark my advance like a procession, always just ahead and out of reach, as though alarmed and mocking all at once.

The fieldfare’s evasive presence seems fittingly mirrored in their slight cultural legacy. The name as we have it is certainly medieval, but its origins, although almost certainly older (Old English feld ‘field’ + fara ‘to go’), are all but lost, scantily and obscurely present in the inky tracks of just one or two Anglo-Saxon scripts for scholars obsessed with such things to ponder and trace. Fieldfares, curiously in my view, have never attracted poetic attention in the way of so many other British species. John Clare, of course, does not forget them as passing details: they ‘chatter in the whistling thorn’ (‘Emmonsails Heath in Winter’) or ‘come and go on winter’s chilling wing’ (Shepherd’s Calendar, March). At the end of the medieval period, though, it is clear that fieldfares did not go unnoticed: Chaucer ends his catalogue of birds in The Parliament of Fowls, unexpectedly, with the ‘frosty feldefare’, and in the Sherborne Missal (c. 1400), there is a remarkable titled image of the bird, accurately depicted in all its striking colours (see here for some of the images, although the fieldfare page is not included).

I find a new, hustling chatter of fieldfares on Romney Marsh again this week in mid-February. By now, with most berries stripped, they are dispersing to the fields, roaming in big numbers. Chaucer’s phrase, I’d say, has it right – their hoary plumage is a precise configuration of winter splendour, even on a day as drab and wet as this. They mark extremes: that pristine white underwing and belly, that storm-grey hood, are balanced with colours that flare like hibernal dusks, or the light and warmth of indoors we seek against such cold – the colour of smoky whisky, or the slow burn of wood fires. I follow fieldfares across tree-lined fields, follow their flights down hawthorn paths to be with all that clattering verve that turns and turns again straight into the wind.

Enigmatic riddle birds

Bit of a cheat post this one, but since I’ve recently published a general-audience post on the Anglo-Saxon riddles site The Riddle Ages, I thought I’d provide a link for readers of this site who might be interested. It’s taken and adapted from work I’ve produced on the Old English Exeter Book Riddles – an amazing collection of riddles written in Old English (the only ones we have – everything else is in Latin) and compiled in a huge manuscript given by Bishop Leofric in 1072 to Exeter cathedral, where it still resides. Many of the riddles involve a first-person speaker who describes themselves in typically riddling, paradoxical style and then asks that the listener or reader saga hwæt ic hatte ‘say what I am called’. Intriguingly, in this manuscript at least, there are no answers. It really is a guessing game! The natural world features well in the collection of 90+ riddles, and birds make up a noticeable portion of these. There is a swan, a nightingale, a cuckoo, a barnacle goose, hens and a jay. Riddle 57 is nearly always solved as one species of bird or another (crow, swift, swallow), but no scholar has ever settled on which species. So … here are my thoughts on why we should pay more attention to the anonymity of the birds in Riddle 57 then the possibility of a precise answer: see here for the translation, and here for the commentary.

 

The Seafarer and the Seabirds

Last year I posted on a particular chapter of my PhD thesis that I was re-writing at the time. This will now be published in the peer-reviewed journal English Studies, so if any readers enjoyed the summary I provided here and want more, then here’s the link to the pre-print manuscript version: https://www.academia.edu/31023882/Native_Foreigners_-_Migrating_Seabirds_and_the_Pelagic_Soul_in_The_Seafarer_English_Studies_forthcoming_

The winter angel

There are some birds that are early fixed in the imagination, and hold their allure for a lifetime. These are not childhood memories of actual encounters, but of something more mythic – birds that made claims on my experiences long before I ever set eyes upon them. I knew them only from illustrations (John Gooders’ Kingfisher Guide to Birds in Britain and Europe; a scrappy pocket Collins), or experienced them vicariously in my uncle’s scrawling field notes. I loved their rarity, made them live – the impossible colours of bee-eaters, rollers, waxwings; the wildness of eagles – in my assiduously copied sketches from a hand-me-down set of Ladybirds. I dreamed of discovering these birds myself, desired them as much as those accumulating notebooks in my uncle’s study – dinky and black, with an elastic band that made a firm snap when you pulled it into place.

In an attempt to conjure one of these exotic species, I once invented reports to my mother, hoping that the fantasised chase across the South Downs would turn up a real life counterpart to the impressive sunset vision depicted in that Ladybird plate. It was years before I finally saw a great grey shrike – a strange songbird from the north with a grisly habit and a dapper bandit mask to suit. I’ve seen several since, but I am still compelled to see these birds when small numbers make their winter homes here each year from Scandinavia.

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The first of all my shrikes (John Leigh-Pemberton, Birds of Prey, Penguin, 1970); an early Ladybird book of birds (1954).

This morning was ideal out on the brooks, the first properly cold weather of the season and everything reduced to a shrike’s wintry colours: the stone-hard whites of frost, the bare blackness of trees, and low mists tracing every degree of grey-silver. As shrikes do, the bird I was after appeared quite suddenly, there atop a nearby birch. It was gone as quickly, in the second I glanced away, but there it was again, at some distance, silent and sentinel on another tree top. Shrikes establish large territories and can go unseen for long stretches of time, though they will be present all winter, remaining faithful to particular sites year after year.

Despite its scarcity, the bird has a long-lived gruesome legacy in British folklore, which pertains to the red-backed shrike, too, once a breeding species in these isles (unlike the great grey). Its various names speak of its macabre reputation, derived from its family propensity for impaling prey on thorns, recalling a butcher’s meat store, or the huge iron hooks from which his carcasses hang. The great grey’s scientific name reminds us of this habit – Lanius derives from Latin for butcher or executioner. A meat-hacker: the butcher-bird.

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(Photo: Duncan Usher)

Its infamy goes back much further, however, as indicated by the strikingly similar cluster of names across northern European countries. Its late medieval English name was the waryangle which existed in various dialect forms for centuries, all of which, like Germanic werkangel or warkangel, mean something like ‘suffocating angel’ (compare Modern German, würger and würgengel). The name is not attested in Anglo-Saxon records, but may well extend back this far; waryangle, may, in fact, derive from Old English wearg (criminal) and incel (diminutive suffix): ‘little-villain’. Certainly by the fourteenth century the name was invoked as an abusive term. In Chaucer’s Friar’s Tale, the summoner is denounced by way of comparison, ‘as ful of jangles [tricks] / As ful of venym been thise waryangles’ [as shrikes are full of venom] (a shrike’s butchering thorns were thought to be forever after poisonous).

Remarkably, in an age without binoculars, and which is traditionally dismissed for its unscientific indifference to ornithological precision, the earliest illustration we have of the species actually comes from a medieval English missal (1400) produced in Sherborne, Dorset. It very clearly and accurately depicts a grey shrike labelled waryghanger, one of many British species depicted in this remarkable manuscript. For this illuminator, at least, the shrike held a place in the native imagination, as it always has in mine. Its flight from thorn to thorn points on to shrikes I have not yet seen, that exist in those books and pocket notes that occupy me still.

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The Sherborne shrike (Image: Janet Backhouse, Medieval Birds in the Sherborne Missal, British Library, 2001).