Country Diary

Kestrels and sparrowhawks are a rare sight on the shoot this year, with goshawks ruling the roost in the absence of apex predators

The spade slides smoothly through the rich layer of leaf mould and black soil into the clay below and brings up a heavy clod, straining the wooden shaft to within an ounce of its tolerance. I always feel virtuous planting trees. This is, I suspect, partly because we have all been conditioned by the media to think that way for all the predictable, oft-spouted reasons. In fact, I am doubtful whether our trees sequester any more carbon than the lush green fields around them, particularly during the autumn, when you can smell the gases being given off by the woods in their seasonal decay. And though it undoubtedly creates biodiversity, in our case it is largely more of the same. The birds we most need to worry about — lapwings, curlew, grey partridges — tend to prosper when I cut down trees to create crow-free zones where they can nest safely.

Then there is the suspicion that I am wasting my time. Looking around confirms my view that, if left to her own devices, Mother Nature does it anyway and far more effectively. We have tried to reach the point where enough native tree species spread around the estate so that, when the light is let in, any blank spaces are soon filled naturally from the seed bank. There is something pleasing about what ecologists call succession — the metamorphosis from white grass to brambles to thorns to trees: from the acorns planted by the jays, protected from the roe deer by the spiky mantle of scrub around them.

Today’s planting is of small saplings dug up in the garden where the Chief

Horticulturalist is implacably against any form of wilding in her domain. Having dug them up, I then can’t bear to waste them, hence today’s task: planting them out where there is a shortage of that particular species in the woods.

Suddenly my eye is caught by a scuffle in the grass and I look to see a sparrowhawk which, aware that she is being watched, slides off a short distance up into the tree canopy. Going over, I find a young pigeon in its death throes, a livid gash down its side from the talons, its head as yet intact. I put it out of its misery, then quietly put it back and depart.

Trophic cascade

I never thought that I would write that I have sympathy for sparrowhawks, but it is becoming evident that there are fewer of them about here this year. I didn’t think it was bird flu — which has had a devastating effect on some of the carrion-eating raptors — then my suspicions were confirmed when I came across a sparrowhawk carcass with its head eaten off: goshawks.

The theory of trophic cascade, which I have written about before, explains what happens when an absence of apex predators, in this case eagles and eagle owls, allows the mesopredators a free run. They generally lay waste to the tier of predators below them, much as I remember how terrorists in Belfast used to keep the streets clear of petty criminals. I am sure it is why, tragically, there are many fewer kestrels around. For now the goshawk is king of the jungle in these parts. Anyone know where I can find an eagle owl?

“I never thought that I would write that I have sympathy for sparrowhawks”

Two weeks to go

There are two weeks to go before our first day and the shoot is uppermost in my mind. With every year that passes, my friends become more forgetful and ensuring dates are in diaries is a challenge. As is trying to persuade a reduced number of pheasants that the best places to eat out are in the drives rather than in the fields. It’s fortunate that most of the Guns will be beyond the age of caring how many we shoot.

Jamie Blackett farms in Dumfries and Galloway, and his book, Land of Milk and Honey, Digressions of a Rural Dissident, is out now.

For now goshawks are king of the jungle, as they lay waste to the tier of predators below them