Bird of the Month
John Mcewen
The wind whirls my thoughts away and breeds more And whirls them away, like the pigeons I disturb – they tower out of the wood in a fusillade of wingclaps and flicker off, high over the ploughland. Norman Maccaig, from ‘Windy Day in March’
The wood pigeon ( Columba palumbus) is one of our most abundant and ubiquitous wild birds, and numbers grow. The UK breeding population increased 169 per cent between 1967 and 2010. There may be ten million by summer’s end and they breed throughout the year, food permitting. More arable land has helped winter survival. Huge unexplained flocks north and south of the border were seen early this winter, 90,750 counted (even an expert could not say how!) over Painswick Beacon, Gloucestershire. Tame in town, wild in the country, they can be a pest to bird-lovers and farmers alike.
At bird tables they treat songbird seed as a starter, later gobbling the stale bread or cake intended for themselves. Feeding reveals a bullying side. It takes a starling, with its dagger beak and aggressive gait, to show who really rules the pecking order. Having cleared the bird-table the wood pigeon does its worst to the bird-bath. In common with all pigeons (the 300-strong Columbidae), it sucks to drink rather than dip-tilts like other birds, dumps a polluting load and spills half the water when it clatters off.
Its slovenly behaviour can blind us to its charms. W H Hudson commends it as the handsomest of British doves. Traditionally it was more poetically known as the ‘ring dove’, ‘its dove-grey tints being singularly delicate, soft, and harmonious’ ( British Birds); these are best appreciated when it flops about, seeking a purchase with spread tail and wings, to feed on autumn ivy berries. Then there are the neck’s white flashes (adults only) and petrol-stain iridescence, the pink breast and white wing coverts – fatal semaphore for its avian enemy, the peregrine. There is also its soothing call, the coo-cooing ending on an abrupt half-note; in summer dawns many calling simultaneously seem consciously to harmonise into a rhythmic, far-flung, chorale.
Females are fair game at any season. As soon as one alights, down comes a male to strut his stuff: rapid pursuit followed by a courtly bow. It usually ends in flight to a branch, where the ritual is repeated. Eventually she wings it or submits, dutifully crouching while he has his flapping way. There is also the slow, ecstatic, wing-clapping display flight. The nest is minimal, a net of twigs seemingly insufficient to bear the two white eggs, let alone a weighty bird. There can be six broods – the two-egg limit explained by the squabs’ need for regurgitated food, a time-consuming method.
In the wild it is the wariest of birds. Lord Home ( Border Reflections) did not know another that turned ‘more quickly at the sight of a gun’. The meat makes a rich meal, but have the night-time ‘Rennies’ handy if it has been served for supper.