A ripping yarn in which I (aged 2) am almost left dangling on a neighbour’s fence. Almost.
(An extract from my old birdwatching diary “Crippling Views”)
Saturday, June 11, 1988
I walk back home from the local newsagents, my eyes peeled as always for the odd brilliant white Gyrfalcon, soaring over the City Hospital. But, as always, without any luck.
Suddenly, a big brown raptor comes into sight, making its way purposefully along the Ring Road, flying along the line of the valley, heading roughly eastwards.
At first, because of the time of year, I presume that it must be an Osprey, although I can’t really imagine why, because it doesn’t look anything like an Osprey and it isn’t carrying a fish.
For a start, it has an obviously pale, or even white head. It is this latter feature that makes me realise that it is a Marsh Harrier.
Then there is an agonising decision to face. Do I run a home like the clappers, and then the…
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