I hate rain. My birds hate rain, my kids hate rain and even my dogs hate rain. If there is a God wouldn’t you think he would have thought of a nicer way to water the Earth, or maybe Ireland is just the wrong place for me to live and practice falconry.

As soon as I put the birds out on the lawn in the morning the skies turned black and out of what was once blue came big fat raindrops that hit the ground so hard they splashed back up again. Everything was wet in seconds. The dogs ran for cover and so did I.

The falcons pulled their necks in and got ready for a soaking and very soon the Harris Hawks, which are not as waterproof as the falcons, looked like they had a good going over with the power-hose.

But I kept telling myself it was only a shower. You see it was only a shower, followed by another shower, and another, and another, with little respite in between, and this went on all day. As soon as the birds looked even half dry enough to put back in, the heavens would open up again and another deluge would pour to earth and everyone would again run for cover.

I fed all the birds outside, but on days like this they don’t seem to want much as they sit there, not wanting to move in case even more water gets in under their plumage.

I had little jobs to catch up on; I was using silicone sealer to block up some holes in my tow-box trailer that had let some water in, but as soon as I climbed the ladder and positioned myself, down would come the rain and soak everything, not even the silicone would stick in these conditions.

I got out my extension lead and circular saw to cut some timber for boxes I am making, but as soon as I had them ready and the wood marked for cutting, the skied opened up again.

Evening came and the rain seemed to ease off just a little, I made a dash for it and put all the birds back in their night quarters. They were still soaked but at least the temperature was in the teens and they would dry off soon enough.

It was a miserable day, the birds were glad to be put in out of it. The dogs hadn’t been seen since earlier and even the kids had given up and were gone inside to watch a dvd.

My wet clothes were stuck to me and water dribbled down my neck as I stood in the trailer looking out across black horizons.

I picked up a hawking magazine that was lying there and stared reading about falconry in South Africa and how they manage to fly their birds in such hot dry weather. I mentally put Africa as a potential place to move to if this weather doesn’t break soon, along with Asia, Australia, Spain and just about anywhere that uses the word blue to describe its skies.

I really did feel miserable and thought things could get no worse, and as I looked down at the magazine I held in my hands, a single droplet fell on the page. Now I did feel stupid and I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand, but it was not a tear that fell……

the fecking trailer had sprung another leak!

Roll on some good weather, please, please!

Tommy Byrne.

On this particular day I was glad to get them all out early as I had a busy enough day ahead of me doing other stuff, while making time to feed my birds and walk down the field to fly my Gyr falcon hybrid.

The food on this day was quail. It had been in the fridge for two days as I had miscalculated and took out too much in one go. The quail this day were the ex-layers; birds that had grown to full size and had past their prime egg-production stage and therefore not lay as many eggs as a younger bird. This type of quail carries more fat on its body than a normal six-week old or prime quail, but once these fat quail are not used too often they are perfect for feeding to hawks and falcons.

This is where I made the mistake; As the Gyr hybrid was the only bird I needed to fly that day, I got him flown early, fed him up with quail and gave all the others a full crop of quail too. I love my birds and I hate to see a hawk with too much of an appetite if there is no need for it.

And the sun continued to shine.

And I got done what I needed to do.

And come dark I put the hawks and falcons back into their night quarters.

The next day dawned bright and early again. I hate rain more than anything so I never complain when the sun shines down and temperature reaches the high twenties. I like it so much that at least once a year I spend too much time outdoors and my skin peels off me in lizard-like fashion.

All the birds were set out to weather again and all the baths were refilled with fresh cold water to ensure against over-heating, as obviously birds can’t sweat like we can, so will jump down off their perch and wash in the water to cool down.

While putting out the birds I noticed that a little falcon; a peregrine x merlin hybrid still had food in its crop from the day before. This should have set alarm bells ringing straight away, but as he seemed in good form I continued on and set a little reminder in my head to keep an eye on him.

A few hours passed and I was getting on with the day when I noticed that he did not look as perky as he should have. He then hopped down off his perch and took a drink of fresh water. It is not at all unusual to see falcons drinking, even though they get most of the moisture they need directly from their food. But this, added to the fact that he still had food in his crop was a bad sign, so I walked over to take him up on the glove and that’s when I noticed the smell. If I could have given myself a swift kick in the arse that is the moment I would have. I knew instantly what was wrong; he was suffering from what is known to falconers as sour-crop; the meat that was still in his crop had literally gone sour and I I put my face near him I could smell it.

I had a fair idea what to do; obviously the meat had to be removed and quickly. But by then some of it had passed down to its stomach and was already poisoning the bird. There are two ways to remove the offending meat; to push it back up the way it came or to surgically open the crop, which is just a bag, and physically remove it. But this then requires surgery and stitching back up when you know the crop is cleansed. This is a job for a vet, not your average cow and sheep country vet, but a specialised raptor vet, of which there are none in this country.

So I went with option one. As my daughter held the falcon wrapped in a towel, I proceeded to gently push the food back up and out its beak, as if it was vomiting.

I have smelled some bad smells in my time, from bad stomach-churning methane gas on a landfill site, month old exploding rotten goose eggs that exploded all over me, to the stench of a wild stoat that I caught with my hands emptying his musk gland in my direction (this might not sound bad but stoats are cousins of the infamous skunk and believe me this is not a smell that washes off easily). But a smell I will never forget for as long as I live was the stench of putrid meat coming out of that birds crop, to say it stank to high heaven doesn’t come close to a description.

As I massaged the warm rancid meat up and gently took it out with a tweezers, my stomach heaved and I dry retched, how I didn’t throw up all over the bird and my daughter I will never know. How my daughter didn’t vomit all over me will also remain a mystery. But we both felt so sorry for the bird and I felt guilty as hell that I had not noticed sooner that something was wrong.

After cleaning out what food was in there, I cropped-tubed a small amount of saline into the crop as my raptor veterinarian research said to do, and sat him back up on his indoor perch in the shade.

Two hours later the poor little guy was dead.

I reckon the quail I had fed, which was ex-layer and carried a high fat content was the reason. That and the few hours in the sunshine combined was a lethal mix. But the real culprit was me for not seeing that this could happen before it did. Fault lies squarely and firmly at my door as I was supposed to look after the little chap. I just hope it lodges in my memory for many years to come and hopefully divert any similar disaster in the future.

I have taken to feeding the birds later in the evening as the hot spell continues, so no bird has to sit out in the sun with food in its crop, and if I fly a bird early it goes into the shade for the rest of the day.

Some people say it is good to learn by your mistakes. But after making as many blunders as I have in my life, believe me when I say it is much better to learn from the mistakes of others.

Tommy Byrne.

I have kept dogs all my life and have never been without at least one. But never in all those years have I ever had a dog that was so easy to live with as my old Brittany. He was not the most handsome dog in the world, but when he was younger he found game for the hawks and falcons. If you have read my articles on my ten years with my female sparrow-hawk you might have noticed that he was a huge part of that hunting team. Very few of the adventures we had hawking pheasants with the sparrow-hawk would have been possible without him. My male and female Harris hawks would not have put so many rabbits in the pot if it wasn’t for the four-legged one.

But time moves steadily on. I have a young Brittany bitch now that I bred. She is full of beans and mischief and my hopes for our future is that she turns out to be half as useful as the old dog was.

Tom.

Having birds on a creance is a nuisance as it tends to get wound up around anything at all, no matter how careful you are, and for that reason I try to dispense with it as soon as possible. It is even worse when training small birds like kestrels or merlins as even a tuft of grass can catch it and drag the eager bird to the ground which is disheartening.

The act of tying food to a lure is something I stop doing as soon as possible also as there is nothing more annoying that a bird that refuses to come to a lure unless it can actually see its dinner. Add to this the fact that when (not “if”, but “when”) the food detaches from the lure, it gives the bird the opportunity of taking off with it and going somewhere quieter to finish its meal. Then you have a hawk that might return for more food, which obviously you will have to tie to the lure even better that the first time and hope the same thing does not happen again.

I never understand why falconers do this, but they do.

Anyway enough about the lure as that is a subject that deserves a chapter if not a book to itself.

The first day I flew this hybrid falcon, I only gave him two stoops to the lure and called him in for dinner. I know he could have done a lot more but it was my first day flying him and I like to take baby steps with the training. A baby step in the right direction is better than leaps and bounds in any other. So the next day I gave him six stoops at the lure and left it at that. Today he is up to about ten and now I can start getting him fit and shaping the behaviour I want from him in the air.

I want to fly this bird to the lure only for the foreseeable future. He doesn’t fly at any great height yet and hasn’t ranged out any distance, but it’s only his third day flying free with me and these are things that can be rectified with time. So all in all I am looking forward to flying him as he should be an interesting bird to train.

Tom.

If everyone loved the same things, if everyone agreed on everything and thought the same the world would be a less colourful and interesting place, so this surely can only be a good thing.

Since the first Harris Hawks were introduced into the falconry circle just a few decades ago this species really has taken the world by storm, shouldering aside the Goshawk and the American Redtail to make a large space for itself in both Irish and world falconry. It is by a long stretch the most commonly flown raptor today. People that could not otherwise have the time to put into a daily hawking regime can now have a bird that can fit into their lives; with an hour spare here and there and a morning out at the weekend People that do not have the time to train and manage the old traditionals like Goshawks and Merlins can now classify themselves as falconers and enjoy their time doing it.

The old adage that if you don’t have the time you should not have the hawk, still holds true and always will, but what of these Harris Hawks that are not flown every day like the books tell us they should be?

I personally would be in favour of people flying their birds when they can. Every falconer knows that you get back from your bird what you put into it. Of course if the bird spends ninety per cent of its life tethered to a bow perch with nothing more to look at than a brick wall, this to me is wrong. If the same bird sits free in an aviary until it is weathered and bathed on the lawn, with visual stimulation such as a dog or even the crazy neighbours to keep an eye on, this is a major improvement. Harris Hawks are intelligent and need mental stimulation even more so than most raptors, because in the wild they live in family groups and getting constant stimulation from the other group members is very important.

Harris Hawks do have a reputation for being noisy. There are two reasons for this and both stem from the fact that they live in groups or packs. Firstly, in the wild they are constantly calling back and forth to each other to hold the pack together, and holding the pack together is important because as a group they work together and if there is game to be caught the chances of catching that prey is multiplied by being a member of such a group. Each member of the pack has a role to play, some entering cover to flush the prey while others wait on above to do the actual catching. Secondly, because the young birds live in a group they are able to mentally mature slower than solitary hunters such as Redtails and Goshawks. They stay with the pack, learning skills and techniques from the older wiser birds and if they don’t make a kill it’s not the end of the world for them as they can still feed from the kills the pack makes. This slow maturity in the hands of a novice falconer; if he keeps his mentally immature Harris Hawk hungry for too long, can and in most cases will, lead to him having a screamer on his hands. And unless you have experienced this first-hand, take my advice and try to avoid it at all costs.

As I said earlier the more time you spend with your hawk the better she will be. On my key-ring is the ring from my old male Harris Hawk that I had for over a decade. He came to me after his first owner could stand his incessant squawking no longer. He came to me and immediately shut up as we hunted nearly every day and lamped pigeons most evenings in the nearby trees when winter kicked in. It is because of this bird that my kids lick their lips every time pigeon is on the menu.  

There are bad Harris Hawks about. Being so easy to breed and hence so readily available, and the fact that they are often cited as being the ideal beginners hawk, the amount of ruined Harris Hawks about is bound to be high. If they are not taken and handled at the right age, they can be an absolute nightmare to work with. A totally wild goshawk would not compare to a Harris Hawk that has it in his head that he does not want to be anywhere near you. So if I can offer some advice to the potential Harris Hawk keeper (and I do this only because I have made nearly every mistake going), let it be this;  Firstly, don’t just get one because one is available, prepare and book your bird long in advance and make sure you take her at the proper age. And secondly, even after spending as much time out and about with other Harris hawkers, make sure you have an experienced falconer to hand that can help and guide you through the maze of training your first bird.

This species is very intelligent and so easily trained in the right hands.

This species is very intelligent and so easily ruined in the wrong hands.

A good Harris Hawk is an absolute joy to spend time with. Because of its different and varied hunting styles it can probably put more game in the bag than most other hawks after a morning out walking the hills.

I have seen old school traditional falconers, men that would argue against these easy flown hawks, where the mere idea of hunting in a group goes totally against the grain and where the flying of falcons rules supreme. I had heard them putting Harris Hawks down time and time again. But I have watched them sit on a hilltop in Ireland on a breezy day and totally enjoy the spectacle of a dog below them working cover for rabbits while two or more Harris Hawks circled the skies above, diving and stooping down like a bullet to catch its prey or sometimes after every effort has been made and the bunny runs free, to watch a hawk climb on the rising air again and prepare for the next chase. Like the two old hecklers in the Muppet Show they had spent years shooting down any virtues of these “Mexican Chickens”. But out on that hill, these old falconers had to admit that maybe, just maybe, the Harris might have something to offer that is very special indeed.

Tom.

Different people have different ideas of what dog makes the perfect hunter’s companion. For some it’s the hyper-active Springer, a dog that just doesn’t let up and leaves no bush unturned. For others it’s the new world Labrador, a true gunner’s dog and a specialist retriever and if given a chance can be a good all-round hunter too. Many breeds that have been excellent hunters, finders and retrievers of game have sadly disappeared or become so rare in the field that they no more get a mention in working dog tales; Poodles come to mind, once thought to be the smartest of all working breeds, and the King Charles Spaniel, a small French breed, probably (and this is only my opinion) used in French falconry as the sparrow-hawkers companion. The reason I believe this is not only was this breed, (like so many so called gundogs) in existence long before the invention of the shotgun, but why else have such a small falconry spaniel in the field unless it was for use with sparrow-hawks or maybe with Hobbies or Merlins. Sussex and Clumber spaniels too have slipped by the way-side in the popularity steaks of the hunters four legged pal. Both these spaniel breeds were bred, I believe, to be purposely slow and ponderous for the simple reason that a man can keep up with them in the field, not just any man, but a man with a goshawk on his fist. If you have ever seen a team of Goshawk and fast spaniel work together you will understand the problems involved in keeping up when the brakes just don’t work!

Anyway, other folk prefer the Pointer or Setter, or English Pointer or Setters as they are know both in Ireland and in the UK, but these dogs are originally of French and Spanish origin and should still be in what has come to be known as the Hunt, Point and Retrieve group of dogs. But these two have been bred as total specialists as breeders have concentrated on only the Point aspect of their skills which is a shame. The Europeans though have what is (in my opinion again) the right idea. Most dogs in this group are what it says on the tin; Hunters, Pointers and Retrievers; from German Shorthaired Pointers to Munsterlanders, beautiful Hungarian Vizlas to ghost-like Weimeraners, the bulky Italian Spinones to the strong and elegant pointing Griffons.

Yes, I purposely left the little guy ‘til last; the small hardworking French Brittany Spaniel, or Brittany as it is called now. (the Spaniel was dropped as it is such a good pointer.)

When I was growing up I had my heart set on two things; a good dog and a good hawk. The hawk, as far as I can remember was going to be the old traditional Goshawk, filler of pots and slayer of all things edible. The dog though was either a Hungarian Vizla or a Brittany. Now as I write this, and after flying different Goshawks and owning a Brittany for twelve good years, I reckon it will be the Brittany all the way for me. Never in my life of owning different types of dogs have I had or seen such an easy-going and hard-working dog to spend time with. As a pointer (and I am no expert) I have had my dog on point for three quarters of an hour on pheasant, while my buddy searched and retrieved his Goshawk and returned for a second flight. After flying different hawks and falcons over the year’s at all different types of quarry, I can honestly put my hand on what’s left of my heart and say that there were many, many days that would have been a total blank if it were not for my old Brittany, he found game in the unlikeliest of places and at the least likeliest of times. He made the good days good and if there were really bad days (thankfully these don’t stick in the memory like the good ones) he was never to blame.

Brittanies are small for a pointing breed and will not cover the heather moors like an elegant Pointer or Setter, but for a dog to throw in the car when you are out with a Harris hawk one day, a Spar the next and a companion for that week away with the falcons, a dog that absolutely suits the Irish falconer or rough-shooter, a dog to lie in the garden and keep out of the way until he is needed, my money is on the Brittany.

As I said earlier, every man has his own choice of canine hunting companion and that’s the way it should be. It leads to a life of variety which is always a good thing. Once the sun shines occasionally and we can head for the fields with a dog at our heels life will never be too bad.

Tom

Ps. above photos are my six week old litter, all little characters and all trouble!

I just happened to be out exercising a falcon some weeks back, when I noticed someone watching me from a distance. After the bird had flown and was back up and feeding on the fist, the person approached and commented on how graceful the bird was, and what a pleasure it was to see him being put through his paces.  

The sun shone on both events and you would not have seen such an array of cameras and lenses at a Paris fashion show.  My female harris hawk stole the show as usual, flying over the crowd and catching her pretend bunny pulled by a child that tried to outrun a hunting hawk!

Everyone enjoyed handling the hawks and having their pictures taken, so I think all went away happy after their day with the birds of prey. All in all a very good atmosphere and a couple of very enjoyable days.

Tom

The birds flying weight for example I thought was carved in stone, the perfect weight for each particular bird was discovered during the training programme and that was the weight that bird would fly at for the rest of its natural life. I quickly learned that this was untrue and more effort was spent chasing the hawk’s perfect hunting weight than in the actual pursuit of prey!

So why does the perfect weight for your bird change from day to day?
Here are some of the reasons, feel free to add to it!

1. Food quality…did she have a feed of duck or washed rabbit yesterday?
2. Food quantity…this one is obvious, I think!
3. Feeding time…did you fly her and feed her at same time yesterday, or can you remember?
   Temperature…has rigor mortis set in after a night of freezing fog?
4. Weather conditions…maybe you should follow the bird back to the car and out of the rain!
5. Changing seasons…is your bird looking for nesting material instead of rabbits?
   Strange people… who invited that fellow in the shiny tracksuit?
6. Distance from home…are you flying in unfamiliar countryside? The average pigeon knows when it is miles from home, why not the falcon?
7. Air pressure…this gives me a headache just thinking about it!

Every falconry book worth the paper it’s written on will tell you that it is wrong to fly your bird too low. She will be lacking in strength; instead of hunting she will be turning to you to supply food and basically won’t be enjoying herself. But it is equally important that she is not flown too high. If she is, she could turn away from you, break up the partnership and go self-hunting or worse, sit there and yawn every time you call her. (I think I will have to drop my woman’s weight a little!)
So basically you want to fly your bird quite high, but low enough that she will still perform the task in hand.

Weight control is the most useful tool in training your hawk, this may sound like an obvious statement but it is surprising how often you see it ignored.

When a bird arrives from a breeder, obviously fat as a Christmas turkey and just as much a handful, one of the first things we do is stand her up on the fist and admire her, (that’s me, guilty as sin!) Every feather in place and her eyes as wild as fire. With one movement of your hand she is gone, bating off the glove with enough energy to take her over the horizon. We take for granted she is as wild as a wildcat and does not want to be there. The reason she does not want to be near us is because we don’t have anything she wants at that exact moment. But with a little bit of forethought and a little bit of weight reduction in the aviary before she is even handled, the time spent waiting for her to feed on the fist and start looking to you as a friend instead of foe can be dramatically reduced. Imagine it from the bird’s point of view and I think we can’t go far wrong.
I have seen a falconer stand waiting with outstretched glove, garnished with the loveliest piece of fresh raw beef. While I was licking my lips and getting hungrier and hungrier the hawk on the creance was getting bored, sitting with one foot raised and not remotely interested. This bird should have been put back on the lawn to weather while the falconer took the beef to a frying pan. Instead, through the best efforts of the falconer the bird was being taught to ignore the person’s call. Food is meant as a reward and it can only be a reward if the bird actually has an appetite.
Food can be used to overcome most bad habits, especially those little niggly ones that just get on your nerves. I had a Harris hawk that bated every time I passed through the gateway to the weathering lawn, this used to really annoy me. Why did he bate? I supposed he loved to go out on the lawn for his bath or maybe he got a fright once and just bated out of habit. Whatever the reason, something had to be done. I took an ounce off his weight, because the lower his weight the more important the food would be, and gave him a small piece every time just before we passed through the gate. After a few times I changed it so he got his food after he passed through without bating. The food took his mind off bating and after about twenty times it seemed to cure a problem that had been annoying me for months.
The same goes for birds that bate just when you are going to pick them up or put them down, or birds that don’t look forward to the approach of the hood. Use food to take their mind off it and then reward only when they do it properly.

Routine. I think this is the most important falconry term you will learn. In the wild raptors hunt to a routine, peregrines leave the cliffs to hunt usually at first light, and we have all seen sparrowhawks hunting just before dark, like a handbag snatcher surprising her prey. We can use routines to help us train our birds. Don’t try teach your hawk in the morning one day when she is not really hungry and then the next night when she is ravenous, then maybe skip a day or two and do the same again. It would be better to train her every day at the same time, she will be looking forward to it and have in her mind what she learned yesterday. If you stick to the same pattern during training and then actual hunting, you will notice the hawk getting more eager before the task or flight, which means that you can increase her weight quite considerably. One particular falcon comes to mind, a hybrid prairie falcon given to a falconer because she was messed around, and totally refused to co-operate until her weight dropped to 1lb 15 oz. After flying this bird every day in the same area for a few months he was able to raise the birds weight until the last I heard she was doing well catching crows at 2lb 5oz.
But be careful when your bird reaches that top weigh and something unusual happens, like that fellow in the shiny tracksuit shows up all of a sudden. Not a problem if you have been wearing one during training but if it upsets your bird - and birds are more easily upset at a high weight, you could have a problem. One falconer training a peregrine tiercel to the kite with never a problem saw his bird range away as usual one day only never to return to the lure attached to his kite. After an hour of tracking he finally found him impatiently circling and dive bombing a hand-glider!

At field meets you will see the best-manned hawks acting up, (that’s me guilty again!) maybe slow to return or worse taking stand in a tree. “She was alright yesterday at that weight, I wonder what’s got into her today?” Maybe yesterday she was flown in her usual pattern of one man and his dog in the usual landscape, today in the field she has to contend with twenty noisy people, strange dogs, and to cap it all, children! By having your hawk slightly lower (and I don’t mean ravenous) on days when you know it might be upset, the extra urge to hunt will usually override the other factors.

So what is the best way to control weight? After mentioning all the variables that can affect it, I suppose I had better look at ways of holding it where you want it. The weather and the seasons, and why people wear shiny tracksuits are things mortal man has no control over. But the three things we have at our disposal are food quantity, food quality and sticking as close as you can to feeding times. Most falconry books will tell you to vary your bird’s diet as much as possible. This is wise from a health point of view and I am sure the bird enjoys the change. But using this variety of food types makes it much harder to maintain a level weight. If you were trying to teach a bird something very important such as jumping to the fist, high jumping, catching prey for the first time or kite training, it might be a good idea to feed exactly the same food every day for the important part of the training programme. There is enough to try figure out about your bird’s behaviour at this stage without factoring in what effect different food types are having on her. This is where I find day old chicks very handy, they are clean, the birds love them and they are uniform in size, which makes gauging how much to feed in the field very easy.

So over the years of trying to become a competent falconer, I have made more mistakes than a one armed juggler. I have finally got some idea how to control my bird’s weight and can now get back to my original plan which was………………..oh, I remember now, to actually go out hunting and maybe even catch something!

T Byrne 2002

Sparrowhawk

The black cloud is darker today. It’s August and the sun is shining but I can feel the weight of a cloud hanging over me as I take her up in my hands. I know she is gone as I hold her weakened body, her feathers perfect and her eyes once so bright and menacing are fading fast as she looks at me.
I have kept birds all my life, birds of all kinds, from Appenzellars to Zebra finches, but exactly ten years and ten weeks ago I climbed a spruce tree to select a young sparrowhawk, a couple of ounces of fluff and talons that was to give me more pleasure, pain, fun and adventure than all the other birds put together, and here she was dying in my hands. I gave her a broad base anti-biotic knowing it was already too late, as some part of her body was giving up and it could reasonably be put down to old age. I placed her back on her nest ledge already knowing the outcome. I looked in a little while later and she was dead, the musket sitting beside her, doing his high speed laps around the aviary as I went in and lifted her body again.

I really felt miserable, and if someone had walked into my yard today and offered to take the other birds away, the aviaries and freezers, my old weighing scales and my scruffy hawking bag, I think I would gladly have walked away from the lot. Alice was over a decade old it was obvious this day was drawing near, and I know I let it affect me where I should have been stronger. But the thing is, I really liked the old she-devil, and this is probably where I get laughed at, I know for a fact she liked me. Each day she would come down to me, taking her food from my fingers before flying back up to her nest ledge to consume her meal. Often times she would call from her ledge and fly to the front bars for me to caress her plumage.

Owning and working animals in the field can teach you so much. I grew up with terriers, lurchers and ferrets, I spent more time in a ditch than a disco. I have sat up trees late into the night waiting for badgers to emerge from their setts, crawled out of bed at four in the morning to watch fox cubs play until the vixen returns with food. I’ve watched stoats hunting and pygmy shrews fight over disputed territories. I witnessed a wild merlin ring up after a winter lark, each trying to outlast the other as the victor, one for its meal and one for its life. But the very best insights into the world around us were, for me, those days in the field with Alice. To see her hunting techniques in action, not just the Sparrowhawks amazing speed and agility of the straight forward snatch and grab flights, but the indirect pre-planned (this pre-planning took all of a second) flights that took her away from the quarry to make the most of the wind or some hedgerow or building or just about anything that could give her an advantage before the lightning fast and fearless strike.

One flight that sticks in my memory was many years ago when out on the hill behind my house. The dog had flushed and re-flushed a pheasant but Alice had only acquired feathers in the strikes as it was an old strong bird and after the second put-in there was no sign of it as the dog searched the area under where Alice had taken stand in a large beech tree. As I was extricating myself from the undergrowth I heard a blackbird cluck to my left and simultaneously the gentle sound of a hawk bell high up the tree to my right. I looked up to see Alice in a direct glide down to where see had spied the blackbird. This path took her right past my face and just before her wingtip brushed my skin I stared into her eyes, literally stared into her eyes as she came past, visually locked onto her prey. In those seconds she was totally oblivious to me and the rest of the world around her, seeing nothing but her prey and not wavering her stare even as her yellow eyes passed mine with only inches between. It was not until she had chased, snatched and missed her intended prey that I remembered to breathe again.

My hawking dog is old and deaf now; I have to stamp my boot on the ground to get his attention. His time will come too and I know I will miss him about the place just as sure as I know I will start all over again someday with another dog. Only this week I was offered a pup by a well-bred bitch that I like the look of. She belongs to a friend that I would never have even met if it were not for Alice. The smallest thing can change the direction of a life and I can only wonder where it might have led had that nest been empty all those years ago.

I dug a whole between two recently planted apple trees, their first fruit turning red as I break through the dry earth. Her plumage is perfect after her moult, a far cry from her early hunting seasons, catching crows, pheasants and magpies and smashing up her tail in the process. I jokingly referred to her as the Raggety-Hawk in those days as I endlessly imped and re-imped rook feathers to repair her tail. I also remember the first time she encountered sheep-fencing. It was stretched tight across the field ready and waiting to slice her up into a four inch square. I put my hands to my face to block out her obvious doom, but as I looked through my fingers I saw her fold back her wings and slip through to catch her prey, I needn’t have worried even if I had time to. My heart forever after skipped a beat when she performed this neat little trick.

She really was a tough old girl. I unfolded her feet as I laid her down in the earth. These tiny feet had held fast to a herring gulls neck as the gull’s beak had encircled her body. I have seen her turn upside down in full flight trying to snatch at lapwings. I have seen her quickly grasp a swallow in mid-air. She regularly took crows down to earth, crows over twice her weight that took to the skies and thought they were safely away from the little menace.
I unfolded and extended each talon until I came to her damaged right outside toe. I often likened flying a Spar to sea fishing. Fresh water fly-fishing is like flying a falcon at a single prey, selecting your fly to match the seasons insect hatch, intending your lure for only your pre-selected trout or salmon and no other, specialised stuff indeed. When I was younger I spent hours throwing a baited line into the sea not knowing what was to come out, and this is what Sparrow-hawking is to me, you throw in your line, you cast off your Sparrow-hawk and after that you really don’t know what’s going to happen, all hell can break loose and you can forget your specialised pre-planned hunting intentions. I once came home after a day’s crow hawking with three pheasants that needed treatment for shock and a good feed! But Alice did specialise and if she knew more about one prey than any other it was crows, hundreds upon hundreds of rooks fell to her grasp, on the ground or from the air, if she was on form she was nothing short of lethal. Local farmers used to ask me to swing by if it was not too much trouble. She has caught hooded and carrion crows and I have seen her give a raven a slap before wisely turning away. But it was a magpie that cut her tendon. It was my fault and mine alone, as I removed her from yet another magpie to carry on the hunt for more exciting prey. When a Spar hits its victim the adrenalin rush must be enormous as the only thing that exists is the flight, the capture and the killing of that prey, and only as she plucks her quarry can you see the adrenalin subside and some kind of calm return. This day I rushed things and slid her clenched talons off the magpie’s head and along its open beak, and in the process a tendon was severed. It took me three courses of different anti-biotics to kill that infection and left her with a useless toe, but as far as I could make out it never affected her catching ability.

There is a very narrow lane near where I live, with a gate to a grassy field that usually holds a flock of sheep and where I got many a flight over the years. On one particular day I came to this gate and off she went after a magpie, (a quarry she found irresistible). She closed the gap quickly as the magpie sought refuge under the only cover available: a sheep. Now I don’t know about you but some flights I can see and remember every detail in slow motion, and this is one of them. The magpie closed the distance between itself and the sheep but knew it was losing ground. Alice was locked on like a heat-seeking missile and the magpie knew he was in trouble. He let out a final squawk as he looked over his shoulder at his approaching doom. If he hadn’t taken that look and concentrated on where he was going, he might have succeeded in diving under the sheep as he intended Instead, he hit the sheep right in the arse as Alice hit him. It was the combined force of the two birds striking the sheep in such a tender area and the obvious fright causing it to leave the ground all four feet at the same time that made me laugh that day, and causes me to grin every time I pass that particular gate.

Another day, out in the car I passed her to a friend and told him to fly her. We set up a flight at a flock of mixed crows and he rolled the car window down as we approached. His face took on an unusual expression and I asked him was he ok.
“My heart is beating out of my chest” was his reply.
I knew exactly what he meant as I had experienced it so many times. Nine ounces of calm brown feathers sitting relaxed but alert on your fist, and in a split second of her choosing, she turns into nine ounces of muscle, spit and venom, with a mission that lasts only seconds, knowing absolutely anything could happen as soon as she leaves that glove.

I know from the many days out hunting with her, getting her weight and condition just right, that even after all my planning we could still have a blank day or something unforeseeable could go wrong. She was a full imprint it was not uncommon for her to blame me when things didn’t go exactly to plan. Either way it was always exciting, I used to always say that it was these bad days that made the good days so good. But today as I laid her down for the last time and covered her little body with soil I wonder was it the good days that makes these bad days so unbearable.

Why do we do it to ourselves? Should we be hard as stone and just use creatures as tools for our enjoyment? The trouble is I could never do that, if I could I know the bad days would be easier but the good ones would not give me such a high. Seeing a bird I reared and trained, learning to fly, learning to use the air and wind, learning to strike and learning and improving with each miss, this is what does it for me, as I feel I am part of all this. I get pleasure in watching a falcon rouse in the sky. I get pleasure in seeing a hawk that last week could not stand to be near me now bobbing its head in anticipation of my company. Am I a foolish soft Git? Am I being overly sensitive or sentimental about a bird? Most likely I am. But some things touch some folk more than others and after a decade I find it hard not to be affected.

Alice was just a normal Sparrowhawk. They are all beautiful and fearless with an endless capacity to amaze, ounce for ounce, there is no other falconry bird to rival them for bravery and excitement.
I filled back in the earth and rolled back the grass sod, it was as if nothing had been touched.

T Byrne 2006