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There are two types of bird babies in the world, precocial; the pretty, cute, fluffy, endearing ones, and altricial; the helpless, ugly, smother-it-at-birth, useless, needs-to-be-fed-by-it’s-parents-for-weeks type.

Precocial babies are like the chickens and ducks we are so familiar with. They can stand, feed, run, and in the case of ducks and other waterfowl, even swim soon after hatching. These precocial babies need to “imprint” on their parents and siblings straight away so they can recognise them, stay with them and hopefully not get lost as they search for food.
This group of birds are hatched with their eyes open and are covered with a heavy growth of down to keep them warm until their feathers grow. If these babies are hand-reared by humans they see the human as their parent straight after hatching and will follow him or her everywhere, clambering over, through or around obstacles so as not to let their “parent” out of sight. Very soon after they leave the eggshell they dry off and are up and about as a family, leaving the nest site and head off in search of food and shelter.

Ostriches, rheas and emus are precocial, as are most grass eating birds and this of course makes perfect sense; they are up and away under the protection of the parents instead of waiting around for the parents to return to them after spending hours feeding.
Deer, elephants and antelopes do the same; no hanging around waiting for mammy’s return, better to be up within a matter of hours and away with her so she can look after the babby and feed at the same time.

Humans (and all the other apes) on the other hand are altricial. There is no way these pink, furless babies are going anywhere in the immediate future. Take my friends baby for instance. Such a useless lump of lard; crapping where he lies, can’t even stand up with or without assistance and spends his day sleeping or calling out for more food when he knows his mammy is about.

Some birds use this technique too. The whinge-‘til-you-get-fed-technique, and it works. All the birds of prey use this method as it would be impossible for them to hunt effectively with a load of babies in tow. Better to leave them behind in a nest and await the return of parents with food. Pigeons and other foraging birds like finches, sparrows and crows all belong to this group. Their eyes are closed when they hatch and they are completely naked, depending on the brooding parents to keep their body temperature regulated.
The reason altricial birds eyes do not open until they have grown up a bit is quite a simple one; there is just no point. Take hawks, finches or thrushes for example, while their parents are out foraging it would be a disaster if their hungry babies begged food off every passing bird or moving shadow. They would be prey to crows within the hour. Better to be blind and silent until the right mother comes along.
Wolves, dogs, cats and many other animals use this technique too. It is safer for their babies to be helpless for longer instead of exploring outside the den too soon where danger lies with a hungry eye and no mercy.

So back to me and mine. I got myself an ugly, bald, helpless altricial baby bird. It’s a blue and gold macaw whose beak is far too big for is head, its head is far too big for its body and it has enough spare skin to make a pair of moccasins. Its bottom beak is like a bucket into which I pour a few spoonfuls of special baby formula every few hours, and its crop when full makes him look like a big pink ugly squidgy bullfrog. He is nearly four weeks old now and the feathers are just starting to show through the skin, so the transformation from ugly duckling to a beautiful bird has begun.

It should be interesting watching him grow, training him and hopefully flying him without any mishaps.
Wish me luck, as I need to go now and mix up his formula and feed and change him!

Tommy Byrne

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.

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.

I am an avid bird-watcher, but I also like to catch hooded crows, and it’s not everyday that one gets a chance at this most wily of prey. Due to the fact that the two crows were feeding under the brow of the slope, this allowed me good sneaking room along the top.

Quietly I opened the door and slunk out, quietly I nipped ‘round to the back of the jeep and quietly took out the female Harris. As I ducked down and tip-toed along the top of the slope I could hear the Pink Panther theme tune in my head and had to glance around quickly to make sure no one was watching. After mentally gauging the distance and figuring I was in the right place with the two crows just below me I nudged the Harris over the edge.

She is a good bird and caught many crows over her two years, and has even taken large herring gulls on occasion, so I knew she was well able to handle either of the two corvids. Having kept hooded crows and ravens as pets when I was young I have a sneaking respect for both, but especially the formidable raven, so mentally I hoped she would catch the hooded crow and I would give her a good feed up before the next rain shower came.

The Harris Hawk went over the hill like a bullet. With a loud squawk of pure fright the hoody took off first. The raven, being bigger was just that bit slower off the mark, and with the hawk catching up fast it looked to me like a done deal with one less raven in the world.

 Ravens are an extremely aerial bird and are also seriously powerful on the wing as anyone that has spent time with one can confirm. This raven was no exception and it twisted out of the first grasp of the hawk. The Harris missed first time but it was obvious the raven was doomed.

Then it happened. The raven dropped whatever it was carrying; the thing it had been feeding on was still in its beak as it took off and my Harris suddenly changed direction and caught it in the air before it hit the ground. Of course the two crows shouted abuse as they flew of unscathed to feed another day. I was left thankful there were no other fellow falconers watching my feeble attempt at outwitting a crow!

As they say; “There is many a slip between cup and lip!”

Another day in the life of an Irish falconer.

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.  

It is days like today that makes living in Ireland tolerable. After the rain last night, today dawned a beautiful crisp clear morning and a more perfect day for flying falcons would not be possible. There was a good stiff breeze blowing as I gave my Saker falcon his daily exercise; stooping him at the lure to tire him out and build up some muscle. I gave him about five or six minutes of that and he was panting hard as I let him catch the lure.

My Lanner falcon then had her turn on the wing, and it being such a perfect day she wasted no time and headed for the clouds; those big fluffy cumulus clouds that kids love to draw. Within four or five minutes she was just a dot in the sky overhead and when a plane came past pulling a large-winged glider I took my eye off the Lanner.  It’s not until you are looking for something that you really realize just how much big blue sky is up there. After a few minutes fruitlessly scanning the part of the sky I knew she was in, I noticed one of the local buzzards was up soaring around, using its broad wings and the rising air or thermals to climb higher and higher without all the effort of flying. I was cursing myself for forgetting my camera when I noticed a falcon shape high in the sky over the buzzard. It was a peregrine falcon and it was slowly drifting south in its hunt for prey. Off to the north a kestrel was hovering in its search for beetles and somewhere even higher again, somewhere in that ocean of blue was my little Lanner, enjoying herself as she drifted and soared around the sky. Four raptors above me at once and three of them were wild species. If you are a bird watcher or falconer you would appreciate that sight.  

My bird was wearing a small radio transmitter and the constant beep of my receiver confirmed she was overhead somewhere, probably throwing me the odd glance and wondering why I was wasting my life running around on the ground. Falcons have unbelievable eyesight and I wasn’t worried she would lose sight of me standing in the middle of a field, surrounded by thousands of other similar fields in what must look like a patchwork quilt of a land from where she was above.

After thirty five minutes I swung the lure to signal her to return and it was a minute or two after that she appeared in a high speed dive or stoop before hitting the brakes and floating the last thirty feet to earth. Beautiful!

Using the thermals like she did, she was not even panting after being up there for over half an hour, whereas the Saker was panting hard after his five minutes of hard flying. 

As I am writing this a female Sparrowhawk has just zipped past me, obviously on the lookout for some tasty little bird.  

All in all another raptor filled day!

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