Accipiter nisus

I’m sitting in my office, looking out across the narrow road where I live, when I notice a flicker of movement behind my neighbour’s chimney pots. These aren’t the grand, proud stacks you see on some of the older houses nearby. Even now, scanning up and down the street, they seem rather insignificant as chimney pots go. It’s a semi-detached house, and the pots lean at odd angles, giving the impression of crooked teeth that a good dentist could probably straighten with an eye-wateringly expensive brace.

And there, tucked in behind them and staring straight back at me, is a sparrowhawk. (not in the pic)

It’s not the first time I’ve seen one on the road, but it is the first time I’ve caught it looking in my direction. Perched up there like a sailor in a crow’s nest, it instantly earns a name in my mind: my hawk. But what was it watching?

The answer came in a flash. One moment it was there, the next it was gone — a blur across the road and straight into my back garden. Down it went to harass the birds that have been gathering in these freezing conditions, drawn in by the feeders and the seed I’d scattered across the grass. The garden erupted in chaos for a while. I don’t think the hawk was successful, but the whole episode left me thinking about the morality of feeding the birds… bear with me.

I moved in here back in April. My garden backs onto an allotment — far noisier than you might imagine — with neighbouring gardens on either side. One neighbour has bird feeders, the other doesn’t. One garden is left to nature, the other is so pristine it looks like Edward Scissorhands might live there. It’s a real patchwork of habitats, and yet this hawk was using my neighbour’s chimney pots to actively hunt in my garden — the garden I’d effectively filled with birds by providing an easy supply of seed and suet.

So does that mean I’m creating a killing field?

Had the hawk always done this? Animals, after all, are opportunists — when it comes to food, nesting sites, or anything that makes life a little easier, they take what they can. Who can blame them? A hawk using a chimney pot to hunt birds that are themselves taking advantage of an easy meal — does that cancel itself out?

Do I carry on feeding the birds, encouraging them into my accidental killing field while also denying the hawk an easy catch? Or do I stop feeding altogether, denying the hawk a potential meal but also denying the birds the boost that could help them through winter and into a better breeding season?

In the end, I realise the discomfort comes from my need to interfere, to tidy up a system that has never asked for my permission. The hawk is not immoral, and neither are the birds — only I am burdened with the idea that I must somehow manage the outcome. Perhaps the most honest role I can play is not judge, nor saviour, but witness.

So I’ll keep the feeders topped up, the garden open, and my assumptions in check. Life will balance itself in ways I don’t fully understand and never will. And as I sit at my desk, watching feathers scatter and settle again, I’m reminded that nature doesn’t perform for my comfort — it simply carries on, indifferent to my doubts, yet richer for my attention.

Canis Vulpes

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An early start at the Farmlands had me walking along Parkside in the dark, snow crunching beneath my wellington boots. There’s a strange calm in that sound, even as the darkness sharpens every sense. You become alert to everything — real threats, imagined ones, and the familiar spectre of another birder asking the eternal question: “Seen anything?”

I wondered if fishermen do the same as they circle a lake, swapping exaggerated tales of monsters caught and lost. Maybe train spotters too. That thought occurred as an early train thundered through Hackbridge station on its northerly run to London — and let’s face it, who would willingly stop at Hackbridge?

The glow of Croydon’s light pollution pulled me onward like a poundshop Star of Bethlehem. I wasn’t expecting miracles, but I also didn’t expect to be reminded so starkly how little protection this land — and its wildlife — actually has.

By the time I reached the mound, I told myself I’d give it a couple of hours. What followed made it clear that “nature watching” here has become something far darker.

Standing by the vismig hide, a fox burst past me, being actively hunted by three dogs. This wasn’t accidental. This wasn’t “dogs being dogs.” The Farmlands have long been plagued by people who treat wildlife as disposable — bows, arrows, catapults — all aimed at creatures already struggling to survive in an increasingly fragmented landscape.

I ran toward the fox, but within seconds its cries cut short. The dogs had done exactly what they were encouraged to do. Standing over the body was their owner, watching — complicit, unashamed, and entirely at ease with what had just happened.

I confronted him. I filmed the dogs. I filmed the fox lying limp in the snow. He fled back up the mound with his dogs, leaving me alone with the consequence of his actions.

This wasn’t an isolated incident. It never is. The landowners themselves have a history of shooting foxes here — stopping only after complaints were made. Enforcement is weak, accountability is nonexistent, and the message is clear: this kind of behaviour will be tolerated.

So next Sunday, and the Sunday after that, the same thing will likely happen again. Another fox. Another “incident.” Another shrug from those who should be protecting this land.

If the Farmlands are to be anything more than a killing ground disguised as green space, then this has to be called out. Wildlife doesn’t need more excuses. It needs protection, enforcement, and people willing to say that this — all of this — is unacceptable.

And then the ultimate insult after i had posted the news and videos on the groups WhatsApp page, a member contacted me saying ' its against the bird groups policy to confront anyone on site' what a prick 

And it starts again!

Every local patch has its own quiet magic. It’s not just about the birds themselves, but the time invested—the early mornings, the missed chances, the slow accumulation of moments that eventually turn into memories. Over the years, that dedication builds a list; mine now stands at 210 species. Somewhere along the way, though, everyone ends up with a bogey bird. Other people see it effortlessly while you miss it again and again… until one day, without warning, there it is—right above your head.

That moment came for me with an Arctic Skua, flying north. Just one other birder was present, which always amazes me given the weather conditions—but each to their own.

After that, I took some time away from the Farmlands. Anyone who birded there during its peak around 2010 would be utterly dismayed by what it’s become. Big business has stripped it of biodiversity, aided and abetted by dubious servants of the pound note who will seemingly sign off on anything. 

Still, the end of 2025 brought a welcome surprise: a decent showing of geese. Bean Geese and White-fronts were moving through the country, and the YouTube channel Weather Watcher had more or less called it. Unfortunately, work is work, and I couldn’t get there at the time.

https://youtu.be/ni3Eew-3_J4?si=FaTQ5RHqDwc4WzzE

Thankfully, two of the geese lingered for a couple of days, and I managed to catch up with them.

With good intentions, I decided to attempt a year list—an idea that lasted all of an hour. Once I noticed Woodpigeons moving, I abandoned that plan and started counting them instead. I’ve never been able to commit to year listing; I find it often brings out the worst in people and their sightings. So if you don’t mind, I’ll stick to visible migration.

So I’m back, for however long it holds my attention. No targets, no pressure—just watching what passes overhead and seeing what turns up. And as for a new bogey bird? This time it’ll have to be Pied Flycatcher. Their numbers may be increasing, but experience tells me that’s no guarantee I’ll actually see one—and that, oddly enough, is half the appeal.