Gods of the Morning (23 page)

Third, it was unheard of that the treecreeper might dig a pit in anything, so the notion was dismissed. As one detractor pointed out, ‘The treecreeper's bill is a probe, not a pick.'

Mackenzie's paper is the more fascinating for telling us as much about birdwatchers as about the bird itself. In 1939 naturalists seemed wary of attributing new behaviour to a bird, suggesting a reluctance to accept the endlessly spinning wheel of adaptation available to every organism. It now seems obvious what the bird was up to, but clearly not so obvious to those at the time.

The Treecreeper, Mr John Simon pointed out to me, has found the dry, spongy bark of the Wellingtonia useful, presumably for nest building, and I found many – say 9-to-10 – places in
the trunks where the birds had hollowed out spaces, some as neatly rounded as if a hen's egg had been half pressed into the soft bark.

Wrong again. It was nothing to do with nest-building. Treecreepers nest inside concealed crevices, not in open declivities such as the ‘hen's egg' ones Mr Simon was seeing.

Slowly – remarkably slowly – the world of ornithology began to work it all out. The bird had discovered a new tree and developed a new behaviour.

There is no doubt that Mr Paterson was right and that the earliest known records of roosts in Wellingtonia bark were in 1905 and 1906 in Scotland. He even uses the same simile as I did, a hen's egg. But the holes were not recognised as roosts till 1923 (N. H. Foster). The 1905–6 holes are said to be ‘not quite through the bark' showing that the trees were only just big enough. In older trees to-day there is often a considerable depth of bark behind the hole. About 1907 the spread northwards of the Great Spotted Woodpecker was being watched with interest and the work of an old resident in a new medium was taken for that of a new-comer.

Quite so. But then the penny drops properly. Mackenzie sees the whole picture:

But the Treecreeper is the only bird known to me which deliberately makes a roosting niche used for no other purpose and using a technique different from that employed in any other
activity such as nest building. The operation is taken a step further: numbers of roosts in a given area considerably exceed those of birds, so one can be used to suit the wind and weather.

*  *  *

It is our second night and we are out again. The moon is bright, so bright that we barely need the torch. It's just past full and lopsided on the top right as if someone has sliced a bit off. The stars are out too and it is colder, much colder, a proper autumn night. By now Arthur has seen many pictures. He knows the treecreeper intimately. He knows it lays five or six eggs in a nest of bits of bark and tiny twigs stuffed into a crevice, lined with hair and grasses. He knows it's double-brooded too, but most importantly, he understands that it carves its own niche in Sequoias. Back to the same tree; on my shoulders again. It's there again, certainly the same bird, but this time we can see it all. It's not in the same niche, but has moved north by a foot to another, deeper, pit between two thick thongs.

This time we can see it properly. I shine the torch and Arthur leans in. His face is only two feet from the bird. It turns its head to look and the needle bill is clearly visible, as is the creamy eye stripe. And it hasn't fluffed up its back feathers like last night: they're still sleek and streaky mottled like – well, like the bark it's roosting in. ‘Don't move,' I whisper. I can't see Arthur's face but he is silent and still. The bird stays. I can see its glassy eye, as bright as a star in the Milky Way, reflecting my torch beam, the cream stripe
running through and its long spiky tail feathers pressed against the bark.

Is five too young to see a treecreeper? Can he possibly digest what I'm showing him? Am I swamping his imagination with too much detail? Or am I imparting a tiny snippet of the joy I have known for so many years from these simple moments? We move away gently. I lower him to the ground and take his small cold hand in mine. ‘Let's go and tell Mummy,' I suggest. He breaks free and runs ahead, bursting with news.

Acknowledgements

So many to thank, so many to admire, so many loyal friends.

For general help and for just being there when I needed them: the Aigas rangers of recent years to whom I have turned over and over again for information, for details, for back-up and for support in my peculiar investigations into the natural world that governs all our lives. Phil Knot, Jenny Grant, Morag Sargent, Donald Sheilds, Brenna Boyle, Elspeth Ingleby, Ed McHugh, Jenny Campbell, Phil Taylor, Marcia Rae, Imogen German, Scott O'Hara, Duncan McNeill, Sarah Hutcheon, Hannah Thomas, Sue Hodgson, Harry Martin, Robin Noble, Amelia Williamson and Jonathan Willett.

For willing help with research and information: Sheila Kerr, Laurie Campbell, Roy Dennis, Ian Dawson, Mike Toms, Martin Davies, Melanie Evans, Miriam Darlington, Paul Ramsay, Peter Wortham, Chris Smout, Peter Tilbrook, Martha Crewe, Lesley Cranna, Polly Pullar, Ian Sargent, Vicki Saint, Ieuan Evans, Alicia Leow-Dyke, Dave Bavin, Kate Thomson, Hugh Bethune, Maciej Adamzuk, Finlay Macrae, Dave Sexton, George Swan, John Aitchison, Lennart Ardvisson, Duncan Halley, Lindsey Macrae, Nigel Bean, Jo Charlesworth, Stephen Moss, Nick Baker, Liz Holden, David Dixon and Laurie Campbell.

For inspiration: Gavin Maxwell, Sir Frank Fraser Darling, Kai Curry-Lindahl, Richard Mabey, Mark Cocker, Jim Crumley, Gary Snyder, Ted Hughes, J. A. Baker, Annie Dillard, Jane Goodall, Chris Packham, Jay Griffiths, Kathleen Jamie, Julian Clough, and a host of other naturalists, poets and nature writers, friends and mentors past and present whose works constantly swill round inside my head.

For loyalty: my generous readers, too many to name, who so kindly and thoughtfully write to me about my work; and the hundreds of field centre guests who come back year after year.

For love, tolerance and understanding: my wife Lucy, who calls herself a literary widow when I'm writing; my son Warwick, who now runs our field centre and without whose support I wouldn't have the time to write; and my daughter Hermione, who generously overlooks my perpetual distraction and absent-mindedness.

For company: the rumbustious Jack Russells, Nip and Tuck.

For joy: the blackcaps, the rooks, the red squirrels, the robins, the ravens, the pine martens and all the uplifting wildlife that frames our Aigas world and shapes our days.

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