Female goshawk The goshawk’s crop swelled as she tore shred of flesh and gorged herself. What a bird! Look at her. Flo she was called. The three men had been out on the fells since early morning. They had come off Smearsett Scar down a gully, scanning the ground. They filmed her as she flew fast after a rabbit their ferrets had flushed out of its burrow. The art of falconry: the stout glove, the tail guard to protect her feathers. They came off the fell each carrying a case with ventilation holes, for a ferret.
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Sunlight gleamed on snow on the high fells, all day a play of sunlight and shadow. A rare day in a stormy, wet winter. Surely the goshawk could not fly in weather like that? She does jumps, one of them told me. We make her jump from her perch, for exercise. She lives, with the dog, in an aviary in their garden. Not quite with the dog, a little apart. Too close and she might eat it.
Wish I’d see Flo fly. It’s years since I saw a wild goshawk flying through trees in a forest, their habitat.
Wish I’d see Flo fly. It’s years since I saw a wild goshawk flying through trees in a forest, their habitat.
The three upper images are of Pen Y Ghent, with sunlight and shadow playing over the snowy fell. Below, a tree in limestone pavement, winter woods and Moughton Scar.
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