Lord of the Winged

He tucked his wings and descended to a stony bank at the foot of the cascade in the middle of the shallow late April flow. If humans walked past he retreated to a horse-chestnut branch on the opposite bank, staring from one eye. It was approaching sunset. A solitary human sat on the limestone, laptop open, staring back. 

Ducklings, startled by his landing, paddled downstream, emitting sharp staccato shrieks to alert the gossiping adults too far away for comfort. Their wardens - three mallards and a hen - paid scant attention.

The Lord's domain was clearly defined. Upriver, an old bridge atop a man-made cascade of giant limestone steps, rising twenty metres over a stretch five times in length, tumbling down to an overhanging boulder which sheltered lonely drinkers and teenage sweethearts.

A million tourists cross the bridge every year, squeezing through an infamous corner, bound for celebrated attractions on the Wild Atlantic Way. They squint down the river, unaware of tales within the great Heron's realm

Downstream the first of a series of horseshoe bends undulating down to plains of an ocean bay bordered the territory of another. A usurper had settled between quarters, unconcerned with boundaries of the noble.

Shallow currents made good eating. Receding water split the river into a system of rock pools. A home for elvers who stayed near the bottom and trout who broke surface to chase flies in fading light. The trout, in turn, would make easy prey.

Fast currents were formed by trickling streams searching their way between rocks. The ducklings attempted to cross and were swept back in a watery game of snakes and ladders. A hen and a mallard broke from conversation and effortlessly intercepted their young, who latched to their wake and followed downstream.

In wetter months it would be impossible to land where he stood. Two days of heavy rain would see rushing water whipped into a frenzy, engulfing all and freeing trapped prey to resume ocean-bound journeys. Then hunting was dangerous - that time was for Kayakers.

It was time to survey. The pretender was of a type he had not witnessed in previous years.

Heron followed the ducks. Three powerful flaps of his great wings launched him, neck stretched forward for speed. He tilted right, cutting across the sharp, right-hand-bend that divided his jurisdiction in two.

The waters were deeper here. Predators of the realm, larger than he, were hunting. The bend would snag large branches washed downstream on torrential days and trees turned over by storms and mudslides from the steep wooded bank on the right.

Some of the fallen clung stubbornly to life and branches shot upward from the water sprouting fresh leaves. They provided a skeletal haunt for the two otters who slivered their way through submerged branches - like fattened sea snakes - legs tucked into streamlined form and propelled by powerful tails.

The bend turned left following its course seaward. Golden reeds flanked either side. Today their base was more mud than water but gullies provided access for the family of ducks, sheltering them from storm and dark. He could hear them approaching to make rest for the night.

Heron carried on. A steep bank on his left meant he flew level with a cow field ending suddenly at the leaves of a glen. This was the end of his province. A different Lord, took care from here, it had always been this way.

He looked down to see rippled rings betraying his new rival. He turned his wings to the breeze dropping close to where the jet black cormorant re-emerged to inhale. Spooked, it stretched its wings, large in their own right but not like Heron's. It took off without reaching full flight and landed again some distance away.

 A small stream from a distant lake emerged from the woods and fed the river. An old stone bridge crossed where they joined, sheltered by the great chestnut trees. Here he would winter when wind and rain forced nature back. Heron had proven his prowess. This was his castle alone.