Carpark cabaret

07 May Carpark cabaret

I think I’m becoming obsessed with herons.

It’s the end of a bracing two-hour walk, taken at a brisk pace with my regular Saturday walk partner. We’d stridden (sounds weird, I know, but I promise you that’s the past participle of ‘stride’ – I might use it more now I’ve found it) a traverse of Bushy and a circuit of Home Park. We’d checked up on the pair of swans nesting at the edge of the pond where we always stop for coffee from a flask; still sitting on their eggs. We’d gushed at the willows filling out now with those tiny green shards that drape along their supple branches like feather boas fluttering on a hat stand. We’d watched bemused as a couple of moorhens had a real to-do, a spat between siblings perhaps or a bit of energetic courting with one playing hard to get. We’d chatted and laughed, tried to put the world to rights and rued the fact that we can’t.

Crossing back into the car park we come upon this spectacle.

A heron with attitude decides to strut its stuff on the roof of my modest (and rather grubby) Skoda Yeti. I’ve decided it’s a she and I’ve called her Margot. For some reason that name popped into my head. I have no idea why and I’m hoping no actual Margots will be offended. The carpark was quiet when we set out but is now packed with 100-150 cars.  She could have chosen any number of Range Rovers, even the odd Porsche or Jaguar as a landing strip.  I reckon she recognised a kindred creature in the yeti, a fellow eccentric – and yes, it IS astonishing that herons in southwest London can recognise cars! In any case, Margot is obviously a discerning bird going for something unpretentious but quietly functional to stage her performance. 

Just look at that posture, the “look at me” stance, the scarf of pale grey all preened and gorgeous around that impossibly long neck with its dazzling display of black and white, the flashy little ponytail swinging behind, legs planted akimbo and that white belly fringed with black thrust forward provocatively, the haughty look in the eye. If that isn’t a heron version of “Come on over here and let me see what you’ve got”, I don’t know what is!

I’ve never seen a heron this close and stretched out to its full height. It’s like a creature from prehistory or mythology with that incredible neck and those ridiculous skinny legs and all the scarf and hairdo stuff going on. Normally you see them folded up, knees bent out of sight, wings pulled across like a protective cape hiding all their best features, hunkered down in the grass beside some water, head still as a statue, gaze fixed, self-contained, focused, sometimes melting into the background.  Like this…

Hard to believe they’re the same bird! Margot is the extrovert of the species, a showgirl extraordinaire.

People paused to look and point her out to children in buggies.  The sounds of phones snapping photos, muttered oohs and aahs. How long is this going to last, I wondered as I double clicked the key to see if Margot would move off her perch. She barely stirred. Maybe I should set up for the rest of the day and start charging a fee per photo. Clicked again. No reaction. This bird is loving the audience and isn’t going to be scared off by me, I thought, as I clicked again, walked to the car and opened the door. Perhaps I imagined the disdainful look she gave me as she slowly turned around sauntered to the back of the car roof, a smooth lift with her wings, the long legs swept behind her and nonchalantly flew away.