Earlier:
I crouched on the boardwalk, squinting through the viewfinder of my camera. As the picture came into view, I smiled. A coot perched precariously on a messy heap of sticks, weaving twigs twice its size into the structure. The bird seemed content enough, water droplets glistening on its back. Suddenly, it fluffed up its back feathers in alarm, and stared upwards… I took my camera from my eyes. And there, inches away, a Grey Heron glided silently past, so close I could almost reach out and touch it. It carried on towards the reedbeds, and dropped out of sight.
Around 10 minutes later:
We rounded the corner of the path, and stood before the totem pole that was Stover Country Parks intricately carved Wishing Tree. Walking up the raised wooden path, we headed through the door of the Visitor Centre. After another set of double doors, we stood in a quiet room filled with interactive, nature-themed displays. I was immediately drawn to a live feed of the lake, controllable by a joystick. After scanning through various gulls and ducks, I came across the same heron I had seen previously, jostling about in the reeds. I zoomed in, and the huge bird held a struggling fish in its beak, long, slender and flexible. It continued to coil itself in an effort to get away. Sometimes it did drop, only to be snatched up by the bird again.
I called everyone over, and we all marvelled at this conflict of nature. The herons bill was bloody and slimy, as when handling the creature, it stabbed its knife of a beak into the squirming fish. This happened continuously. Many times it looked as though the heron had won, but could not deliver that final blow in time, and the fish escaped its clutches, only to be captured once again. However, one time it looked as if the creature would escape. The beast of a bird did well to bring it back once again. This duel of wits went on for around fifteen minutes, but ended in a gruesome fashion for the struggling fish.
The heron had worn its hardy prisoner down until it was exhausted, and had lost a lot of blood. The bird threw back its head, and the creature slid down its gullet, a wriggling tail soon disappearing. The neck extended to full length, and a still moving lump slipped down into the stomach. The Grey Heron then proceeded to wash itself, and scrub the slime and blood off on the surrounding reeds, as if it had just completed a normal, everyday task.
We watched in silent admiration as it stalked out of view of the camera. Bertie (my brother) took my seat and angled the screen away from the bird, in search of another spectacle. But he wouldn’t find it, as we soon left the building in awe and headed towards the car.
The Bovey Birder 