Close to the church were five trees, one a large holly, the other four old and tall yews. The two nearest the lights were the main hosts for a flock of several hundred starlings which used it as a winter roost. I observed them from a distance of about sixty yards, as I waited by a bus stop with the weekly shopping. In the short days leading up to Christmas they would suddenly appear in the late afternoon, flying soundlessly overhead, with acrobatic flight patterns involving sudden sharp changes of direction and height. At no time did I notice any collisions or birds left behind. It was an enthralling spectacle, and had it been performed by even a dozen humans on a stage, or as part of synchronised dancing or gymnastics, it would have merited rapturous applause.
Here, though, I seemed to be the only spectator. No one else noticed, no one else looked up to the deepening sky as they passed by. A closer study of the birds revealed the occasional anomaly, once a pigeon, another time a few pied wagtails, caught up momentarily in the massed ranks of starlings. Then suddenly the aerial ballet would be over, with birds plunging down directly into the trees. This wasn't the end, however, as small numbers kept coming in to add a finale. On one occasion I went over to stand under the trees, with droppings beneath which indicated long residence. Suddenly their noisy clamour ceased as they became aware of my presence. There were a few seconds of almost spectral stillness then a great rush of wings as they flew out of the trees. I didn't repeat this on future occasions. One night I passed much later, about nine o'clock and they were still noisy, which possibly explains their lovely collective noun: murmuration. I noted also a much larger collared dove relegated to the colder outer branches by the sheer numbers further inside the trees.
What initially intrigued me was why they kept flying above the trees even late on a cold afternoon. Surely it made more sense to get there early, to claim the safer and warmer perches at the centre of each tree. I discovered the reason a few weeks later, when I noted a large brown bird flying close to the flock.
This was easily identified as a female sparrow hawk which then plunged into the flying birds, but without success. I kept watching and as soon as the main group of starlings had landed in the trees the sparrow hawk, now with little light remaining, changed its tactics. I watched it plunge several times right into one yew, but again it was unsuccessful. I would imagine, however, that its presence indicated past success and a starling at rest on a branch would be an easier target than one flying fast in a large, swirling flock. It also explained their reluctance to enter the trees until as late as possible, to minimise the amount of time they were subject to the sparrow hawk's attacks.
The location? Not deep in the countryside as you might expect, but viewed from the bus station, Old Cattle Market, Ipswich, looking back to the church in St. Stephen's Lane, now used as the Tourist Information Centre.
Richard Stewart
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