I shouldn’t have been around to witness this. I should have been on the first of five trains that day that would eventually take me over the Swiss border and back again into France. Unfortunately the abuse of rail workers by management and governments in France and the UK meant that I had to put my plans on hold for a few days while the workers were forced into standing up to the bosses.
Every now and then, workers from the drainage authority turn up. The task of the day determines the vessel in or on which they whizz past creating more wash than any hire boat. Generally I wave and they ignore. One could become a little sensitive to this were one so disposed. I convince myself it is neither a personal slight nor an instruction from management that they avoid being seen to fraternise with the natives, but rather the necessity of being focussed on the task either at hand or impending that contributes to a general air of surliness that pervades these encounters. That doesn’t prevent such dourness radiating vibes of barely concealed aggression. I’ve seen that aggression given voice in the responses to perceived criticism on social media pages. I’ve no wish to mess with some of these über-masculine types in the real world who make me a little nervous. I’ll continue to wave and they’ll probably continue to ignore.
I’ll hazard a guess that my fascination with aquatic and peri-aquatic bird life is no secret. Friends frequently send me photographs of kingfishers and I’m always staggered that other people have managed to capture the beauty, wildness and utter indifference to humanity of these amazing creatures. That they can skim the water so close to the surface and at such velocity elicits feelings from my deep well of awe. I think they truly live their lives at a difference pace. We probably appear to them as snails might appear to us. You might remember some of my close encounters with kingfishers since I have referenced them often within these essays. Families of kingfishers have used the bank opposite me for their nesting burrows for generations. The farmer here remembers seeing them using the same burrow sixty years ago. I am pretty sure that he holds them in at least as much affection as I do. I know he feels very strongly about protecting their environment. The burrow is a hole in the bank protected within the roots of a well-established (white?) willow. I don’t know how long this tree has been growing, but it is the only tree on that side of the river for possibly a mile in each direction. This makes it an incredibly important tree. It is home to many species of fauna and provides respite and shade to many others. Swans hang around for days when they need a place of shelter or shade. I have seen many species of the usual garden, river or woodland birds rest among its branches and some less usual ones as well including pheasants, herons and hawks settling to roost. What is very much not part of the Fen landscape is tree cover. Some farmers have allowed small stands of woodland to develop away from watercourses, but these are mainly to provide cover for game birds. Trees growing along the banks of the Fenland waterways are few and far between. There used to be more willows between “my” willow and the lock, but these were heavily coppiced a few years ago and are still recovering from the shock. They no longer appear to sprout any growth. One perception among people round here is that the authority hates trees and they would prefer to see their river banks looking like a well-tended lawn. I don’t know how true this is, but when I see how any trees are treated I can see why so many people think this way. Presumably a “lawn” is easier to tend than a tree. I’m guessing that there is a balance between maintaining the bank of a water course that suits the requirements of all its stakeholders, of whatever species, and the ease with which that bank can be maintained. One day many years ago, some workmen turned up to take the tree down. The farmer, fully tooled up, discouraged them from their intention very, very quickly indeed. I love it that he loves the tree too.
One day recently one of the weed cutting boats fitted with a hydraulic rake arm arrived. It was accompanied by a powered raft carrying three men in several layers of high visibility protective clothing. One of them pull-started a chainsaw into life and with a lot of shouting began hacking away at the branches of the willow. Naturally being very anxious that the tree not be damaged I climbed out of the boat and watched, fixing them with a very hard stare (yes, thank you Pooh). They wouldn’t have heard me above the noise so when the chainsaw powered down I hailed them and tried to remind them that the tree is the only home for many species. “Please be careful of the kingfisher burrow,” I called across to them. Families of kingfishers have been using it for at least sixty years.”
“No kingfishers here, mate,” came a somewhat irritated reply.
“I’m still seeing them,” I responded. “They use those low branches outside the burrow to perch on while they are fishing. There’s not much else they can easily use.”
Clearly irritated by my interference he pointed out that there were plenty of perching places on my side of the river. Of course, he was correct in that they often perched on my tiller, my prow, or the grabrail of a nearby houseboat. One day the farmer’s grandson had been fishing and a kingfisher even perched on the end of his rod; the grandson didn’t dare breathe! The nuances of further discussion did not seem to interest the workman. The chainsaw fired up again. I went to find the farmer. I thought he’d want to know. Fortunately he was at home and came down the steps to the river. He tried to attract the attention of any member of the work crew, but they were on a mission. When the chainsaw stopped again for refuelling he took his turn to hail them. I was dismayed at the amount of growth they had cut back. They were now very close to the burrow and several branches overhanging the river had been lopped. I was in two minds about this aspect of the job. From spring to autumn the river is much busier and boats heading towards the lock are forced out into the river by the overhang. That’s no problem until something is also heading this way from the lock. I assume that heading off a collision with any of the moored boats was probably a reason for the carnage. My concern was that they were going to trim off the overhang today before coming back to finish the job later. I decided to phone the drainage authority. I was pretty sure they’d appointed a conservationist to the company. I spoke to the receptionist, “Could you please call off your boys? They’ve cut the tree back enough for boats to get by and I don’t know how much more damage they were planning on doing.” The man I needed to speak to was in a meeting and would call me back. Meanwhile the farmer’s discussion with the trio of doughty vandals had taken a distinct turn southwards and a torrent of abuse came our way. I’m not quite sure what caused it, but I did hear, “Why don’t you mind your own fucking business and get back on your little fucking boat!” Apart from the fact that the farmer didn’t live on a boat of any size or purpose, resorting to that kind of abuse was a realisation of the testosterone-fuelled aggression I’d been anticipating all along. While the farmer could easily deal with any amount of that, specially had they been on the same side of the river, he decided to make a phone call of his own. The person he was calling was in a meeting …
Everything went quiet. The helmsman of the workboat was on his phone. I went back on to my “little *** boat” which, incidentally, was several metres longer than theirs and managed to speak to my friend, Nick. Nick is writing a book about kingfishers as it happens and was due to submit it to the publisher for proofreading the following day. Nick assured me that the kingfishers would not be using the burrow at this time of the year. They’d be quite likely to be patrolling some of the dykes between the fields where it was less exposed. I could expect them to start pairing up again in a month or two when the burrow would come back into use.
It stayed quiet. The workboats moved up towards the lock and their next project. I’m pleased to say they did leave some of the lower part of the tree and here’s a photograph I’ve just taken from the galley window. Whether it would have been cut back any further without us intervening I couldn’t say, but I could give them the benefit of the doubt and hope that they didn’t not want a confrontation any more than I did.
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| The willow on the right was joined by an elder that colonised the space on the left a few years ago |
