I had an extremely tiresome day, the details of which I won’t trouble you with because they’re boring even to me. One of the few tasks from a long to-do list that I managed to complete was making a brief early trip to Stratford to buy and post a birthday card (though I even managed to turn that into an absolute performance), and having parked on Mill Lane in Old Town I was well placed to walk down to Lucy’s Mill before I left, to check if any Odonata had emerged from the river.
The day brightened briefly when I discovered five Banded Demoiselles and about the same number of Large Red Damselflies fluttering around the bankside vegetation and reed beds. But a few moments later my little spell of Zen-like calm was shattered, when a female House Sparrow, which I’d noticed sitting in a nearby tree but hadn’t thought to suspect of sinister intent, suddenly shot into the reeds like a missile and grabbed one of the Demoiselles. Having scooped him from the reed on which he’d been perching, she sat there in his place for a few seconds, metallic blue damsel protruding from either side of her bill – and looking, I felt, revoltingly pleased with herself – and then took off with her prize and returned with him to the tree.
I’ve sometimes dreamed that in a different life I might have become a proper wildlife photographer, or (really fantasising now) maybe even a member of the BBC wildlife photography unit. But on this showing I wouldn’t have had a chance. If I’d started early enough I could probably have developed the physical skills, but I don’t think I could ever have learned the dispassionate objectivity required to put capturing the scene, however brutal, above my emotional response to it. I’ve posted images of predation myself, of course – owls with voles, dragons with… mashed bits of other insects, and yesterday a Stonechat with a caterpillar. But this assault took place almost at my feet, made me squeak and jump half out of my skin with surprise, and left me goggle-eyed and open-mouthed, even after the Sparrow had left. I’m not saying that it didn’t occur to me to wonder if she’d tolerate me pointing the camera at her, but I made no attempt to actually do it. So. Strike out that imagined alternative existence.
I thought about posting an image of the Banded Demoiselle pre-Sparrow, as a kind of memorial, but I find I can’t actually do it, so instead, here’s one I took of a different specimen, much later in the day and several miles further west along the Avon, at Cleeve Prior Mill. He wasn’t the best of models and kept putting himself between me and the sun, but though I wouldn’t usually choose to portray an insect against the light, and only pursued him to a standstill out of bloody-mindedness, because of the kind of day I’d had, I find that I rather like the result. When you look at a Demoiselle in more usual lighting conditions, the fact that it’s quite a hairy beast is so much less obvious than its dramatic, metallic colouration that you tend not to notice it at all. Here though, seeing the hairy halo around his head and thorax somehow gives this Banded Demoiselle a different kind of vibe – I’m thinking of a 1970s rock musician, or maybe a 1970s me, before I learned to tame the frizz that was the bane of my life at the time. As to the fact that he’s got something caught in his beard… I make no comment at all.
For the record, I think the Mill at Cleeve Prior may have given me my first Beautiful Demoiselle of the season this afternoon, but I’m not confident enough to claim her until I’ve checked with the County Recorder.
R: L2, C9, D1.
