Herons are nesting and I went this week to look at the heronry in Regent’s Park, London. The herons first arrived there in 1968 and now there are more than 20 gigantic nests in treetops on the islands in the lake. In the bright morning sunshine I had a wonderful view of some nests across the water as I stood on the bank below the bandstand.
There were four nests in one tree and others in trees around. The branches beneath the main tree were white and ghostly, where the guano of many seasons had fallen on them. The whole scene was curiously peaceful, with one or sometimes two herons standing motionless on every nest. They made a striking tableau with their sleek black and grey bodies, their black crowns and crests and their long, yellow beaks, now flushed with red at the base.
They have been building up their nests of stout twigs since February and have reached the moment when they are beginning to mate. But for most of the day there is little to do, so if they are not off fishing, they merely stand by their beds, as it were, very still. Occasionally one left, stretching out its long neck as it took off, before resting its head between its shoulders again as it flew away. One or two others arrived, weaving their way through the branches before coming down on the edge of their nest. Once, a bird that was already there lifted its beak and touched the beak of the arrival.
Then I saw what I had been hoping to see — a pair mating on the nest. The two birds were standing side by side and suddenly one of them crouched, while the other, obviously the male, climbed up on to its back. Then there came a spectacular moment. The male lifted its wings and, without flapping them, held them in a V-shape like a great, silky-grey canopy above himself and his partner. He looked as enormous in this posture as any bird could ever look in Britain. As he came down, the female put up her beak and touched his just as the other one had done. It seemed a gentle beginning to what is going to be a busy family summer.