The kestrels are my little bit of midsummer magic. They usually fledge just after the barn owls and this year was no exception, especially considering the owls were so early. Just as with the owls, I learn to tell the signs of their imminent fledging as year upon year I watch them on a daily basis.
Daddy kestrel is always pleased to see me. In poor weather he will wait outside my house and fly down with me, evidently delighted to see me, or most likely the chicks that I have for him. He has also learned to fly at night and is often the first one to fly in when I feed the owls. As his hungry family grow, he becomes even braver and flies within touching distance. At this point I begin to watch the nest box a little more closely to try and work out how many young he has reared. Using my binoculars I see four, perhaps five little grey heads bobbing about in the open box but it is tricky to count them as they are particularly guarded. I know when they are ready to fledge however, because daddy kestrel suddenly goes quiet. He knows his best defence for his vulnerable family is to stay out of the way.
Every year our kestrels fledge but initially some of them are unable to fly. I am unsure whether they fall from the box, despite it being designed especially for kestrels or whether they get over enthusiastic when the older siblings fly and just leave regardless. I always have an anxious few days with young kestrels perched all over the farm yard that run or gallop about, hiding up at night to stay safe and that find their wings only when I have been driven to distraction. This was especially true five years ago when the owls wanted their nest box back and ousted the kestrels too soon which prompted me to buy their current box. It also happened two years ago when I fed a youngster for a good week by the shed. It was lovely to hear it chittering as I walked down and to see it begging for food and I am pleased to say it fledged successfully.
This year, however, I am afraid to say we had a casualty. The kestrels left the nest box as per usual and hopped around the yard. unfortunately one chose to sit on a trailer that the farmers were moving. They realised something was moving and stopped but the poor bird had fallen between some bags and injured its leg. It got itself into the straw and I watched from a distance. It seemed to be in good spirits and was darting about as they usually do. There was no way to catch it as it had found a straw bolthole which I felt assured would keep it safe at night. I knew I could feed it and as it was managing quite well on its leg I chose to feed it on the floor as I usually do and hope for the best.
Sadly it didn't make it. After a couple of night the chick I left for it was not taken and on further investigation I found the poor birds remains in the field. I suspect a fox had found itself an easy meal.Its always sad to lose a fledgling like this but they are so vulnerable at this stage and this one particularly so. I suppose the injury made it especially susceptible and I worried that I should have tried harder to intervene. I used my previous experience to make my decision and in this case it wasn't good enough.
I watched the other fledglings closely. Had we got five that were now sadly only four or had four turned into three? Initially they were very quiet and I wondered if the family casualty had made them wary. Dad would fly in for food and they would sit in the straw unusually subdued but it didn't last long. Before the week was out they were chittering excitedly on my approach and circling me closely. They still hadn't sussed out that they could help themselves to food so when dad flew to the platform they mobbed him tirelessly, squabbling with each other when one managed to wrench a chick from dad's talons. Dad meanwhile remained patient with them, flying in numerous times only to have the food taken from him. He also remained vigilant against danger and I watched in awe as he took on a red kite that ventured too close to the farm.
It was as they grew braver that I was able to say for certain how many of the youngsters remained. The females plumage was closer in pattern to the juvenile birds so it was initially hard to work out whether I was watching four young kestrels or whether one of them was their mother but as time progressed and I watched them harangue the male bird it became quite clear that we did indeed have four surviving young kestrels. I don't think they have been as brave as previous years. The hay was cut as they found their independence and so perhaps this meant finding their own food became easier.
I have however loved looking out for them on my evening walk with Max. I am used to their perches and pick them out across the farm waiting in the ash tree or balancing in the highest point of the horse chestnut. Last night as I gardened at dusk I saw two together flying back to the farm against a pink, cirrus patterned sky. As I watched them soar, I felt proud to be a small part of their success so far.
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