London wildlife

I wrote this in the fall sometime.

Someone asked me if I'd seen any hedgehogs in England yet, and sadly, the answer is no. If there are any about, they're keeping well out of sight. I see very few roadkill compared to driving in Canada. Perhaps the wildlife are smarter and gamble less with their lives.

London is free of both raccoons and skunks. But in their place is another creature that has adapted most successfully to urban living: the fox. I've seen foxes a couple of times in the city, even trotting down the pavement on a side street. The most obvious signs of them, though, are the pillaged garbage bags on the street.

Some of the responsibility no doubt rests with city cats, but the cats cannot account for all the chicken bones I find consistently scattered on the sidewalk. I've lived with urban cats my whole life, and never seen so many chicken bones.

While Londoners are slobs about garbage in the street, they usually leave behind the entire carton of fried chicken, not just one joint at a time.

My friend Thomas and his lady Siban recently moved to a new flat in Chiswick, a very attractive residential neighbourhood west of central London. Thomas says he's now listening to the foxes and cats duke it out nightly outside his building, and he's putting his money on the cats.

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In early June Sweetie and I stayed at an *extremely* swanky hotel and conference centre outside Basingstoke, called Tylney Hall. Tylney was a 17th century noble home, rebuilt several times, and extensively landscaped in the 19th century. It then declined to a girls' school in the 20th century before being rescued to become a playground for the rich and expense-claim-endowed. Robert and his boss were running a conference over two days there.

The current managers are slowly restoring the large themed gardens so fashionable at the end of the Victorian era: the Italian garden, the tea garden, the inevitable rose garden, the orchards, the English garden, the water garden (a series of pools and cascades).

The ponds were home to the biggest fattest laziest domestic fish I've ever seen, swimming slowly to the edge of one pond in hopes of handouts. On an early-morning walk I startled a heron, who flapped rather reluctantly to the far side of the pond, and I also raised two small deer from the brush.

But the most prevalent critters at this hotel were the rabbits. There were small brown-gray rabbits everywhere on the beautifully manicured grounds, sitting together on the wide open lawn, grazing here and there, hopping unrushed from one patch to the next.

I kid you not, from the edge of the terrace I could spot a half-dozen on the lawn, and there were more everywhere you looked. I'm guessing that the foxes were kept off the property, and without a predatory control, they were just doing, well, what rabbits do, with astonishing results.

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I now commute daily to Reading to work.

I ride my bike to Paddington station, catch the train to Reading, and then ride the last few minutes to the campus. Before I moved from Lambeth, I was riding through Hyde Park. In the morning the park is quiet - left mostly to the cyclists, runners, street people (politely termed 'rough sleepers' here) early commuters and the urban cavalry, exercising their horses on the soft dirt tracks around the park. I saw as many as six riders, three abreast.

They all turn out in tan jodhpurs, khaki blouses and ties, even the women. No schlumping round in grimy t-shirts in Hyde Park.

In the evening, the park is packed with families, most obviously Muslim ones, with hijab-swathed women pushing strollers and towing toddlers. Hyde Park also boasts Speaker's Corner, a paved corner where anyone with an agenda can stand on their ladder or crate and say their piece.

In the spring I saw a rather bewildered young man standing alone on a box - he looked like he'd heard of the corner, but not seen it in action, and was wondering where the crowd was.

More recently I passed a regular gathering round the International Socialist speakers; the same skinny stringy-haired grubs that passed out their magazine at university. For guys who think they have it all together, they never look terribly happy about it.

Now from Kilburn, I ride along Kilburn High Road (once called Watling Street, from Roman times), and then cut off to take a residential street parallel to it, thoroughly 'traffic-calmed' with speed humps and narrowed corners.

It also takes me past 'Little Venice', a small area of downtown London near Paddington, where a prosperous and privileged community live on narrowboats, or keep them as alternatives to cottages. Most of the narrowboaters I've seen are middle-aged to retired-looking, and seem to have their days to themselves.

Each boat is kept differently, just as your lawn outside is different from your neighbour's. My favourite is clearly owned by a frustrated gardener, since it's almost lost in the potted plants that trail the length of the boat, and absolutely fill the mooring, hanging from lines, lining the railings.
 
On the second part of my ride, onward from Reading station to Oracle, the cycle path runs along the edge of the Thames, and I pass a working lock used by the narrowboats that tie up along the bank. Canada geese, white and tan swans and ducks all live in this stretch.

I think some of the ducks are called peets - lovely all-black bodies with a stunning white splash down their faces and bills. They have
enormous webbed feet for their size; their ducklings look really silly trying to manage these huge feet on land. Their heads bob forward and back as they paddle, reminding me of earnest younger siblings trying to keep up with older children.

I've also spotted two herons, close to the bank; one even broke his fast one morning in the artificial pond outside my office.

A very sleek bird is also in this waterside community, diving completely underwater to feed - a grebe.  The swans are striking: they look so clumsy on land, waddling slowly and bowleggedly, but are so smooth on the water. They don't even paddle very fast, but get a tremendous push from each stroke. 

Their necks look soooo long. To me they look foolishly excessive, grown solely for the sake of the elegant curve they hold while on the water. Why could you possibly need a neck so long on a body so round, except for the pleasure of the shape?

At least one of them prefers to keep its wings slightly raised even as it swims along - almost, but not completely, 'addorsed' in heraldic language. I wonder if it's stiff from avian arthritis, or just likes to look big on the water...

The swans are more flexible than I had realized. I've seen several extending their legs behind them, above the water, as if stretching their
muscles. One even had one leg folded over its tail and lower back. Maybe it was leading the water yoga class.

I realize that these are just a few of the creatures in England, but living in a city, I count it a pleasure to see any animals other than
humans for a change.

Regards,

Elizabeth