Bicycles and Buzzards

location: Wicklow, Ireland

It all started when I watched the film The Secret Life of Walter Mitty. The movie featured a scene where the main character (Walter Mitty, who, as stated in the title, has a secret life) was filmed cycling through some beautifully remote Iceland. This scene drew my interest immediately and a lightbulb switched on in my head. Here was a noble partnership dedicated to sparing a few miles of fuel and global warming. Why on earth hadn't I made use of this very mode of transport that was gathering cobwebs in my shed? I might not have a secret life but surely if Walter could cycle through Iceland I could cycle through the Wicklow mountains, a landscape that promised as fine a view. After the film ended I opened the shed to have a look. Underneath a mattress and a couple of boxes, I could see the handlebars of my forlorn bike peeking out. It was time to come to its rescue.

In the days that followed, I noticed cyclists everywhere and I watched them in awe. They made it look so easy, coaxing their bike uphill with gentle changes of gears as if they were singing it a lullaby. They made the effort of pushing their bike forward with tireless legs look so relaxing, so blissfully therapeutic, that I couldn't wait to just hop on my bike and head out into the hills.

I soon realised that there was one buzz word in the above sentence which I did not take into account. Hills. I knew Wicklow was hilly but my dreams of cycling neglected to factor in for the side effect of hills: sweat, tired legs and a heart that is beating far faster than is healthy.

Walter Mitty obviously didn't have to cycle too far because he doesn't look at all out of breath during his cycle. I on the other hand was constantly red-faced, the heavy bag on my back making my tall stature stoop over the bike in a stoop not dissimilar to the Hunchback of Notre Dame. Rather than a gentle massage to change gears, failure to watch bike gear tutorials on YouTube often led to a dramatic choking of the chain, sometimes causing the chain to pop off. It still happens occasionally. I think it is because I am one of the only cyclists in Ireland who doesn't wear Lycra.

Despite these setbacks, I continued to get out on the bike as often as possible, but sometimes I would have to take a break during my cycles. One Sunday afternoon, right in the middle of a heatwave, I was slowly pleading with my bike and legs to keep pushing up a sloping incline that was proving rather testing with the heat. Gasping, I stopped for water beside a quiet lane. The grass is always greener on the other side and in my fatigued state, I quickly decided this path, with its level gradient and its quality shade, looked like the sort of lane that would be featured in the Road Appreciation Society's bi-annual magazine. After a few hundred metres it turned into a track so I left my bike in the undergrowth (perhaps a little too hidden, as it would turn out) and set off on foot.

I thoroughly enjoyed the walk that followed for the main reason that I had absolutely no clue where I was. There was something delightful in not knowing whether the next bend would lead to another leafy glade, a recycling centre or a secret government building with guards patrolling the perimeter.

So followed a few pleasant hours in this varied landscape of meadows and forest. I followed one path and switched to different paths at whim until I ended up on a path that looked like it had been used by a fox about six months ago and had then been dowsed generously with Miracle-Gro. Flies began to nag at me in increasing numbers as I stopped to watch some blue tit fledglings calling to each other on a nearby tree.

Eventually, the path opened up to a clearing overlooking Bray Head and the Little Sugarloaf, with plenty of pleasant fields in between (The nicest thing about Wicklow is that most of its urban areas seem to conveniently hide themselves behind hills). Above these fields, soaring effortlessly, was a buzzard. The stiflingly still air was punctured only by the bleating of crickets, providing a percussion backdrop to the majestic raptor soaring above me. With all the feeling of an act between a dancer and a drummer, the beat seemed to slowly get faster as the buzzard got closer until he was right above the clearing, shaping his wings on the thermals above my head. Through my binoculars, I could make out the raptor's impressive wingspan, brown at the top, white in the middle, surrounded by black feather tips. It's mewing call always sent my imagination spinning as a child, conjuring up images of eagles soaring over the Highlands of Scotland.

Though I willed every buzzard I saw into an eagle as a child, I have since grown more appreciative of this slightly smaller raptor. Anyone would after hearing it's remarkable success story. Similar to me and my bike, the story begins with a lack of understanding. Farmers in the 19th century did not have access to YouTube tutorials or Buzzfeed which would have informed them that livestock aren't as likely to be snatched up by buzzards as they thought. Through poisoning and shooting, the bird was soon wiped out from Irish shores by hunters, like many other birds of prey.

Then, in the 20th century, they were found nesting in Antrim. Since then, they have slowly re-colonised the land, silently and without fuss. Unlike red kites, they have needed no human encouragement, perfectly content to spread out in their own time and at their own pace.

They are still spreading, soaring slowly south right across from Cork to Wexford.

In fact, they are less likely to leave than the emigrating human population as the trees they nest on do not cost exorbitant rates or require a mortgage and they were not forced to speak Irish from birth in dingy schools.

But they still face challenges. In 2016 one newspaper in Munster published an article accusing “giant” buzzards of attacking two terriers, calling for the removal of their protected status. Shortly after this, poisoning rates of buzzards and other birds of prey were recorded in this same county at a much higher rate.

The reality is that we need Buzzards and their raptor relations. They are a vital asset to any ecosystem, assisting in keeping rodent and crow populations at bay. Following the decline of many raptor species, crows have begun to increase in population, delighted that we have so kindly disposed of their natural predators for them, and we are still feeling the effects of this today.

Eventually, the buzzard soared away and I was left to wander around the wood, silently debating whether I had seen this patch of wood before and what on earth I had done with my bike. Over time I will get to know the bike's gears and together we will ease our way up the wicklow mountains without stopping for a breather every 2 minutes. I just hope we can do the same with buzzards, working together to produce a more diverse ecosystem and a landscape to knock the breath out of those who visit it.