It's safety first after raptor's return

No, I didn’t set my trainers on fire by cutting through the wire of the hedgecutter again, or risk lockjaw by spiking myself on one of 1,000 rusty nails protruding from a fence I was supposed to repair a year ago – I once again came face to face with a killer.

In August, it was a male sparrowhawk which brushed my cheek with its wing feathers as it beat a hasty retreat from the garden after an unsuccessful raid on the bird table.

It gave me such a shock that I had to abandon the paintbrush I was using to paint the fence for a calming cuppa.

Fast forward to last week, and the Hextol Towers avian restaurant and patisserie was once again the scene of some alarm.

The resident unruly Bash Street Kids troupe of rowdy sparrows found their numbers depleted by one as once again, the raptor swooped to conquer.

But this time, it wasn’t the male bird which had attacked without success – it was the bigger, fiercer and more efficient female of the species which brought death from the skies.

We didn’t actually see the raptor snatch the sparrow as it was tucking into the Hovis crusts from Mrs Hextol’s toast, but we did see it enjoy its hard-won meal at leisure from the conservatory.

I was working upstairs when Mrs Hextol insisted, as only she can, that I come downstairs to see the “funny” bird that was glaring at her from a few feet away across the rim of a plant pot.

I recognised it as a female sparrowhawk, and saw the lifeless form it was clutching in its talons.

It turned its merciless glare on me, and I was left in no doubt that should I be foolish enough to step outside, I could say goodbye to at least one eyeball.

Having established dominance, the bird proceeded to pluck its prey with the skill of a Smithfield poulterer, and then plunged its beak into corpse, wolfing back shreds of meat with clear relish, until a car pulled up outside, causing the bird to beat a leisurely retreat.

After a decent and precautionary interval, I went outside to inspect the killing field, and found nothing other than a smear of blood and a few stray feathers.

While I hate the slaughter of wild birds perpetrated by cats, which kill for fun, I have nothing but admiration for birds of prey, which kill for food.

It’s a thrilling sight seeing any raptor on the wing, even more so when they plunge downwards to snatch some luckless creature for tea.

I was once fishing on Kielder Water in a fairly prestigious competition, when a dark shadow passed briefly over the boat, and my companion and I realised we had been joined by an osprey.

This was in the days before the dashing fish hawks had taken up residence in the endless ranks of sitka spruce around the lake, and it was a truly awesome sight.

Although there were trophies at stake, and it was not yet midday, my fishing companion was so overcome, he laid down his rod and did not pick it up again for the rest of the day, as he reverently muttered: “Oh my God, oh my God….”

I was lucky enough to see a peregrine falcon swooping in a blazing burst of speed in the Lake District, and although it missed its intended target, it is an image which has stayed with me forever,

As for those sparrowhawks, I suppose they must have a nest somewhere in the vicinity, but I have never worked out where. However, I blame their presence for the absence of any feathery residents in our bird box for the past number of years.

For around a decade, families of blue tits would be born and raised in that little house on the rowan tree like clockwork, but of late, there have been no such tenants.

We see blue tits bobbing in and out each spring, sometimes with twists of dog hair and moss in their beaks, but they never seem to get round to setting up home in there, which is quite a disappointment.

Watching their antics is a real tonic, as the exhausted parents get thinner and thinner while ferrying an endless supply of little green caterpillars to their ever-demanding insatiable brood.