East of Bakewell, the Monsal Trail peters out like the frayed end of a rope, and it’s not obvious which of several strands to follow. So I have often paused here, considering my next move, under a field of rough sheep pasture that runs down from Manners Wood. It’s a lumpy patch of ground that seems to resent its current use. You sense it wouldn’t take a long human absence before its patches of scrub reclaimed lost territory. But for now it remains occupied.
About to move on, I paused at the unmistakable mewling of a buzzard and looked up. A pair of crows was on its tail, invading its airspace, chasing it off, primaries spread like fingers, before turning again for another pass.
It’s a common enough sight, especially at this time of year, with these nesting crows more anxious than usual about threats to their young.
Yet while it was dramatic, the dogfight overhead lacked the desperate intensity of a genuine fight for life. Buzzards may take a crow chick, but a goshawk is a far greater threat and will bring out many more crows in a raucous flash mob. This was more a performance, a silent exhibition of flying ability from two smaller birds working together to a common end, and one that wasn’t simply about chasing off an enemy.
Conflict in nature is a deep pool, one that is often muddied with our own philosophical preconceptions, from Alfred Tennyson’s “red in tooth and claw” to Peter Kropotkin’s “mutual aid”. The battle these crows were fighting might have had layers of motivation beyond mere survival. Watching this pair, I couldn’t help but wonder if a little jeopardy adds something to a relationship between two crows.
The buzzard, growing weary of their games, flicked itself casually on to its back and reached up its talons. The crows put the brakes on, sheared off to either side and left the buzzard to right itself, stretch its wings and swoop away in search of easier pickings. The crows, reunited, slid together into the sanctuary of the trees.
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