Column: Wildlife Watch with Simon Zonenblick - By the canal, early evening calm predominates

​I'm walking from Brighouse to Elland along the canal, a long, lush sweep of curving trees, sewn together to create a green arcade, bankings splashed by wild garlic, water's edge a canvas of bluebells and bulrushes.
As I take my photos from a respectful distance, the grand bird arches a bending neck and unfurls its feathers.As I take my photos from a respectful distance, the grand bird arches a bending neck and unfurls its feathers.
As I take my photos from a respectful distance, the grand bird arches a bending neck and unfurls its feathers.

​A faint rain falls as I stop for lunch, soon clearing, but leaving a lingering dampness in the air.

At the nature reserve, a bluetit dodges in and out of view, visiting the feeders; a coal tit gingerly treads a branch. But the stars of today's show are squirrels. In two's and three's, these acrobatic foragers romp along the branches, more like playful chimpanzees as they swing and cavort, tucking their heads into woody nooks and chomping on seeds. They stand and gnaw, large red nutty looking food clenched between teeth and hands, at ease with human presence.

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By the canal, early evening calm predominates. The trees paint soft green patterns on the water. Half a pumpkin bobbles on the surface, like some rusty rugby ball. I see the same healthy looking swan I've seen here before, gliding gracefully through the wharf. As I head beneath the bridge, the swan gathers pace, approaching the bank until I wonder if it will ascend, and make a go for me. As I take my photos from a respectful distance, the grand bird arches a bending neck, unfurls its feathers. There is anger in its eyes, as it pushes through the water, less stately now, more surly. By the wall, a female leads a brood of cygnets, who scurry about her, fluffy yellow and with soot-black beaks. We cover a good two hundred yards or more, the protective father and myself, and he shows no sign of letting up his guard.

But there is another reason for the swan's patrol, which becomes apparent as I pass the fabricating works. A pair of Canada geese are tending a nest, and the angry swan is marking out his territory, establishing ownership of this stretch of water.

The swan stampedes onto the bank, sending both parents and their troupe of goslings scattering. There are squawks, hoots, a kerfuffle of feathers as the swan invades, stamping through the reeds and weeds. The geese flee, but the father goose turns for a moment as if to face him off. The mighty swan crashes towards his quarry. Spray splashes about them. He chases the goose with renewed fervour, and it is an oddly poignant scene. Its easy to cast the swan as villain, until you reflect that he, too, performs this ageless ritual through fear for his young.

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