Growing up in North America I completely took hummingbirds for granted—I thought they were beautiful and amazing of course, but never thought about what the world would be like without them until I moved to Europe.
As a kid they just seemed like the absolute coolest thing going, with the 'fastest animal alive' moniker. They were also scarce at the time, not the relatively common sight around tall buildings they are today. On holidays in Devon I saw buzzards and kestrels a plenty (I wasn't so bothered about little brown hobbies back then, they weren't cool enough) but never a peregrine. So when the opportunity came up to see one at an RSPB hide overlooking one of their nesting cliffs, it felt like the opportunity of a lifetime. We arrived and at first there was nothing but then we saw one of the pair launch out of the nest. Cue rising excitement from the gathered hoards. It circled about over the valley and then disappeared from sight. That would have been good enough but a few minutes later, far below us in the valley, a pigeon broke cover and flapped lazily across open ground. We held our collective breath and sure enough the peregrine reappeared and then dropped like a bullet onto the pigeon. What followed was not dissimilar to a band playing their biggest hit as the falcon flew nonchalantly back to the nest with its feast. That moment has stayed with me for 30-plus years and is one of the reasons I will always get excited when I see a peregrine, even if it just perched outside Battersea Power Station.
b) because I am still excited to have positively identified them for the first time, through the Merlin app (thanks Lev!). I even saw them, because I was now looking for a bird of the right size, and in the reeds, rather than the ‘at least thrush-sized’ bird the amazing volume of their song had led me to seek on song-posts, as that’s where the unbelievable repertoire seemed to be coming from. Wow. Still glowing with the joy.
What an ask! It could have been a hen harrier hawking across a heather moor, turning and turning again a few feet above the ground, following the folds of the land, seemingly without twitching a feather to aid its trajectory. Precisely, how? Your book may answer. BUT my favourite is the Beautiful Demoiselle dragonfly (Calopteryx virgo); beautiful name, beautiful Latin name; male with iridescent blue veins in dark brown wings which allow it to shimmer as it shimmies across rivers and lochans. The female is iridescent brown - was that ever a thing? The flight of a group is that of dancing puppets on invisible strings. They are complete show-offs, here for you to admire, not those evasive whizzy things that have you falling headlong into bogs in pursuit. Sit back and wonder!
There was a day twenty-odd years ago in the south of Skye, hot but early enough to be midge free. There's a longish walk descending to a reed-fringed lochan. The demoiselles were there at the northernmost reach of their UK distribution. Returning past a tumbledown stone house I felt a bulging softness under my boot. Oh! Sorry adder. I didn't mean to, you skitter off into the bracken, it wasn't my full weight, honest! Toiling up the last long rise a skim, a gliding, our last reward for a most memorable day, a male hen harrier. There are days when this world gives so much back.
My favourite flying creature - by quite a long way - is an Anna's hummingbird. I first saw one of these gorgeous little creatures at my mother's sugar-water feeder on Vancouver Island in British Columbia, and was very taken with it. But it was when my British born husband and children saw one on a later visit that I appreciated what remarkable creatures they are. They were in awe. How do we not have hummingbirds in this country? Madness. (Plus my daughter is called Anna so there's that.)
Around 30 years ago one of our neighbours gave his wife 20 white doves, plus a dovecote, for her 60th birthday. After he passed away, and she grew too old to really care for them, they kind of moved in with us. It may be because I put seed out daily. It may be because they really like our capacious birdbath. Doubtless our yew hedge looked attractive for nesting. It seems possible it also has something to do with our already-resident wood pigeons - because they certainly get along well enough to have interbred, resulting in an ever-diversifying array of parti-coloured grey brown and white offspring. It may be because they enjoy the terrace in front of our house, where they barely tolerate our presence, fixing us with their one-sided stare as if to say ‘you’re not planning on being here long, are you? Only we have friends coming over shortly.’ It probably is despite our two cats, who return their gaze ferociously, but maintain a respectful distance. Whatever their reasons - and they are as inscrutable as any bird - that explosion of noise as they take flight, the sight of them whirling white in the sunlight across the garden - despite the extraordinary competition from our other winged residents - they are my favourite flying things.
Trying to pick one favourite flying thing is hard. I was going to say pipistrelles because bats are cool, but someone else was faster, so I'm going for the hummingbird moth.
Why? Because it flies like a hummingbird, is actually a moth, but diurnal. They're mad little things and I love them.
My favourite flying thing: Pipistrelle bat (It’s actually the common swift but you’ve dropped a strong hint that other answers are more likely to win!)
Reason: I associate them with sitting in my garden on a warm summer evening, preferably with a beer or a glass of wine, watching them swooping to within millimetres of walls and windows to catch moths and other nocturnal insects.
I am seconding Gillian's love for magpies. We don't have them here in my part of the world, so I am always on the lookout when I visit the UK. And, oddly, because you want flying things, I love them for their behaviour on the ground. Their distinctive walk, their curiosity, and their distinctive call always grabs my attention. And as a very poor birder, I appreciate any bird I can recognize immediately.
Ok I know that birds are beautiful and bats are magical, and wow the pterodactyl, but one of my favourites is the cranefly! Daddy long legs as we knew them as children. What an amazing work of ridiculous art. A combination of ungainliness, beauty and impracticality, and yet manages to cope astoundingly well even outside, legs trailing impossibly like bits of thread. Actually, outside better than in, where endless clattering and eventual loss of appendages starts to become upsetting quite quickly.
I love that they are large enough for us to see properly, but not too large to terrify, and they are actually very sculptural close up. They don’t even mind you getting close up, very accommodating. Quieter than bees, not as vindictive as mosquitoes, less suicidal than moths. What’s not to like?
Because: the efficiency of effort. When I was learning to fly a small plane, I used to be level with them at 800ft as I flew the circuit pattern prior to landing. With a studied nonchalance they moved effortlessly out of the way
Growing up in North America I completely took hummingbirds for granted—I thought they were beautiful and amazing of course, but never thought about what the world would be like without them until I moved to Europe.
My favourite flying thing is a peregrine falcon.
As a kid they just seemed like the absolute coolest thing going, with the 'fastest animal alive' moniker. They were also scarce at the time, not the relatively common sight around tall buildings they are today. On holidays in Devon I saw buzzards and kestrels a plenty (I wasn't so bothered about little brown hobbies back then, they weren't cool enough) but never a peregrine. So when the opportunity came up to see one at an RSPB hide overlooking one of their nesting cliffs, it felt like the opportunity of a lifetime. We arrived and at first there was nothing but then we saw one of the pair launch out of the nest. Cue rising excitement from the gathered hoards. It circled about over the valley and then disappeared from sight. That would have been good enough but a few minutes later, far below us in the valley, a pigeon broke cover and flapped lazily across open ground. We held our collective breath and sure enough the peregrine reappeared and then dropped like a bullet onto the pigeon. What followed was not dissimilar to a band playing their biggest hit as the falcon flew nonchalantly back to the nest with its feast. That moment has stayed with me for 30-plus years and is one of the reasons I will always get excited when I see a peregrine, even if it just perched outside Battersea Power Station.
A joy, thank you
a) Today, it’s a reed warbler,
b) because I am still excited to have positively identified them for the first time, through the Merlin app (thanks Lev!). I even saw them, because I was now looking for a bird of the right size, and in the reeds, rather than the ‘at least thrush-sized’ bird the amazing volume of their song had led me to seek on song-posts, as that’s where the unbelievable repertoire seemed to be coming from. Wow. Still glowing with the joy.
1. Swift (as you know I think)
2. Because they never stop and they thereby hold up the sky
What an ask! It could have been a hen harrier hawking across a heather moor, turning and turning again a few feet above the ground, following the folds of the land, seemingly without twitching a feather to aid its trajectory. Precisely, how? Your book may answer. BUT my favourite is the Beautiful Demoiselle dragonfly (Calopteryx virgo); beautiful name, beautiful Latin name; male with iridescent blue veins in dark brown wings which allow it to shimmer as it shimmies across rivers and lochans. The female is iridescent brown - was that ever a thing? The flight of a group is that of dancing puppets on invisible strings. They are complete show-offs, here for you to admire, not those evasive whizzy things that have you falling headlong into bogs in pursuit. Sit back and wonder!
There was a day twenty-odd years ago in the south of Skye, hot but early enough to be midge free. There's a longish walk descending to a reed-fringed lochan. The demoiselles were there at the northernmost reach of their UK distribution. Returning past a tumbledown stone house I felt a bulging softness under my boot. Oh! Sorry adder. I didn't mean to, you skitter off into the bracken, it wasn't my full weight, honest! Toiling up the last long rise a skim, a gliding, our last reward for a most memorable day, a male hen harrier. There are days when this world gives so much back.
My favourite flying creature - by quite a long way - is an Anna's hummingbird. I first saw one of these gorgeous little creatures at my mother's sugar-water feeder on Vancouver Island in British Columbia, and was very taken with it. But it was when my British born husband and children saw one on a later visit that I appreciated what remarkable creatures they are. They were in awe. How do we not have hummingbirds in this country? Madness. (Plus my daughter is called Anna so there's that.)
It’s got to be the doves.
Around 30 years ago one of our neighbours gave his wife 20 white doves, plus a dovecote, for her 60th birthday. After he passed away, and she grew too old to really care for them, they kind of moved in with us. It may be because I put seed out daily. It may be because they really like our capacious birdbath. Doubtless our yew hedge looked attractive for nesting. It seems possible it also has something to do with our already-resident wood pigeons - because they certainly get along well enough to have interbred, resulting in an ever-diversifying array of parti-coloured grey brown and white offspring. It may be because they enjoy the terrace in front of our house, where they barely tolerate our presence, fixing us with their one-sided stare as if to say ‘you’re not planning on being here long, are you? Only we have friends coming over shortly.’ It probably is despite our two cats, who return their gaze ferociously, but maintain a respectful distance. Whatever their reasons - and they are as inscrutable as any bird - that explosion of noise as they take flight, the sight of them whirling white in the sunlight across the garden - despite the extraordinary competition from our other winged residents - they are my favourite flying things.
Trying to pick one favourite flying thing is hard. I was going to say pipistrelles because bats are cool, but someone else was faster, so I'm going for the hummingbird moth.
Why? Because it flies like a hummingbird, is actually a moth, but diurnal. They're mad little things and I love them.
Wood Pigeon. Why?
Clapclap soar.
More twigs on the floor
than end up in the nest.
Humble grey and proud blushed breast.
And all hearts are soothed
Beneath pockets on shirts
When they call to tell Betty
That their toe really hurts.
My favourite flying thing is the caracara.
Why? Well, it can fly, it just chooses not to!
My favourite flying thing: Pipistrelle bat (It’s actually the common swift but you’ve dropped a strong hint that other answers are more likely to win!)
Reason: I associate them with sitting in my garden on a warm summer evening, preferably with a beer or a glass of wine, watching them swooping to within millimetres of walls and windows to catch moths and other nocturnal insects.
I am seconding Gillian's love for magpies. We don't have them here in my part of the world, so I am always on the lookout when I visit the UK. And, oddly, because you want flying things, I love them for their behaviour on the ground. Their distinctive walk, their curiosity, and their distinctive call always grabs my attention. And as a very poor birder, I appreciate any bird I can recognize immediately.
Ok I know that birds are beautiful and bats are magical, and wow the pterodactyl, but one of my favourites is the cranefly! Daddy long legs as we knew them as children. What an amazing work of ridiculous art. A combination of ungainliness, beauty and impracticality, and yet manages to cope astoundingly well even outside, legs trailing impossibly like bits of thread. Actually, outside better than in, where endless clattering and eventual loss of appendages starts to become upsetting quite quickly.
I love that they are large enough for us to see properly, but not too large to terrify, and they are actually very sculptural close up. They don’t even mind you getting close up, very accommodating. Quieter than bees, not as vindictive as mosquitoes, less suicidal than moths. What’s not to like?
Favourite flying thing: red kite
Because: the efficiency of effort. When I was learning to fly a small plane, I used to be level with them at 800ft as I flew the circuit pattern prior to landing. With a studied nonchalance they moved effortlessly out of the way
My favourite flyer is Amy Johnson.
She was a skilled and brave aviator.