A hunter on the shore.

At home, in winter, Grey herons are a common sight on the shoreline of the bay. On good days they stand tall, long necked and elegant, statue-still. On bad days, like today, when the winds are gale force and the rain horizontal, they cluster, hunched and wet, in small groups in a sheltered corner, close to a burn that rushes peat-brown water from moor to sea.

On a clear and bright December afternoon, I watched a heron hunting close to the Ayre, a causeway that links Hoy to the island of South Walls. A narrow strip of tarmac that separates bay and open sea. Up here herons are wary of people, more often than not taking to the wing at the mere sight of a distant human. The bird watched me warily, as I quietly approached, through a bright yellow eye of jaundiced frogspawn.

I expected him or her to lift off, accompanied by a vocal and complaining craak, heading for pastures new. The bird though stayed put, knee deep in the shallows, amongst drifting floats of air-filled bladderwrack. I sat down, the bird stood motionless, eyes off me and back in the zone, looking forward and down, studying the water with a hunters intent.  Eventually patience, for both bird and photographer, paid off, the heron struck, a fluid snake-like strike with a dagger of a bill. Barely registering a splash on the surface of the bay.

Its prize in the end, was an unlucky Blenny, a small bull-headed fish whose pop-out eyes look far too big for its body. Common in rock pools and shallows, they’re seen throughout the UK.

I stood up, pushing my luck and edging closer. The bird took flight. In the air they’re all extremities, all wings and neck and legs. A jumble of oversize parts, out of scale for the body they’re attached to. A heron is around the same size as a Whooper swan, an adult whooper weighs in at around 10kg, a grey heron, despite its similar size, is, at less than 2kg, a featherweight in comparison. They were once served up in medieval banquets, if you were hungry and fond of heron, you wouldn’t want to be last in line in the serving queue. 

The bird  flapped lazily away, landing a hundred yards or so distant. The light was fading and he or she picked a lucky photo-friendly spot. The only piece of shore still lit by the last, dying rays, of a midwinter sun.