Monday in the park with Loki – or meet the raven

Loki and me – that grin is really not an everyday one

It was last year, reading Joe Shute’s A Shadow Above: the fall and rise of the raven, that I first came across Loki and Coda Falconry.

While I haven’t written much about it here, I have a thing about ravens – those huge, deeply intelligent birds, steeped in mythology, but also a source of fear across the globe.

The Norse god, Odin the Allfather, feared that there would be a day when his newsgathering corvids, Huginn (knowledge) and Muninn (memory), would not return.

In March 2016, after a trip to the Tower of London specifically to go raven spotting, I wrote that there was something poetic in the idea of a god that feared losing memory. While scholars have suggested that that originally refers to a fear of not returning from a shamanistic trance, for us, it can seem poignantly like the fear of dementia.

Little over a year later, after my mother had died suddenly, it started to become clear that Dad was suffering from more than ‘forgetfulness’, as his GP blithely insisted. The ravens had flown and the mists were descending rapidly.

As we slipped into the final autumn of his life and the hospital visits became more and more frequent, I would ritualistically greet the crows that hung around the hospital itself and in the open field opposite. The ancient belief in a link between death and the cawing corvids seemed alive, yet their presence was almost reassuring.

With Dizzy, a beautiful (if brainless) barn owl

I have seen ravens in the wild since that Tower visit: in Bavaria, circling the medieval towers of Rothenburg ob der Tauber in the early spring sunshine, and kronking away from a rooftop opposite our hotel.

Last autumn, speeding past Thurrock on a train, I caught a glimpse of a pair. There had been countless crows in the fields as we passed. Then these two birds on their own, so obviously much bigger, yet (as much as I could ascertain in seconds), about as near to tracks as the crows had been.n

Later, a friend with a great deal of expertise in birding told me that, if I had such a strong gut response, then I was probably right. And as Shute’s book makes clear, ravens are making a comeback.

Loki is a rescue raven. When he arrived at Coda, he was clearly traumatised and deeply unhappy.

Yes, yes – that’s discussing a bird in terms of emotions. Not so long ago, to do as much would have been dismissed as the near heresy of anthropomorphism, but the science world is finally learning about non-human species in terms of emotion and intelligence. No longer are people who talk of their cats and dogs the only ones who contemplate such things – and while it brings it’s own challenges, it’s also a welcome end to a particular kind of species-based exceptionalism.

It took time and considerable dedication for falconer Elliot Manarin to gain his trust – and Elliot still bears the physical scars. But Loki is now very much a part of team Coda and you can arrange to meet him.

Star, a saker falcon, on my fist. How beautiful!

So, last December, The Other Half gave me a birthday present of vouchers to do precisely that – and to enjoy a half-day falconry experience beforehand.

We finally managed to get booked in a couple of months ago and on Monday, made our way up London’s Lee Valley to the falconry, which sits within the Lee Valley Park Farms. It’s a very pleasant walk from Cheshunt station to the site, across part of the Lee Valley Country Park (with lots of birds).

The OH was there to film and shoot. We were with a small group and were led by head falconer Emily Corless and falconer Paul Ryder, spending time first with Teo, a young (and very noisy) aplomado falcon, then Dizzy, an exquisitely beautiful barn owl who is Emily’s favourite (though obviously she doesn't really have any favourites).

In both cases, the group took turns to have the birds fly to their gloved fist to collect raw meat (this is not an experience for the squeamish).

Then Paul and Emily took us into nearby fields and woodland with Griff, a 14-year-old harris hawk.

Unusually, these hawks hunt in groups – and in a situation such as our walk, regard the humans with them as being that group. Griff flew straight from his box into a tree and then followed us as we walked on, with Paul setting food on fists to get him to come down, showing us a variety of his flying skills.

This got a little more complex at one point as the rain came on and Griff refused to come to the fist – until substantial food was available (a mouse).

Back at the falconry, we met Freya, a snowy owl, as she flew to us for food.

Feeding Loki cat biscuits

Then it was the turn of Star, a saker falcon. First, Emily used a lure (food on a rope, in essence) spinning it around to exercise the bird and give us the chance to admire her flying abilities. Then, giving a call of “ho!” she let the lure go. Star caught it in mid air and took it to the ground to eat.

In turn, in a “trade off” as it’s known in the falconry world, Star was then encouraged to fly to each of us in turn with more food.

A display for people visiting the farm park followed with Eclipse, a rare black barn owl, Rico, a three-year-old harris hawk, Storm, a peregrine/gyr/barbary falcon, and Otis, a tiny sunda scops owl.

Then we were given certificates and everyone left, bar the OH and me.

Now was the moment.

Outside, Paul opened Loki’s enclosure and he flew out to his little toy piano, where he hit the keys with his beak until receiving cat biscuits as a reward. He prefers the cat biscuits to the bits of chicken that I held in a gloved hand so that he’d fly up to me.

I’d been near to Merlina at the Tower, but having a raven on your fist – and then hopping around on your shoulders – is entirely another matter. They are seriously big birds – and magnificent too; iridescent blues and greens and purples visible in their feathers as a they move.

There were further toys – including one he had only seen once or twice before: but with bewildering speed, he knew how to open boxes, use leavers and remove pieces in order to get at biscuits.

The intelligence is clear. Having read about the toys, I had half wondered if it was a tad exploitive – as with a circus animal. But once you understand a corvid’s need for stimulation, it becomes clear that this is not remotely exploitation.

He is mischievous too. In the picnic area next door, Emily had parked herself in case he spotted food. It had rained, so surely there was little risk? But then a family arrived and one child pulled a cheese and ham sandwich out. Loki was there in seconds – no aggressive behaviour – with Emily having to dive in to usher him back.

Back in his enclosure, with me feeding him cat biscuits, he showed us how he stashes his food. He’ll store it as much as possible in his beak and then, when he thinks nobody is watching, bury it beneath the small stones on the floor. He does this outside too, but that can end up in infuriation when other corvids (magpies, crows) see – and dig up the food when he’s safely back in his pen.

We left for the walk back to Cheshunt and the train home. All the birds were magnificent, but as Paul and Emily noted, for birds of prey, the only thing that matters is food (and breeding, presumably): they don’t really have intelligence or emotions. Indeed, contrary to popular perception, owls are “stupid,” Emily told our small group early on.

As Paul noted during the public display later, when you can fly silently and have the hearing and sight they do, you don’t really need much in the brain department.

Loki is a bird of a different feather. And I will absolutely be visiting again. I am in love and in awe – and for me at least, this corvid affair has nothing to do with death, but very much the opposite.

• Find out more at codafalconry.co.uk, www.facebook.com/codafalconry/, at Loki's own Facebook page – www.facebook.com/lokitraven/ – and twitter.com/CodaFalconry and as @CodaFalconry on Instagram too.

• Joe Shute's superb book about ravens is readily available. I highly recommend it – and you can follow him on twitter.com/JoeShute. Read an article he penned for the Telegraph about Loki here.

Ravens to rave about

It was early 2016, on a chilly Saturday morning, that I set off for the Tower of London, with the explicit aim of being one of the first visitors through the gates and of heading straight to find the ravens before crowds clustered around them.

I  can’t put a finger on precisely when I’d started to become fascinated by these particular birds, but by the time of my Tower trip, I was part of the way through having a tattoo of Odin’s ravens, Hugin and Munin, done. The Other Half was away for work and I wanted to see the reality behind the myriad wonderful tales.

Two years later and pre-ordering a memoir by Ravenmaster Chris Skaife was a no-brainer. On Friday, I got my hands on it – I read the final page this afternoon.

The Ravenmaster: My life with the ravens of the Tower of London is as light a read as you could hope for: the Yeomen Warders of the Tower act as guides to all many visitors that pour through the gates every year, and this reads as though you were on a particularly special tour.

Skaife writes with a lovely, light tone, full of humour – not least the self-deprecating variety – and a very great sense of love and respect for his charges.

There is an autobiographical element to the book: all Yeoman Warders have to have given over 20 years of unblemished service in the military before they’re eligible to apply to become a Beefeater, but the Ravenmaster makes light work of this, sketching in his own background, as the real stars here are the ravens.

The one and only Merlina

And of course, the biggest star of all, as anyone who follows the Ravenmaster on social media knows, is Merlina.

But while it’s a light book, that doesn’t mean it isn’t also chock full of fascinating observations and facts about these extraordinary members of the corvid family.

A late chapter, describing the responses of two ravens to losing their partners/mates is utterly incredible and very moving.

Skaife is a delightful storyteller, but the success of this book really rests on his attitude toward the birds in his care. His determination to give them the best life possible – to constantly improve their care – is wonderful. And that attitude extends to the foxes who have, over the years, proved a threat to the birds.

Instead of seeing them as pests to be exterminated, he has used his background to work out how to keep them away from his charges – by providing food for them, away from the ravens’ enclosure, believing that they have as much right to be there as the warders, visitors and ravens.

He makes it quite clear in the opening pages that he is no ornithologist: that too is part of the book’s charm. His knowledge of the ravens is not book-learned (though he has read widely on the subject since taking the job and there’s a great suggested reading list at the end), but is predominantly based on the keen observational training of a former infantryman

There is, however, biology here as well as mythology and history, and every bit of it is fascinating.

Back in March 2016, I got really close to Merlina and managed to get several great photographs of her. I saw her hopping on a bench because there were crisps in evidence – and terrifying a young woman in the process.

'She had crisps'

Right next to me as I sat on a bench, she rooted in a bin and, finding a piece of banana, took it to a nearby puddle on Tower Green to wash it.

This sort of behaviour by the bird that is closest to Skaife is chronicled in the book – along with much more.

It gave me a special glow to realise, reading the pages, that I had probably got those shots because, without really thinking about it, I’d behaved in the right way: quietly, not moving too fast and not being remotely scared.

Since then, I’ve seen ravens in the wild in Germany. On one occasion, gliding around a medieval tower on the first warm day of spring. In April this year, a vast one few past The Other Half and I at the top of Tegelberg in the Bavarian Alps, as we sat chilling with two Alpine choughs – other members of the corvid family.

This delightful book makes me realise that it’s time for another trip to the Tower. Perhaps I should take a tube of Pringles and see how long it takes Merlina to spot them?

• The Ravenmaster: My life with the ravens of the Tower of London, by Christopher Skaife, is available now from 4th Estate.

In search of mythology and ravens: a trip to the Tower

Merlina

Connections, connections; links and connections. Back in November, The Other Half and I spent a few days on the Normandy coast, in Deauville.

Last year’s health-based fun and games had rather left us in need of clean air. But during our stay – the first time either of us have been to that part of the world – we visited Caen.

And there, we saw both the remains of the castle built by William of Normandy and the place where the remains of his remains are said to be buried after originally being disrupted and tossed around a little in 1562, during the French Wars of Religion. This grave now holds a single remaining thigh bone.

For Brits, William is better known as The Conqueror: 1066 and all that.

So it was intriguing to see how differently the French see him (heroically – certainly in that part of the world), as opposed to our rather more conflicted view.

But just over a week ago, with The Other Half away for work and time on my hands, I decided to head back into William territory and to the Tower of London, the iconic fort he founded in 1066.

Crows atop the trees

I haven’t visited since – oh, 1971, on the eve of my family’s departure for Mossley after living for three years in west London.

I remember the Bloody Tower, the crowds and my sister (three years younger) crying so much that we left quickly.

A return – rather longer – visit has been in my mind for some time. But in the event, it was spurred less by the William connection than my growing love affair with Norse mythology and not least, Huginn and Muninn.

Those, for any readers not in the know, are Odin’s ravens. Huginn represents memory and Muninn, thought. The All-Father sent them out to fly around the world each day, yet dreaded that they would not return.

Some scholars speculate that this is an idea of fear of not being able to come out of a shamanistic trace. But for a modern reader, it could also suggest someone afraid of losing their memory and capacity to think in age.

Morning sun over the Tower of London

A god fearing Alzheimer’s or dementia. That is a rather poetic idea: in other words, this is a god who is more than a touch human; not perfect; flawed.

As I really get into reading the Norse myths, that’s one of things I love about them.

The gods are human – and are certainly not the supposedly perfect (and boring) gods of the monotheistic big three from the deserts of the Middle East.

And so it was that, on that Saturday morning, I peeved the cats by getting up early and heading out toward the Thames.

Passing first through a nearby park, it was almost eerily quiet. Rows of crows topped the naked trees, chorusing a cawed greeting that echoed across the grass.

Get inside as early as possible

For a moment, as though on the periphery on my senses, I could almost feel the German woods again.

A short journey on the newish overground train to Whitechapel and then a further two stops on the District line brought me to Tower Hill.

There was a chill to the air and the late winter sun was battling through the clouds as it climbed above the Tower itself – a building that seems squat by comparison with the glass and steel that girds it – as in so much of the capital these days – on three sides, with the Thames flowing past on the fourth.

HMS Belfast is to the left on the far bank, with Tower Bridge just a little to the right.

I was early. Too early, indeed, even for the ticket office. A hot chocolate in one of the surrounding buildings warmed me through, before I started a queue at one of the ticket booths.

A few moments later, I ducked past a gathering of grockles and, after a quick bag check, found myself heading through the gates.

Traiters' Gate

There was hardly anyone around: if you want to feel atmosphere within these walls, then early in the day is when to find it, when it’s still enough so that can almost hear the old stones breathe.

With only a limited idea of which way to head, I turned toward the Bloody Tower’s entrance before being halted in my steps by a deep, throaty call from just beyond a wall nearby.

The ravens were calling.

Backtracking, I made a quick left, then another – to find myself at the foot of the grass that slopes down from the White Tower, facing these magnificent, mythological birds in their smart, new homes (by Llowarch Llowarch Architects and just nominated for the RIBA London regional architecture awards 2016). 

According to some sources, ‘most’ people refer to a group of ravens as a ‘flock’, which is rather unpoetic of them, given that the alternative collective nouns are ‘unkindness’ and ‘conspiracy’.

Armour inside the White Tower

Incidentally, their smaller, park-living corvid cousins are sometimes referred to as a ‘murder of crows’.

It’s a small conspiracy at the Tower: the nation-preserving six, plus two reserves, for safety’s sake.

It was nine, but Somerset-born Porsha died in late January, at the tender (for a raven) age of eight.

It’s indicative of the esteem and affection in which the ravens are held that they are buried within the Tower’s walls.

In the early days of WWII, with Hitler having taken an early lead, two of the Tower’s ravens had to be put to sleep after being badly injured in a bombing raid. It brought the number to just four.

There are those who have speculated that this accounts for Britain’s loss of empire in the years following the war.

All this seems to have stemmed from Charles II’s time when, after complaints from the royal astronomer that a rather larger unkindness of ravens was disrupting the royal stargazing, the king decided that six would be kept and the astronomer royal banished to Greenwich.

White Tower, grey day

They can fly, but since some of their feathers get a regular trim (akin to a haircut), they don’t go far – although a couple of years ago, one did make it as far as Greenwich!

I stood watching them for some time. After an attempt to sketch them – difficult at best and made harder by the cold – I nipped into the nearby ‘ravens shop’, where I discovered that there was no certainty that they would be let out and, if they were, it was likely to be around lunch – some time off.

Looking back at the cages, one suddenly appeared to be empty – for a moment, I wondered whether a large crow was one of the ravens (as did the shop staff) – before one of the shop staff suggested that, if two had been let out, they’d be likely to be up around the ‘coloured cannon’ or on Tower Green.

Off I sped, but to no avail. At which juncture, I decided to have a look around the White Tower, which was engaging enough, as it holds part of the Royal Armouries collection.

Coming out, I was contemplating heading off when I noticed a very large black bird hopping around on the grass slope. Back off around to Tower Green, I arrived in time to see a very big black bird perched on the edge of a bin, rooting around inside.

Merlina rooting (note trimmed feathers)

The bench next to the bin was empty. I sat down quietly, as near to the bin as possible, and got the camera ready.

This, I learned later via the Ravenmaster on Twitter, was Merlina (born in South Wales in 2005).

She rooted for a while until she pulled out a piece of banana, placed it on top of the bin and scrutinised it carefully, before picking it up again, hopping down and taking it to a small pond on the grass behind.

There, she dropped it in the water, twiddled it around a bit with her beak and then retrieved it – doubtless in an effort to assess when that had rendered the banana edible.

'What do you mean this isn't meat?'

Hopping the short distance to Tower Green itself and the site of the scaffold, she hopped around the back of another bench where a young couple were munching crisps, with me in stealthy pursuit.

As I was standing at the side of the bench, she hopped up suddenly onto the arm, sending the crisp-crunching female into paroxysms of squealing terror.

The girl ran – then ran back to grab her rucksack. Her boyfriend went with her.

In the meantime, I – having not run – was snapping away. And as though to reward me for not being a squealer, Merlina stayed on the back of the bench for quite a few moments, allowing me the opportunity to snap some wonderful shots at close quarters.

'She ran away quickly enough ...'

After she’d had enough and hopped off, I – grinning like a loon by this stage – went to take a remarkably crowd-free glance at the crown jewels. They’re quite surreal, to be honest, and I found myself musing that they looked like something out of a theatrical production.

But then again, that’s precisely what they are.

It was an enjoyable and educative visit. But you can keep the bling – I’ll take Merlina and the gang over them any day.

• To follow the Ravenmaster on Twitter, go to @ravenmaster1.