An insight into cruel reality of nature

But things have been improving a lot of late and last month I set off from my gallery and home in Thixendale to embark on my first proper walk of the season. Just 500 metres into it, I spotted a fresh sprig of pine. This in itself was not unusual, but I was in a copse of beech trees and its presence here could only mean one thing: there had to be buzzards nesting. I looked up to the tree canopy and immediately spotted their large nest.

Buzzards have a curious habit of decorating their nest throughout the breeding season with live twigs, especially those of spruce and ivy. I do not know why they do this; it isn't easy for a buzzard to rip out growing ivy or spruce twigs. Perhaps it's to keep the nest fresh or perhaps it is that newly-picked evergreen twigs are a natural insecticide?

The nest was 65 feet up and in my current condition I could only look up at it from the ground. Back in the early 1990s, buzzards were a rare sight on the Yorkshire Wolds.

This bird once bred throughout Britain but widespread killing, the loss of their main food supply during the myxomatosis outbreak and the use of pesticides in the 1950s and 60s resulted in the species being confined to isolated populations.

A few buzzards would winter in this area, but as far as I know there were no breeding pairs around here.

Today they are very prevalent, having moved in from the west of the country. Seeing the nest reminded me of a time when I was at art college in South Wales, aged 19. In those days I thought I was invincible and would think nothing of free climbing such heights just

to have a look in.

I remember finding two buzzards' nests, one of which was high up in the spindly branches of a huge sycamore tree. The second was not so high and the tree easier to scale, but sadly when I climbed up to have a look I found the nest bare. Later I found an empty buzzard's egg some distance away and realised that it had been predated by what must have been a very brave crow.

This left the former nest as the only study option. It meant putting a hide up in a neighbouring tree which involved a 75ft climb up to branches that were no thicker than my wrist.

Once up, I found two chicks in the nest, about a week old. To make my hide I had to work fast to ensure I did not disturb the adults.

I started by making a cradle out of the branches around me in a similar fashion to the way the buzzards would have begun making their own nest. Luckily I had the advantage of lengths of string. I then hoisted up a pallet to this branch cradle – I had carried the pallet three miles from college on the back of a pushbike. It was difficult work, as the canopy swayed alarmingly with every move I made. I finished off the hide by enclosing it in a sort of tent made up of old Hessian sacks, with a small hole at the front for my camera lens.

The next morning I woke early to make sure I saw the buzzards when they were at their busiest. I had only just got settled into the hide, when the female buzzard arrived carrying a large sprig of ivy. She dropped it on the edge of the nest and then made a swift exit. She was shortly followed by the male who came with a vole. This was swallowed whole by the larger chick. Meal dispatched, the male shot off to find more. By mid-morning and after several visits by the parents, all went quiet. At this time of the day birds of prey often indulge in a siesta. So I headed off for my lunch too.

I was back by late afternoon to see what the evening would bring. The female brought in a half-grown rabbit which kept the chicks fed for the rest of the day. Enthralled, I spent a couple of weeks getting up at the crack of dawn to watch this family of buzzards and spent many hours sketching, recording data and taking photographs which I hoped to use for a painting.

The digital age was yet to dawn on the photography front. I had to wait weeks before my film was developed and I could see if it had all been worthwhile.

My observations were interrupted by storms and gale force winds. But I continued to visit the hide early everyday hoping for a break in the weather.

I noticed the prey that the parents were bringing in changed from rabbits, voles and small birds to moles, worms and even toads.

They also began to bring less food for the ever-hungry chicks. The smaller chick started to suffer. It now had to fight its older and larger sibling for food. The larger chick became stronger and more dominating. I started to get concerned for the younger chick's survival.

The weather deteriorated further, making the climb to my hide even more challenging. One morning I found my hide in tatters after the storms of the previous night. I spent some time botching it back together before settling down to watch the huddled and shivering chicks.

After a five-hour wait, the female eventually came in, but all she had to offer her frantically hungry chicks was one small worm.

This was promptly devoured by the older chick. Unsatisfied with this small morsel this chick started grabbing and pecking at the younger chick, which was too weak to fight back.

I watched helplessly, wondering whether to save the chick from its relentless torturer.

But I left nature to take its course and watched as the older chick ate its brother as if it was just another piece of food.

I did not always see eye to eye with my own brother as a child, but I doubt very much that I would have ever actually eaten him.

Many say that humans are cruel, and they certainly

are, but sometimes there is never anything as cruel as nature itself.