There’s been a church on this secluded spot since 1087, and I’m told kestrels have been nesting in the 14th-century bell tower for at least 40 years. My first sight of this year’s chicks was four weeks ago, in a tiny room beneath the belfry, where a downy beast with six scrawny heads was sleeping on the arrow-slit window ledge. Since then, I’ve taken to lying low under a cherry tree in the churchyard whenever I can, watching the tower window for the merest flash of tail or wing.
The adults have been running a nonstop vole delivery service all month from the adjacent meadow, but this afternoon the only signs of occupation are white splashes of droppings down the rubble-stone wall and a scattering of fuzzy pellets (regurgitated clumps of undigested fur and bones) in the flowerbed. With five surviving kestrel chicks likely to leave the nest over a period of several days, surely I’ve not missed the fledging window?
