The wind has a frosty bite with occasional slashes of rain. I’m on a low hill, in the woods of northern Scotland and I’ve just smeared some baby chicken parts on to the heavy leather gauntlet on my right hand which I’ve stretched out.
But it’s coming for me, not the gauntlet as far as I can tell. Accipiter Gentilis, a Northern Goshawk, has a wing span nearly as wide as I am tall, and I’m tall. This one is brown and the slow flex of the wings as it flies toward me conveys perfected strength. The tucked talons could tear me apart.
The idea is simple. I’m supposed to hold out my arm, allow the great goshawk to perch on my wrist for which it then receives its baby chicken snack. It feels a little more like a test of courage. I’m reminded of the evening in the mews in “The Once and Future King.”
No doubt the falconer, who’s standing somewhere behind me, is bemused.
More than anything, though, the thing that’s overwhelming are the raptor’s eyes. They’re set on me, perceptive beyond human comprehension, unblinking, perfectly remorseless. It is a creature perfectly itself. It defines a special kind of beauty.
Now, a few years later, that memory returns. That is how I want to fence, with such effortless focus and concentration. A very good friend and colleague, Mark Watkins, wrote in an email recently that he thought competitive sports are particularly important after you leave your twenties. He’s right of course. I think it expresses a fundamental human attribute and psychological tool. The trick is to use that aspect of ourselves sensibly, constructively, even with generosity and affection.
At the last moment, the goshawk weaved elegantly, dove a little below, then swooped up, stalling, to land on my wrist. And have a snack.
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