Henry VIII lost his footing in the wetlands around Hitchin in 1525, so the story goes, and plunged face-first into the fen. He was rescued by his footman, Edmond Mody, whose quick reactions saved the monarch from an undignified fate. I can see why Henry might have escaped the tumultuous world of the court to visit this placid backwater, with its reedbeds, rush meadows and chalk streams. But the king wasn’t here for peace and seclusion – he was indulging his passion for hunting.
Fourteenth-century manor records show a flourishing heronry at Purwell Ninesprings, just east of Hitchin. In 1373, 41 “branchers”, or young birds, were sent from Purwell to London, perhaps to sate the medieval appetite for heron roasted with ginger, mustard and vinegar. Grey herons were hunted there with hawks, and it was while leaping a ditch in pursuit of his quarry that Henry tripped and pitched into the water.
I often walk beside the River Purwell, but only occasionally see a lone heron, passing overhead on heavy wings. I’m more likely to see little egrets, or even the cattle egret that spent last spring in the wet meadows, than meet their grey cousins. Instead, the herons come to us. This afternoon the rallying cry goes up from my son’s bedroom. “The heron’s here!” It’s our cue to dash to the upstairs windows. There, poised impossibly tall on a nearby rooftop, a majestic figure dominates the skyline.
Although motionless, every inch of the bird’s body is latent with purpose, from its oversized feet, up the length of slate-grey back and neck, to the tip of the rapier bill. It looks almost sculptural, frozen in silhouette against the clouds, until a stiff gust of wind ruffles the feathers at the top of the wings and the heron stirs into life.
We marvel as it sets off along the ridge with the sinuous grace of a gymnast on a beam, then laugh when it changes tack and descends the far side of the roof like a comedian performing the fake staircase routine. I suspect the households with goldfish ponds may be less enthusiastic. For the heron has come a-hunting.
