Rowan Tree and Red Thread

As I walked home from work in the gathering dark I saw bats on the wing. At the bridge on Donovan's Road little brown bats circled over the water, first one, then two and three, tracing spirals in the air over the water.

This weekend I was down staying with my wife's parents at their home in the wilds of west Cork. It's a perfect setting, particularly in summer, with the lazy river snaking its way along the valley, everything bursting with greenery and life, and the skies filled with swallows screaming joyfully.

This time, however, I was privileged to see something special. There are bats roosting in the roof space of the cottage. At dusk, as the light fades, Sam and I stood on the balcony waiting, listening to the mad chittering of the bats as they prepared themselves for another night's insect-swallowing acrobatics. As they shuffled along inside the roof, it sounded for all the world like a queue of teenagers waiting for a bus, a bit impatient, generally good natured and just a bit giddy.

Slowly at first, in ones and twos, the bats appeared. They shot like fluttering arrows from a hole in the wainscotting and powered away across the valley, most of them heading towards the river. It was hard to make out much more than a general impression of their shape. Bats are fast! Later we spent some time trying to identify them using a guide to Irish wildlife we had to hand, but it was difficult when all we had was a rough idea of colour and their behaviour in the eaves of the house.

As we watched the bats grew braver, or more fed up with the pushing from the crowd in the queue, and began to pour out of the roof into the dusk. I lost count early on, after 30 or so bats had taken wing. A good while later, the flow slowed and dropped to a trickle, the last few bats making off into the night as the light dimmed. I cheered quietly to myself. Usually I try not to be a chauvinist, for my sex, my race, my culture or my class[1]. I was thrilled, however, that Mammalia have managed to evolve these wonderful night-flyers. We hot-blooded, milk-producing weirdoes took to the air with grace, and I marvelled at the beauty evolution produced.

[1] Taxonomic, obviously. I'm not chauvinistic about my socio-economic bracket either.