The Peregrine by J. A. Baker

The Peregrine by J. A. Baker describes the daily comings and goings of a pair of peregrine falcons across the flat fen lands of Essex, England.


The author followed the birds obsessively, observing them in the air and on the ground, while they pursued their prey, made theirs kills and eat them. As he does so, he seems to begin to lose his humanness and take on some of the aspects of the birds he is following so obsessively.

Written in 1967, the book has won various prizes and has been feted for its brilliance. BBC Wildlife Magazine describes it as “one of the finest works on nature ever written.” Robert Macfarlane says it is “a masterpiece of twentieth-century non-fiction.” In the words of other reviewers, the book “transcends any nature writing of our time,”, and is “one of the most beautifully written, carefully observed and evocative wildlife accounts I have ever read.”

However, I have to admit that I have problems with The Peregrine.

I read it first in 1974, and then again more recently. While Mr. Baker’s observational skills are second to none, and his descriptions at times are breathtaking, a thought kept appearing in my mind with worrying frequency: “Do I believe all this?”

If everything he describes is true, then Mr. Baker is indeed a naturalist among naturalists, and I am in awe of him. Personally though, I find myself doubting the veracity of his records. Some of his experiences just sound so out of the world, as if (I whisper it in case I am upsetting naturalists worldwide) he’d found and eaten a few too many magic mushrooms in the fields where he was walking.

I give just one example.

January 27. He sees a great snipe (so it’s already a red-letter day considering the rarity of this bird). Then he finds two dead herons. He spots some otter tracks. He watches as a moorhen gets pulled underwater by a pike. He enters a shed and pulls the body of a frozen, dead barn owl off the rafters. While examining it something hits the shed roof, slithers down the roof and falls at the author’s feet. It’s a wounded wood pigeon that has just been hit by a hunting peregrine. Baker kills it, tosses it into the field, and watches as the peregrine returns to its prey. Finally, having seen enough for the day, he goes home. Oh, on his way home he disturbs a fox eating a pheasant.

Now, any single one of those experiences is remarkable. Put two of them together and you have a very special day. Three and it’s an absolutely unique day. But ALL of them, one after another? Time and time again Baker seems to be exactly in the right spot, at the right time, for a series of incredible close-to-nature experiences.

Presumably The Peregrine has been studied and analyzed by naturalists much wiser than I am who have verified his sightings, but personally, I have problems believing everything I read in this book. I tried to put my doubts to one side and focus on the writing, but consistently failed.

Maybe you will have greater success.


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