Through french windows framed by flowering clematis, I saw a blackbird touch down on the lawn. Leaning even as it landed, its beak led it in a pitter-patter metre-dash for the pond. At the water’s edge its head dipped then jerked back, and it tossed something very large over its shoulder on to the turf. In this droughty, wormless spring, our resident male blackbird had switched to becoming a fisher of newts. This was the seventh I had seen him catch in just a few days. The beached newt landed sunny side up and the sleek blackbird skipped over. The bird stood over the yellow-bellied, thrashing animal, shuffling his feet, as if readying himself to split a log. He stabbed three times, then hopped around to strike again. The newt writhed, wriggled, twitched, then lay unmoving. Still the blackbird continued his assault, twice spearing the lifeless body and hurling it about, as a dog might play with a soft toy.

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