The Peregrine - J. A. Baker

J. A. Baker's The Peregrine appeared in 1967 and has since become hugely influential in the genre of nature writing. It is set around the flat marshes of the East Anglian coast, roughly encompassing the Chelmer Valley, Maldon, Danbury, and the Blackwater Estuary. Baker tracks a pair of peregrine falcons, the fastest flying bird in the world, over the course of ten years, condensing his experiences to the time span of October through April for the book. The lives of the birds is meticulously recorded as they bathe, fly, hunt, eat, roost, and play. It makes for some very repetitive reading, and I did harbor some initial concerns that the general lack of plot would prove too tedious. I was however, gradually seduced by the rhythmic, almost hypnotic pulse of Baker's unique style. He possesses extraordinary talent in describing the same actions over and over again in very different ways. His command and range of vocabulary is spectacularly daunting.

Bakers poetic brilliance is not limited to the peregrines, he gives all the birds of his landscape creative justice, expertly characterising their habits and physical profiles with startling similes and neologisms. I became impressed with his uncanny ability to defamiliarise the familiar and familiarise the unfamiliar without resorting to anthropomorphism, a tired device which he actively sets out to avoid where possible. Observe the following passage:

A dead porpoise was humped upon the shingle, heavy as a sack of cement. The smooth skin was blotched with pink and grey; the tongue black and hard as stone. Its mouth hung open like the nail-studded sole gaping from an old boot. The teeth looked like the zip-fastener of a gruesome nightdress case.

He also somehow manages what most ornithologists and nature writers consistently fail at, namely conveying birdsong in a tangible way. Consider his description of a nightjar's song:

Its song is like the sound of a stream of wine spilling from a height into a deep and booming cask. It is an odorous sound, with a bouquet that rises to the quiet sky. In the glare of day it would seem thinner and drier, but dusk mellows it and gives it vintage. If a song could smell, this song would smell of crushed grapes and almonds and dark wood. The sound spills out and none of it is lost.

In his obsessive tracking of the peregrines, Baker hopes to lose his human identity and become one with the birds, gaining their wild freedom and aversion to mankind. Whilst never hysterical or angry, The Peregrine is nonetheless subtly gruelling in its eco-conscious portrayal of human interference, particularly in the passages concerning vanishing habitats and the negative impact of agriculture. A lot of the natural imagery is also incredibly violent, and Baker spares no pains in depicting the brutality and hunger of nature to excess. The savage and the sublime are intrinsically linked here, with life and death forming an inseparable marriage. Hawks are relentless in their slaughter of other birds, and the land itself destroys with cold indifference. Between the hunting peregrines and a cruel winter, the pages are abundantly strewn with corpses. I would only recommend this book to nature lovers and hardcore twitchers, as a lot of technical information might be tiresome to the casual reader.

Rating: 3/5