Moored at Barlaston we watched this heron patiently and stealthily stalk its prey. It moved slowly and silently through the water watching the surface intently, then struck swiftly, its head almost always coming up with a small fish wriggling in the beak before it was swallowed down.
Made me recall the poor, miserable looking heron we saw ekeing out a living on that filthy black stretch of the Soar in Leicester. If it only knew what the world was like a few days' flying time away it would take wing for Staffordshire.
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