Down by the river, a fearsome appearance is no guarantee of fearlessness, for the big beaks here are the most timid of all. The heron’s dagger gives no reassurance to a bird that lifts off from the water meadows as soon as it thinks it has been seen. And though the cormorant has a devilish look, Old Nick is a bolter too. I was always struck by the paradox that this semi-aquatic bird never seemed at ease on the water, a hunter with a hunted look, while firm-footed on land, it chills out with the best. Until this year, there was just one spot in the neighbourhood where cormorants hung out, an old waterside ash that went bare after throwing out its last sprigs of leaves a couple of years ago. What it lacks in foliage, this ash gives to birds with a wide, open view. Cormorants perch there two or three at a time in statuesque poses to shoot the post-dawn breeze, sometimes raising their wings to make a heraldic living frieze. A cormorant on the river itself is a different bird, so nervous that it cannot tolerate a human rising up on to the bank. Startled, it flap-runs over the surface until beating wings lift it to retreat towards quieter waters downstream. Every once in a while, there is an exception, a cormorant that overcomes such disproportionate anxiety. And there it is, paddling around in the mill pool, disregarding the people and their dogs who walk past. It gives us all a sideways look (could it do anything else?) and swims on. The merest stretch of its throat, and then its neck arcs and down it goes. It has dived and dived again since it first sat tight here in late winter, and the fishing is good. Water pours down the millrace bubbling with oxygen, huge shoals of tiny fish mingle under the footbridge, and boldness is rewarded with a full beak. I’ve not seen this here before, so this may be one opportunistic individual. It drifts into the narrower river channel and is unnerved by me so close on the bank. Flap, run, fly.