I am sat in Leigh Woods, an ancient mixed woodland which clings to one side of the Avon gorge, facing Bristol. The main road rumbles far below.

Walking down the steep path into the gorge, I came across a pigeon, face down on a log. Hesitantly, I looked closer and saw it had been decapitated, the stub of its neck a vivid red. White feathers lay across the muddy path, still fluffy and pristine. I looked up and saw a dagger winged bird beating it’s way out of the undergrowth. With a sharp smack of wings against the canopy it was out, lost over the gorge.

I felt on edge near the kill site. Although I know a peregrine would not attack me, I had been seen, I had interrupted the feast, and when I heard a loud screech come from a thicket to my left, I flinched and ducked. It was probably a jay, which I heard jabbering later on, but i’ll never know if that single metallic shriek was the predator watching and warding me off its kill. Over half of peregrines die in their first year, and this bird had the brownish coat of a juvenile. Maybe frustration or desperation urged it to stay and defend a meal.

Feeling disorientated and conspicuous in my yellow cycling jacket, I scrambled out of the dark bushes up to more open ground where I could watch the dead pigeon through the trees. The falcon didn’t return, and a flock of little chattering birds felt safe enough to move through the canopy above, feeding amongst the last blistering leaves still on branches.

I’m giving up my watch now and heading back to my bike, as the low sun catches the treetops on both sides of the gorge.