In defence of pigeons

I have done absolutely nothing this past year except pound away at a book. For complicated logistical reasons that are far too boring to go into, I discovered last summer – rather in the manner of a Bank of England economist blindsided by the inflation rate – that I had badly miscalculated how long I had to finish it. A deadline that I had initially thought was February 2023 turned out to be July 2022. As a result, I have done nothing these past 12 months except write about the Romans. I have incinerated the Temple of Jerusalem, destroyed Pompeii, inaugurated the Colosseum and built Hadrian’s Wall. What I have not done, however, is much exercise – and so no sooner had I breasted the tape of my deadline than I was off for a 20-mile walk across London.

The capital is so infinite in its fascinations that during the lockdown my wife and I found our appetite for travel perfectly satisfied by going for long, themed treks across the immensity of its sprawl. The theme for last weekend’s walk was animals. We visited London Zoo, of course, but also a farm in Vauxhall and a riding school in Brixton. At the Tower of London we remembered in our prayers the elephant kept there by James I and which, poor creature, was never given anything to drink but wine. At Gough Square we paid our respects to Hodge, Dr Johnson’s beloved cat, and at Carlton House Terrace to Giro, a dog owned by Hitler’s first ambassador to London, and which, after an accident with a rogue electricity cable, was buried at the top of the steps leading to the Mall. Most moving of all was the memorial in Park Lane to the recipients of the PDSA Dickin Medal: the animals’ equivalent of the Victoria Cross. Among those who had helped to fund the memorial, I noted, was the late Charlie Watts.

The species of animal that has won the most Dickin Medals – more even than the dog – is the humble pigeon. I was delighted but not remotely surprised to discover this. I have sat at the feet of Gordon Corera, the BBC’s security correspondent, and learned from him that pigeons are ‘the true superheroes of history’. Their astonishing homing ability – still not properly understood by scientists – has enabled them to do humans noble service since the time of Noah. (A dove, as Gordon has memorably put it, is merely ‘a pigeon with good PR’.) A few weeks ago, he came on The Rest Is History, the podcast I present with my friend Dominic Sandbrook, and brilliantly made his case. British pigeons, dismissed by far too many of us as rats with wings, have served their country bravely and well, and splendidly merit our admiration. Kenley Lass, the first pigeon to deliver intelligence from occupied France; Winkie, who saved a ditched aircrew in 1942; Mary of Exeter, who braved shrapnel and Nazi hawks to complete her missions: heroes one and all. Alarmingly, however, we have allowed the National Pigeon Service to fall into abeyance. Unlike China or France, we have failed to invest in the solar-flare-proof long-distance communications that only pigeons can provide. As a result, we are confronted by what Gordon, in sombre tones, has termed the ‘pigeon gap’. I hope that the new government – distracted though it may be, I acknowledge, by other matters – will take urgent steps to close it.

It is the measure of how hard I have been working that I even had to put cricket with my team, the Authors, on hold. Thankfully, I finished in time to play at one of the most atmospheric grounds in the whole of England: Erlestoke in Wiltshire. Built inside the walls of what was once an Edwardian garden, it is the love child of L.P. Hartley and Frances Hodgson Burnett. The ground was as beautiful as ever, the match an absolute thriller, and the hospitality quite gloriously wine-soaked. Yet wonderful a day though it was, I could not help but feel there was a slight summer-of-1914 feel to the whole occasion. Had there been ladies with white parasols and moustachioed gentlemen muttering about some damn-fool business in the Balkans, I would not have been surprised. Winter is coming. These past three years have taught us to dread what it can bring. For decades, our medicines and our energy supplies enabled us to forget what countless generations of our ancestors, reaching back to the very beginnings of human habitation on this island, could never afford to forget: that cold and darkness kill. So I felt happy to be playing cricket again, not just because I had missed it, but also because I knew that the memory of it will serve me, this coming winter, to warm my spirits and my hopes.