Helm Crag towers high above the Lakeland Village of Grasmere. On the summit, a number of rocks have been naturally sculpted by time and nature into the shapes of a lion, a lamb, and an old lady playing an organ, when viewed from the right angles. These unique landmarks feature in the following tale, along with a golden eagle. The last remaining Lakeland golden eagle lives on a flat mountaintop ridge above Haweswater, known as High Street. From time to time, he can be seen soaring high above the Vale of Grasmere – just occasionally above the Lamb rock, or on top of the Lion rock at the summit of Helm Crag.
One day, the golden eagle was holding court, sitting in his favourite spot on top of the Lion’s head up on Helm Crag.
‘Me, I’m the biggest. I’m the best. I’m the King of the Birds. I’m definitely the best!’ he cried.
He was a boaster and a poser. In fact, all the birds had grown fed up with him. He had got a bit too big for his beak! So they decided to bring him down a perch or two.
They went to ask the wisest of the birds, who of course is the wise old owl, known as a ‘hullet’ in Lakeland – as indeed it is in Shakespeare’s plays. A baby one’s called a ‘yowlet’.
So they went to ask the hullet what to do, and the hullet said, ‘Well, it’s obvious. Tomorrow, all the birds of the air must gather on the top of Helm Crag and when I say, “On your marks. Get set. Go”, you must all take off. Whichever bird can fly the highest is the King of the Birds.’
When the birds told the eagle about the challenge, the eagle said, ‘Well, that’s a waste of time. It’ll be me. I’m the biggest and I’m the best.’
The birds looked at the hullet and said, ‘You see, there’s the problem.’
‘Leave it to me,’ the hullet replied.
So the following morning, all the birds of the air gathered on the top of Helm Crag. The hawk posse gathered on top of the Lion. There on the Lion’s head was the golden eagle, and there was the kestrel, the sparrowhawk, the falcon and the osprey. And as soon as they gathered there, the eagle started boasting: ‘What a waste of time! Me, I’m the biggest. I’m the best.’
Perched on the rock known as the Lamb, right next to the hawks, were the big black birds: the rook, the raven, the jackdaw and the crow. And just a little bit farther along the crag, on top of the rock called the Organ, were the small birds: the robins, the blue tits, the great tits, the finches and a long line of sparrows.
Then a cacophony announced the arrival of the chattering magpies. They found a rock to land on, and were still chattering as they landed:
One for sorrow,
Two for joy,
Three for a girl,
Four for a boy,
Five for silver,
Six for gold,
Seven for this story which has to be told.
Incidentally, some say that the last line of this rhyme should be ‘seven for a secret’, but you shouldn’t tell secrets, whereas you should tell stories.
As soon as all the birds had gathered there on the crag, the eagle started again: ‘What a waste of time! Me, I’m the biggest. I’m the best.’
And the hullet said, ‘Just a minute.’ He tiptoed along the line right to the end of the Organ, and there on the pipe of the Organ was the last to arrive, the smallest bird of all, the little jenny wren.
The hullet whispered something in the wren’s ear.
The wren just nodded then she turned and hopped all the way along the Organ and the Old Lady, hopped through the legs of the big black birds, and all the way round to the hawk posse. Then she climbed on the back of the golden eagle. She was so tiny that the eagle didn’t feel the tickling as she nuzzled down in his feathers.
The hullet went back three steps and said, ‘On your marks. Get set. Go!’
They all took to the air until the sky above Grasmere was black with birds. Indeed, they cast a shadow over Ambleside which has remained to this day.
All the birds soared high in the air, but the big black birds shot up faster than the rest. They had found a thermal. It was early summer, and as the air hit the warm rocks of the fells, it heated up. And of course hot air rises, so that draught of hot air lifted the big black birds – the rook and the raven, the jackdaw and the crow, and the hawks – until they were sailing up high above Helm Crag and Calf Crag, sailing high above the fells. As long as they stayed in that draught of warm air, they were fine.
But the small birds – the robins, the blue tits, the great tits, the finches and the sparrows – they started to tire. They drifted out of the warm air and hit the cooler air, and as soon as they hit the cooler air they started to come down.
They started to fall.
They started to descend.
And they landed back on the top of the Lamb, on the top of Helm Crag, back where they had started.
The next to come down were the magpies, still chattering all the way down:
One for sorrow,
Two for joy,
Three for a girl,
Four for a boy,
Five for silver,
Six for gold,
Seven for this story which has to be told.
They landed back on their rock and they looked up to the sky. There they could see the big, black birds, the rook, the raven, the jackdaw and the crow, still riding the thermal, sailing gracefully above the mountains and above the fells.
Soon they too had started to tire. They drifted out of the warm air, hit the cooler air, and they started their descent. As they came down, they landed back on top of the Lamb, on the top of Helm Crag.
That just left the hawk posse high in the air, soaring up there as only hawks can.
But now it was the small hawks’ turn to begin to tire – the falcon, the kestrel, the sparrowhawk, and even the osprey. They drifted sideways, and as soon as they hit the cooler air they dropped like stones. They came down and landed back on top of the Lion.
Together, all the birds looked up and could see just one speck remaining, high in the sky, and they knew that the speck was the golden eagle.
‘Well, he might be a boaster and a poser, but he was right,’ they agreed. ‘He is the biggest. He is the best. He’s still up there.’
At that moment, the golden eagle also started to tire. Certain that he had proved his point, he drifted sideways, hit some cooler air, and started to come down.
On his back, the little jenny wren felt the change in altitude and, as the eagle started to come down, she launched herself upwards. So for that one wonderful moment, the wren was going up while the eagle was coming down.
The eagle landed back on the Lion’s head. He turned and called out to all of the birds, even those perched on the Old Lady Playing the Organ, ‘You see! I’m the biggest. I’m the best. I’m the King of the Birds!’
And all the birds said, ‘But there’s still someone up there!’
The eagle looked up and, sure enough, there was a tiny, tiny speck, high in the sky – the speck that you know was little jenny wren. He let out a big gasp.
They all watched as the little jenny wren drifted very slowly down and landed on top of the Old Lady’s head, behind the Organ, then they all called across to her, ‘You see, jenny wren! You are the King of the Birds, because although you are the smallest in size, you are the biggest in wit.’ The wren was so pleased she started to sing.
THE WREN SONG
The wren, the wren is King of the Birds.
St Stephen’s Day she was stuck in the furze.
Although she was little, her wit it was great.
If you boast like an eagle, you might share his fate.