In Praise of Ravens

I am traveling through the UK this week. My husband and I are hitting as many of the highlights as we can before his camera overflows.

Naturally, we have hit three castles so far: Edinburgh Castle, Hollyrood Castle, and the Tower of London. All three are beautiful. Edinburgh is a stately, brooding thing growing from the rock and looks like it’s straight from the high Middle Ages. Hollyrood has all the Georgian dignity and symmetry.

There were no ravens at two of them, however.

The ravens at the Tower of London are so used to people that my husband tapped one on the tail feathers and it turned around like he was expecting an interview.

They party together too. A pair were grooming each other’s feathers and tapping beaks.

But mostly they have a ton of personality. Ravens are large birds, and I find their all-black garb classy. They evoke grand dams dominating a party.

There is a tendency to use them to symbolize death and to treat them as portents of doom. That is wildly unfair. Animals that eat carrion are doing us a favor, and few creatures seem more alive and delightful.

The Towers house them in cages in the bailey and feed them regularly. The ravens’ wings are clipped to keep them from leaving, which raises the possibility of baby ravens and raven nests somewhere in the beefeaters’ quarters. I hope so.

And I hope to find more of them about. There is wonder in the non-exotic animals, and joy in all animals.