The Grape War: Outwitted by 100gm of feathers again
Sunday, 5 April 2026
Mike White is a senior writer and columnist.
OPINION: In the span of international avian cunningness, the humble blackbird must rate near the top of the tree of trickiness.
Oh yes, yes, the crow can use tools supposedly; magpies can smite a cyclist from behind at lightspeed; and oystercatchers can convincingly feign injury to distract predators away from their nest and chicks.
But none of them are a match for the blackbird when it comes to grape snaffling.
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We have four grape vines around our deck. They all receive the same irrigation and expert pruning from a friend. Three are healthy and have rewarded us richly this year. One is a complete disaster, a barren runt of the viticulture world, a parasitic freeloader on the edge of the lawn.
Last year, a late frost destroyed our grape crop, bar one vine that had the good fortune to be sheltered.
We watched the few remaining grapes form and swell. We imagined we’d get a bunch or two to put on a cheese platter so guests could go, “Oh, how lovely, are these your own?”
And then I watched the nascent fruit be plundered by the sneakiest blackbird in our village.
While working, I sit beside double doors, looking out to the garden. The grape vine spared by the frost is about four metres away, through the double glazing.
The blackbird had cased the joint from a nearby tree and concluded he could get in and out before I could get out the door.
So it was, time and again last summer, from the corner of my eye I’d notice a flicker of movement as the blackbird plucked another grape from the bunch and hopped away, beak ajar with his oversized prize, like a evil monkey with a melon in his jaws.
The thing was, the bloody grapes weren’t even ripe, but obviously the feathered goblin considered them sweet enough to steal.
Over a few days, the bad bird returned to raid the dwindling grapes. At my worst, I willed ghastly indigestion on it.
But in more benevolent moments, I thought, what the hell, there are only a couple of bunches, let the little monster have them.
This year, however, I have become emotionally hardened and selfish as our productive vines have fruited bountifully.
Wise to the blackbird’s wiles, we netted the vines early, pinning the edges down with pegs and blocks, and sealing the gaps at the edges.
The blackbird saw this happening, and saw this as merely a frustrating challenge.
As I looked out to the nearest vine, I’d see him swoop down, and start pacing around the net.
I’d leap from my chair, he’d see me, and fly away.
But then he realised there was a door between us, and I wasn’t really a threat, so he just stared back at me.
I rapped on the glass and he flew away.
Then he realised my rapping didn’t put him in imminent danger, and he just blinked and carried on looking for weaknesses in our netting ramparts.
Inevitably, he’d find the bit of net that was close to a bunch, and with a leap and skilful aim, pierce the defence and peck a grape.
By this stage, I was up out of my seat and out the door. But he was always too swift, and I was left shouting “shoo” as his tail feathers disappeared up a tree.
This is how the last month has passed, man v blackbird, a battle for the garden’s sweetest baubles.
I like to think I’ve generally triumphed, despite the odd loss, but undoubtedly the blackbird sits there with a full belly and a smug smile on his beak, the self-anointed conquering king.
It’s not the first time I’ve been outwitted by something weighing 100g.
The blackbird and I are old foes, with many wars fought over the raspberry patch.
But this year we’ve had his measure there, with nets like village fête marquees strung over them.
Meanwhile, blackbirds aren’t the only wily winged ones we’ve had to deal with lately.
The sparrow in the chimney who we weak-heartedly let lodge through summer has been evicted.
The chimney sweep arrived last week and opened the door of the log burner to find bits of dried grass.
“Ha, looks like you’ve got a bird,” she said.
“Really?” I replied, pretending I didn’t have the slightest idea.
The chimney sweep pulled a ladder from her van, propped it against the gutter, and clambered on to the roof.
All manner of noises ensued, clomping and scraping and the tinkling of cinders in freefall down the flue.
Eventually she descended and let me know how bad the sooty build-up had been.
“And there was a bird,” she confirmed, pointing to a sizeable thatch of grass she’d extracted and dumped on the lawn.
“Really?” I repeated.