The Feathered Tenants: Who Really Owns St. James' Park in London?

Mooi! by Theresa Konova

Whenever we go to a park, it is often the case to dive into the setting, and any observer can confirm that parks are made in a way to satisfy the recreational wishes of the human’s body and aesthetic pleasures to the human’s eye. Although composed of a variety of carefully selected nature species (in environmentally-conscious design often also combined in a way to create a small ecosystem) people that are not in the field of landscape architecture would rarely pay attention to the vegetation species, nonetheless their hidden inhabitants and almost never think of the possible ecosystems to co-exist. Especially in key moments of the day, and seasons, people go to parks for fun, for movement, for rest or socialization, and they never think of the current development of the nature there or the disturbance they might create for the small invisible creatures around. Because we believe a park is made for us: it looks for people because it was designed by people who did it in accordance with other people that wanted it for themselves, especially in the past (Victorian and post-Industrial eras, for example).

But not all of the people that design parks have the idea that they design them only and exclusively for humans, maybe not so much in the past, but especially not currently. These people, that think beyond the human use and needs when designing a green open space in the city, think of the rest of the inhabitants of the city as well, albeit hard to notice in our busy and bustling day-to-day occupations. They collaborate with ecologists, environmental & plant scientists, sociologists, multiple academia researchers, and other practitioners to define what could be an ideal green space in the heart of the city, that is inclusive of all its residents: a hard, but not impossible task. After major group efforts, a multi-user park can be successfully established, but the process of which species dominate over others is a natural succession that cannot be preliminary designed. And sometimes unexpected things happen, like other species’ habitats taking over human practices in the park. Such is the example of St. James’ Park in London, which I visited at the beginning of this year.

In the heart of London, just steps from Buckingham Palace and Westminster's power corridors, a quiet revolution has been unfolding for centuries, as I have been told by my British friend. At St. James' Park, the usual urban hierarchy has been politely but firmly inverted: humans are the guests, and the birds are the landlords.

Walk along the lake on a winter afternoon and you'll notice something delightfully peculiar. Low fences ring the water's edge, not to keep birds in, but to keep us out. These symbolic barriers mark the territories "reclaimed" by the park's avian residents: mute swans gliding regally with their cygnets, Egyptian geese honking proprietarily, tufted ducks seeking for invertebrates or if they have to: homosapiens’ snacks, and the park's famous Great White Pelicans standing proudly on their favorite rocks, almost as if judging the featherless park visitors, blocking their view to the lawn across. And of course somewhere in there are also the secret pigeon agents, spying on the many clueless tourists.

The fencing protects Duck Island and West Island, mini wildlife sanctuaries that serve as nesting sites and refuges for over 17 species of breeding birds, which I read on a map there. Here, moorhens, coots, grey herons, great cormorants, and even tawny owls and great spotted woodpeckers raise their young, actually undisturbed by the millions of annual visitors. The islands are off-limits to humans, a rare reversal in a city where every square meter is contested and the main streets highly densified. 

While birds claim the waterfront, grey squirrels have negotiated their own boundaries with humans. Fearless and opportunistic, they'll climb onto laps, perch on shoulders, and nibble from outstretched hands, despite signs politely requesting that visitors should not feed the wildlife. The squirrels, it seems, have learned to read between the lines and visitors gladly ignore the signs, as they must find some recreation, for God’s sake.

Ring-necked parakeets, bright green, raucous, and obviously non-native, but surprisingly well-adapted, flit through the plane trees, adding a tropical note to this very British park. And my dear friend shared to me that if you happen to visit per night, pipistrelle bats emerge at dusk, darting low over the water to feast on mosquitoes. 

This avian utopia isn't without its quirks. The pelicans, true to their opportunistic nature, have been known to swallow pigeons and, according to recent reports, even gull chicks, exploiting climate change-induced breeding shifts. The geese can be "very aggressive and very opinionated," as one visitor put it, surrounding picnickers with the entitlement of greedy landlords demanding rent.

And yet, the arrangement works. The fences, the feeding schedules, the protected islands: all signal a commitment to coexistence. In a city where space is a luxury, St. James' Park has carved out room for the non-human, reminding us that reclaiming places doesn't always mean reclaiming them for ourselves.

So, if you happen to pay a visit to St. James’ Park, mind the fences. The birds are calmly watching, but they know their rights.