I have never seen a heron* this tame!
It's odd. It's not normal. They are without doubt among the flightiest and most nervous of birds when humans are near. This one clearly enjoys city living.
It might seem an odd thing to note when there is all Brussels to explore and the sun has turned everything, everything that was so grey into glorious technicolour.
But it's the birdwatcher in me. I can't help it.
He boldly, brazenly, stalks the cropped grass by the water's edge, eyeing passers-by, completely unphased, parading around a flock of pigeons feeding on chunks of bread. And I wonder, does he KNOW he's a heron? Perhaps he thinks he's a pigeon.
There are two people who think it's a game to chase him. One is a toddler, wrapped in his red winter coat (it's still brisk in the shade).
He is all glee and energy as he runs and stumbles at the bird with his arms open wide, yelling with delight, and the heron leaps into the air, spreads his wings and casually lands a few hundred yards away, as if gently teasing him.
The boy's mother runs after her little son and scoops him up, laughing, gently scolding him for running too close to the water.
Then a second person picks up the game - and he is old enough to know better. He must be in his 60s! He creeps and creeps and slowly opens his arms and I want to shout at him to leave the bird alone.
The heron is motionless, fearless in its stance, its blinking eye scrutinising him.
The man moves closer and, just as it seems he might actually make a leap to grab it, the bird lifts again, all elegance and smooth take-off.
Unbelievably the man runs after it, flapping his arms like wings. Fool. He doesn't chase the pigeons though, for them he pulls out a plastic bag and throws them more crumbs. Perhaps he feared the heron would steal their food.
This time the bird lands in the shallow lake, its long legs making ripples through the reflection of the Crowne Plaza and the Hilton.
It's a beaming day and we are a strange and not entirely comfortable mix in this little oasis, the Jardin Botanique, right in the centre of Brussels where we are surrounded by the glass-fronted commerce of a buzzing city.
A woman reads a novel in the sunshine, an elderly man in trilby, black coat, black trousers and black shoes reads a newspaper, its front page dominated by the faces of the children killed in the Swiss coach tragedy.
A couple stroll with a pushchair and a woman walks her French bulldog - so hard does it pull on the lead it's very clear who is in charge, and it isn't her.
We are all here of course because the sun is shining. Because we need to feel the sun on our faces, because we are all awakening from a long, long winter. We are emerging, I think....just like the buds opening on the hawthorn bushes.
Typically, having dressed entirely inappropriately for the weather: boots, jumper, big jacket, I park on a bench out of the direct glare, in the best sunlight of all, the dappled kind.
Although only a few hundred yards from traffic and its constant roar, only a step or two from the big hotels and big business, a stone's throw from the grinding and growling Gare Du Nord, this is a park teaming with wildlife.
Near the heron, in an island of bamboo, sparrows whizz in and out and chirrup loudly. A dunnock pierces the traffic racket with its shrill song.
I recall reading a piece about birds of the city, how they apparently sing louder than their country counterparts and, as a siren wails by, it seems it must be the case for these are the loudest of sparrows.
There is a rustling in the leaf litter under the bushes behind the bench and the yellow beak and bright eye of a male blackbird is easy to spot, flipping leaves, seizing a centipede, downing it in one. His dowdy brown mate is nearby.
Another rustle and this is no blackbird. Too much noise, heavier somehow..and I sit quite still.
It seems herons are not the only bold creatures of this park. Just an arm's length away, the pointed nose and black eyes of a brown rat emerge. It sees me. I move slightly to pick up my camera and it scuttles back into the undergrowth but in a second it is back, eyeing me and nibbling on crumbs near a waste bin.
I'm trying to think when I last saw a rat. Probably the ones scampering along the waters' edge on the other side of the flood wall near the car park of Yorkshire Post Newspapers in Leeds. Or, actually, no, the very last time was on the muddy bank of the River Don in Sheffield, me looking down from the Lady's Bridge. I remember feeling repulsed on both occasions.
Blue tits play kiss-catch in the twig-ends of branches above, stopping to nip a bud before it has even had the chance to sprout; another dunnock sings its spangled song from its habitual perch - the very top of a bush, and egyptian geese scull lazily across the water, not the least bit interested in the lumps of bread being hurled in their direction.
There is a group of older men in the shade near a cluster of benches on the other side of the lake. They have cans of beer and they are standing, staggering occasionally and eating from plastic bags. They aren't noisy but they are drunk.
They have been there some time - under one of those Narnia-style old-fashioned lamp-posts that looks still lit with the sun's rays bouncing off the lantern. A woman walking her dog spots them and about-turns to walk the other way.
You could speculate endlessly about who they all are, why the hell they're blathered before the clock's even struck 11, whether they have any other place to go. When I ask about these men and others like them, so many of them, randomly asleep or perched on benches, cans at their feet, I'm told that supermarket beer is ridiculously cheap and people get used to seeing them...and it's true, most seem quite unperturbed by their presence, oblivious, even.
At the top end of the park, as lunch-hour approaches, the benches fill with office workers who bring baguettes and fruit juices and teenagers plonk on the lawns with paper MacDonalds carrier bags and tinny iphone music.
The doors to the grand, domed iron glasshouse are thrown open. No greenery inside now - it is home to the French Community Cultural Centre and hosts plays, concerts and exhibitions.
This end of the park is altogether more cultivated, cropped and polished and quite formal with its maze-like box hedges and greened bronze statues. It is stunningly beautiful and a joy to sit, watch and listen to the plashy fountain.
But it's too hot to rest here, unbelievably. And taking a longer route to avoid the men who look as if they are there for the day, I head back to the shadier areas where trees are sprinked with blossom and offer welcome shade.
I prefer this bit, the bit that feels more woodland than garden. Where the heron is king and struts his turf as the sirens wail.
xxx
* Yorkshire Post birdwatching columnist Bill Teale has queried the type of heron mentioned above. I can confirm that it was, indeed, a grey heron. To reassure Bill of this and others who prefer further evidence here's the chap himself!
And while we're at it, here's the rat...Cute little fella!
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