The jackdaw, said poet William Cowper, makes him home in the roof of the parish church in a position that would make us dizzy simply to look at it; and from there, atop the weathervane, surveys the bustle of human activity in comfort, like someone watching a show at a Georgian fun-fair.

As he perches on his weathercock, the jackdaw not troubled by heights, says Cowper, nor by the everyday things that bother mankind as he scuttles about far below. And that is something to envy: nice as it would be to be able to fly like the jackdaw, it would be a still greater liberation to be as free from care.

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