The Eurasian Jay (Garrulus Glandarius): The Bird With The Blue Wings Demonstrates Its Incredible Cleverness
- Lacerta Bilineata
- Mar 14
- 12 min read
Updated: Apr 23
The Eurasian Jay (Garrulus glandarius) is a bird in the Corvidae (or crow) family that is among the smartest animals on the planet, and I was able to witness its incredible intelligence first hand when I tried to photograph one in my garden. The anecdote that follows hopefully provides some interesting insight, and particularly for birders it might be helpful.
To give you some context: In the winter of '23 I started feeding the birds in my garden on a huge tree trunk which I'd dragged underneath the fig tree right opposite my wooden shed. And it was through a small hole in that shed's wall that I was then able to photograph my unsuspecting avian guests from a distance of not even two meters.
Using the shed as a blind was a game-changer for me; I hadn't managed to produce more than a single usable bird photo in the years before, and now within only a few weeks I succeeded in capturing most of the regular visitors to my garden (nuthatch, blue tit, great tit, marsh tit, dunnock, Italian sparrow and many more) up close and in great detail - yet I wasn't satisfied.
The reason for that was simple: the most beautiful bird in the neighborhood - the Eurasian jay - had so far eluded my camera. I was hell-bent on capturing that fella, but he stubbornly and consistently refused to play along. I'm aware not all jays of the species Garrulus glandarius are that difficult to photograph, but unlucky for me, mine was a regular diva and obvious VIB (that's short for Very Important Bird - in case you wondered ), and he behaved as such.
On the few occasions that Mr. Jay did grace my garden with his presence - and I could observe this through a window from the house - he would fly onto a branch of the fig tree right above my buffet for birds, sit there for maybe twenty seconds contemplating what was on display below, only to then fly away again (and I swear I could see him wrinkle his nose - or rather beak - before he took off ).
To be fair, it probably wasn't just the menu that didn't convince him; I'm sure this jay knew something fishy (or worse: human) was going on in the shed, and my sunflower seeds and peanuts - which he could probably also get from birdhouses nearby where no paparazzi were lurking - just weren't good enough for him to be willing to take a risk.
Naturally I also tried other delicacies, ranging from fresh apples to grapes to raisins and other dried fruit, but nothing worked; Mr. VIB remained suspicious, which was more than a little frustrating.
I had no luck with the jay all winter, but I wasn't ready to give up. Once spring arrived, I hoped to attract Mr. Bluewings with a special treat. Growing up near a fruit orchard, I knew how much Eurasian jays loved cherries, and in May I could finally get the first fresh ones - still imports - from the store.
That timing was crucial, because the cherry trees around my village didn't bear any ripe fruit yet that could have competed with mine - though they would be soon. So there was now this very small window of time where I was able to offer our local "star" the kind of exclusive VIB-treatment that he clearly demanded.
And it worked... almost. It took several days, during which the jay probably observed the tree trunk from afar (I imagined him with binoculars and a trench-coat like a private eye from the 1940s ), but eventually either his sweet tooth or his curiosity got the better of him, and he seemed to take the bait. But the clever bird was incredibly prudent and first wanted to make absolutely sure the cherries were safe.
After two days during which the fruit were being ignored, a first cherry was finally missing when I checked the tree trunk in the evening. The next day two cherries disappeared and then three; eventually a handful were missing every evening.
The only problem was: the clever devil timed his raids on the buffet so perfectly that I was never in the shed when he did it. It was crazy, but I never even saw him from the house; once the cherries started disappearing, I just assumed it had to be the jay, because the other birds showed zero interest in anything other than the nuts and the seeds.
For almost a week the same story kept repeating itself (with slight variations): sometime during the day - and never at the same time - the cherries were being collected. The thief never took more than four or five, and it always happened within a time frame of around ten minutes (this I deducted because I checked the tree trunk at pretty close intervals) - and without exception during a moment when I wasn't there to witness it.
By now it was obvious that the jay had the house and the shed under constant surveillance, probably from a high vantage point up in the trees outside my garden where he could even see me through the windows, while I couldn't see him. It drove me nuts: the meticulousness and stealth with which this fella went about his cherry-thieving business were simply unreal!
He might have been a diva, but he showed incredible discipline: once he'd had his fill, he didn't come back, and the rest of the cherries remained untouched until the evening. It was hopeless: if I wasn't willing to observe the tree trunk non-stop or install a trail camera, it was clear I wouldn't see as much as a tail feather. But then I had an idea.
You have to know that I didn't want the bird food to be visible in my photos, so right from the start, I had put three somewhat photogenic looking logs of firewood in a little triangle on the tree trunk, and I'd always "hidden" the bird food in their midst (a bit of a cheat, I know, but all's fair in love and photography ).
This meant that while I could see those logs through the window from my house, I couldn't see the cherries and thus never had a visual clue when they started to go missing. The next day I put a single cherry on one of the logs, the remaining ones I put in the space between, like I had done before.
I went back into the house and made myself comfortable with my laptop on the sofa next to the window. Every once in a while I would turn my head to see whether the cherry was still there. After maybe two hours, it finally happened: A moment before I had still seen its silhouette clearly, and now the cherry had disappeared.
I jumped up and quickly (but silently) snuck into the shed where my camera was already mounted on the tripod and ready. The adrenaline started to kick in: I had no idea if my plan would work. The logic behind my idea was: if the jay went for the most exposed cherry first and was then busy for a minute or so eating it somewhere, maybe he wouldn't notice me sneak into the shed.
The suspense was nearly unbearable; sweat was dripping from my brow into my eye, and I didn't dare to move, for fear the slightest noise (like my clothes rustling) would give my position away to the jay. I looked through the viewfinder, eyes squinted, frozen like a statue, for what felt like eternity (but in reality couldn't have been more than a minute or two), when out of nowhere he appeared: the master thief materialized on one of the logs like some sort of magic trick.
And yes: it was the jay - and he looked magnificent. He made a quick movement with his head, and then he was gone. I was stunned. It all had happened so fast that I hadn't even tried to get him in focus - I just stood there, almost shocked. I had never had a chance to get a shot. A minute later, while I was still silently cursing myself, my prized bird appeared again. I fumbled on my camera - he was gone before I could do so much as adjust the direction of the lens.
I started cursing loudly now - I just couldn't help it - but the jay didn't seem to mind. Within the next three minutes he came back two more times, and all I had to show for in the end was a perfectly focused - albeit entirely birdless - photo of the logs on the tree trunk. I hoped against hope he would appear one more time, but he didn't; he'd taken his usual five cherries, and the raid was over for the day.
I have to say that despite my anger (mostly at myself), I was impressed: the speed with which my adversary acted was incredible - no wonder I had never seen him. But there was simply no way I could shoot this lightning fast creature the way I usually do, which is by selecting the smallest focus and then only aiming for the eye. If I wanted to capture Mr. Bluewings at all, I had to switch to auto and continuous shooting mode, hoping one of the photos would end up being in focus.
I enacted my new strategy the next day, and thankfully the trick with the single exposed cherry on the log worked again: the jay went for it first, and I was again able to quickly sneak into the shed, apparently undetected. As had happened the day before, Master Garrulus glandarius appeared out of nowhere - and again was gone before I could even think of pressing the trigger.
But after the third attempt, my timing was finally right; I aimed and shuttered in rapid fire as if I were working a machine gun; the camera went "trrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!" (yes, that's my best imitation of that sound ), and I could see immediately how that noise irritated the jay. Weirdly enough, he seemed to be much more bothered by the camera noise than he was by my constant muttering and swearing.
This time, he didn't come back for a fifth and final cherry. But I couldn't have cared less (and as a nature lover it embarrasses me to admit this); I was in a reckless, almost feverish "hunting mode", and the only thing that mattered now was my photographic prize.
I was euphoric, because I knew I had captured the jay. Still in the shed, I immediately went through the photos, fingers trembling with excitement (I know this must sound exaggerated and very ridiculous to most people, but I bet you photographers out there know exactly what I'm talking about ).
My euphoria dissipated quicker than you could utter the word "Jay". Even on the small camera screen it became instantly apparent the pictures were unusable. They were out of focus at best and a total blur at worst. I scanned my surroundings for a suitable object or surface where I could bash my head in. I wanted to scream (and maybe I did - my neighbors looked at me funny later that day, but then they often do that ).
So far it was 3:0 for the bird. I had failed at every attempt, and he had outplayed me on every level. To make matters worse, I didn't dare to apply the continuous shooting mode again: the noise was just too loud, and I was afraid I would scare the jay away for good (plus the results - due to my ineptitude - weren't likely to improve).
I was used to photographing reptiles, insects and roe deer, and none of them moved as fast as the Eurasian jay: I needed more time. Just a few seconds would have been enough, but I realized the clever bird would never give me those. The situation seemed hopeless - until I had an unexpected Eureka moment. All of a sudden I knew how I might get an extra second (or two) with Mr. VIB (provided he did come back after my loud shuttering).
The following morning I went to the tree trunk once more, and again I put a single cherry on one of the logs, but the rest - you know: the ones that I always put into the middle of this log triangle - I covered with some thin twigs. Not too many - after all, the bait had to remain visible underneath the twigs - but enough that a single picking motion wouldn't be enough to snatch a cherry.
"Your move, Mr. Jay," I thought as I went into the house. I lay down on the sofa, then I waited. The jay didn't come. All day long I regularly peered out the window: the silhouette of the lone cherry on the log remained in place, like some weird little statue, mocking me.
I became convinced the intense camera noise the previous day had disgruntled the jay to the point where he'd had enough of my shenanigans. Hard as it was, I had to get ready to accept the fact that my trophy shot of this beautiful bird just wasn't gonna happen. Then, sometime during the late afternoon, I suddenly noticed the cherry was gone. Ten seconds later I was in the shed - and ready.
The look on the jay's face when he landed on one of the logs was almost comical. He apparently hadn't noticed the twigs before, and his short moment of hesitation was all I needed to get a first shot. He heard the noise and looked right at me - click! - and that was my second shot, which nicely captured the bewildered look on his face (you can see that photo below).
It only took Mr. Bluewings two seconds to adjust to the new situation; he quickly threw out a few twigs with his beak, picked up a cherry - click! (my third shot) - and off he flew. But it was clear the jay knew exactly he was being photographed, and he didn't like it one bit. The annoyed expression on his face had been unmistakable: he looked like Sean Penn when he's confronted with a paparazzo.
Meanwhile I was over the moon: it had worked (and a quick check on the tiny camera screen confirmed this); I had at least two acceptable photos. The few extra seconds the twigs bought me had done the trick.
All's well that ends well, as the saying goes, and if the 'Tale Of The Jay' were to conclude here (and it could), this would indeed be a happy ending. After all, I had eventually outsmarted the clever bird and gotten my desired photos. But there is a short epilogue to the story, and I believe it's worth telling (and if you made it to this point, you might as well continue reading ).
You see, I was only able to pull off the "single-cherry/twigs strategy" one more time - the very next day - and then never again. Two days later, the single cherry was still visible on the log at nightfall, and so I assumed the jay hadn't come. But when I went to check - big surprise! - five of the other cherries were gone.
"Well," I thought, "That's pure coincidence." In my mind there was no way the jay could have realized the exposed cherry on the log disappearing was my visual clue that his stealth "attack" had started: no animal was that smart. And yet I have no other explanation, because believe it or not: he never went for the single cherry again. Ever.
In all my subsequent attempts, my visual clue remained untouched, while the jay cheekily collected the other cherries. When I then placed several of the cherries on the log, they all remained untouched, but he continued to get the ones I couldn't see. Finally, I put ALL the cherries on the logs in such a way that I was able to see them from the house - and now the jay ignored them completely.
When I put some of them back in the space between the little "log-triangle", he didn't return to get them; apparently I'd eventually worn out his patience, and he'd had it with these ever-moving cherries and my dirty tricks. Soon after, the cherry trees around the village were starting to bear ripe fruit, and the jay's visits to my garden stopped altogether. In fact for the entire remainder of the year, there were no more photos for me of Mr. Garrulus glandarius.
So in the end - who REALLY won this game of chess between me and the jay? If you ask me, I'd have to call it a draw (and that's probably still being generous to myself) - but you be the judge.
P.S. This year I photographed and filmed a Eurasian jay in my garden (I have no idea if it was the same fella as last year), and this clip here might give you an idea just how quick these guys are: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OA9s_bciA-Y - I timed the cherry theft: it takes the jay not even two seconds to land, snatch his prize and take off again (you can also watch it in slow-mo), so I guess I shouldn't be too hard on myself.
Many thanks for looking and reading - and let me know what you think in the comments (I'd be particularly interested if anyone had similar experiences with jays or other clever corvids - or was outsmarted by any other wild animal the way I was).
In case you're interested, you'll find my best nature photos here
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