Once upon a time, the story of a sad little priest and his clueless sidekick, exiled to a craggy island off the coast of Ireland, took Britain by storm.

Father Ted seemed to draw the short straw every time: and his adventures in his somewhat challenged pastoral area, with crackpot colleagues and a plot which emphasised the random nature of life, have embedded themselves in our sense of humour.

One day, Father Ted and Father Dougal go on holiday. As with so much of his existence it is a little dismal: a caravan and rain are the main constituents. There is nothing to do.The holiday is clearly pointless.

The cameras visit in the middle of the holiday, taking a fly-on-the-wall view of the antics of the two hapless clergymen.

“Look, Dougal, one last time”, Ted is saying, pointing to some small plastic cows on a piece of baize between them. “These cows are SMALL; and the ones out the window are FAR AWAY.”

Small: and far away.

I was given a lesson in small-scale today when I walked into the vets.

On walking into the small but perfectly formed reception there was something tiny and intricate standing on someone’s finger.

It was a tiny blue tit fledgling, perfect in every regard. Think of a garden bird you have wanted to see close up: and then imagine you are standing next to something shrunk to one-third of the size of the adult. It boasted beady black eyes like sesame seeds, a minute pointed beak, a wardrobe of plumage which would rival a tiller girl.

Apparently there is a rash of these little souls being dropped into to vets in and around the forest. Ours has had nine this week and it’s only Thursday. They are learning to fly in full view of their parents: but well-meaning humans get the wrong end of the stick and, rather than letting them learn in their own time, they ‘rescue’ them.

Naturally, the blue tits and the vets would rather we just left the fledglings to get on with it.

Kate the vet said: “would you like to hold it?”

The universe in microcosm is a very special thing. One of its ambassadors sat on my finger, unafraid, its tiny talons bold as brass. He was like a small, vibrantly coloured etching in three dimensions.

I had no camera; no way of recording this tiny wonder. All I had was an old deaf cat who might nonetheless have shown a passing culinary interest.

Ambassador though it was, its messages were a little subtle for man. For Homo sapiens, you need a really big bird. Or perhaps something far away.

The Royal Society for the Protection of Birds have opted for both.

The former has emerged from an unusual source: an American artist, Mark Dion. As part of Folkestone’s 300th anniversary a three-month long arts festival was staged in and around the old port. Mark decided a ten-foot high seagull on wheels would be just the ticket.

What better bird to haul on a tow bar around the little town? The seagull was always manned by a ‘gull expert’ to keep us informed about general gull matters. So the gull doubles as a small office. There is a hole in the side of the seagull where the gull expert can dispense information to anyone curious about why they are looking at a very big seagull indeed.

It caused a stir, this wheeled gull, and became a mobile landmark in Folkestone. After the festival ended and everyone settled back down, we used to spot it parked around the place, looking magnificent but ever so slightly redundant.

Imagine our delight, then, when we were strolling along the Thames’s South Bank towards the Tate Modern, and we espied our beloved gull.

It was lurking at the end of a South Bank exhibition lined up along the riverside: beach huts filled with arty surprises which would delight even the most undelightable and erudite. Different artists have contributed different concepts: a shell grotto, a slot machine, even an exhibition of vintage swimwear.

The RSPB guy was leaning philosophically out of the gull. I pounced.

“Is this the seagull from Folkestone?” I asked. He nodded. “We’re the RSPB now, though.”, he added. “We’ve borrowed him for six months to take part in this exhibition.”

He and the gull posed for a picture. We were all inordinately pleased with ourselves.

A nice man from the RSPB  told me they are about to utilise something very far away to raise their profile on the South Bank.

Namely, the peregrine falcons who love to inhabit the great chimney which once helped the building, which used to be a monumental power station, function.

Every day they pass the time of day there, and every day we know nothing about them. Nada.

So during July, those nice men at the RSPB will be siting telescopes at the foot of the Tate. Anyone who feels like it can simply take a scope and watch the falcons giving it all they’ve got.

You have to admire their sense of scale.