Feed the birds, tuppence a bag...
Down at the village hall (see previous), I was whinging about the birdlife to the gamekeepers wife. The problem is that although I have an abundance of chaffinches, tits and wagtails visiting my takeaway facilities, I also have a big fat cock pheasant who has taken to greeting the dawn outside my bedroom window, not only that, but he is a kind of avian Hoover, and is getting through pounds of birdseed. Pheasants are not actually the most graceful or elegant creatures, preferring to scuttle inelegantly rather than lumber into the air, frequently they attempt to outrun a car, giving rise to the sad little feathered pancakes that decorate the roads round here. I was amused to watch one such roadrunner, legs pumping away in front of my car; in desperation it took a turn off to one side, but didn't quite get the message through to it's feet, and tripped up, rolling inelegantly into the ditch. The house pheasant (I'll call him that because I wish to avoid google unpleasantness), is really rather porky now, and rarely flies anywhere. My moans about this feathered tyrant were met with little sympathy, one of my neighbours on the forest road has been getting through 20kg of peanuts every two weeks, which puts my losses to shame. Why anybody thinks there's any sport in shooting a feathery breezeblock mystifies me, still, they do taste quite nice.
The king of vague
Last night our village hall entertainment empire had a visit from an Orcadian folk musician of some repute. I had intended to attend, but as I was scheduled to be in Sheffield and London for a few days I had given up on the idea. However, fate, in the form of failing batteries in my directors' pacemaker, intervened, and I found myself at home after all. As is my custom, I had asked if any technical support was needed, and was told that he was travelling with his Norwegian wife, who looked after all his requirements. About an hour and a half before the gig was due to kick off, I came back from town to discover my answer phone was full of messages; could I bring a microphone down to the hall? As ever, the information was minimal, and the atrocious mobile phone signal meant that it was simpler to drive eight miles to find out what the problem was. It turned out that he travelled only with a guitar, and his wife, not only that, but he was attempting to do all his travel by bus, an act of colossal optimism out here way beyond the sticks. He also invited himself to stay at the promoters house (I hope he likes dogs, poultry and children!). After a bit of rushing to and fro, I put together a small PA, and the gig was a great success. When he was asked how he wanted to be introduced, our performer said; 'just a chancer from Orkney'. Many a true word, etc...
Oh google, what have you done...
It's that time of year again, when I am distracted by the new seed packets appearing in the garden centres, and I dig out my rusty old seed tin (obligatory) with the ever optimistic intention of getting some plants under way. This year I have the added complication of wildlife, and a 'garden' that was carefully tended by twelve sheepdogs for a number of years. Consequently, when I moved in last year, there wasn't much evidence of plant life, a contorted unidentifiable fruit tree front and back, a whacking great pampas grass (sign of a swinger apparently, who knows what shepherds do in their spare time), and some rather sad hostas. I contemplated the nuclear option, but I believe in giving them a chance. All I have found are escapies, a splendid rhubarb down by the burn, and various currant bushes along the banks. There are, however, green shoots, stuff is emerging from the tussocks, so I am proceeding with caution.
When I was visiting the garden centre, I was very taken by the dahlias. There is a snobbish view of these flowers, beloved of parks departments, but I have always been very fond of them, you get a load of bang for your buck, as it were. I thought I'd better check with the centre staff about how attractive they would be to the local bunnies. According to a book they produced, called 'gardening with the enemy', dahlias are not of interest, so I think I'll be having a few.
While I was searching the tin for interesting seeds, and marvelling at how many packets of chilli seeds I've bought, I found a packet I bought in Singapore, I am struggling with the instructions, possibly babelfish's finest: sows in spring like air temperature to hang down, the per diem was towards the clear water one or two times available, if the system grown in a pot can have the small Miao of real leaf to plant in the basins of three. Brought into effect a small amount three essential factors in per month topping application.
There is more, I'll let you know what happens! The seeds are for globe amaranth by the way, maybe I should google them.
Ducks deluxe
I've taken to feeding the birds; as I tend to waken with the sun (now that there is one), I've been increasingly aware of the clamour of the dawn chorus. I have a particularly vocal and demanding flock of chaffinches which would sit on the four foot satellite dish (don't ask), that used to block the view from my bedroom window and shout until I produced breakfast. Since I had a rat in the attic I've been very careful to keep delicious treats in jars or solid boxes, so, when I ended up with a slight surplus of oats, the solution to both problems was simple.
Regular readers will recall that I have given oats to birds before, a glut of quasi-ergotic oats seemed to give extra sense to pheasants. I now have a resident cock pheasant, currently looking very glam in his shagging suit, I can safely assure you that feeding him with in-date cereals has had no effect on his world view whatsoever.
When I was hanging out my washing today, I was rather surprised to see what appeared to be goose poo in my grass. My little patch at the back of the house is small and enclosed by wooden fencing, as a feeble attempt to exclude the bunnies. My previous experience of geese would lead me to expect that I would know all about it if they were grazing on my 'lawn', seemingly not, as I looked out tonight a trio of canada geese flew low and silently across the moon. Ah well, if they can find nourishment among the bunny beans, good luck to them...
