“Nature Giveth and Nature Taketh Away.”

Another day another phone call. This was quite fortuitous, in as much as, I think a lot of the person who rang me and we’ve been friends for quite a few years. Secondly, I gained quite an amazing piece of garden furniture. 

Once home, the cargo was carefully off loaded from the landrover to the lawn where I started to assemble it.  This way and that, trying to get it in just the right spot where it would do the garden justice.  This was a magnificent looking chair.  It was to be, I thought, a chair for wildlife garden photography.  It would have helped if I had been 12 feet tall as it took a bit of climbing up into, but the more height the better the vantage point.  As I was tightening up the last couple of bolts, Jackie and the kids pulled up into the front drive.  She had just picked them up from their summer jobs.  They instantly espied the chair which wasn’t that difficult as the steel works were quite a vivacious blue.  “What a cool chair,” they all shouted.  Sam ran over and helped put the last few bits together, they were all chomping at the bit to try it out which they all duly did in turn.  “Difficult to get onto,” said Sophie,

“Good heavens,” said Jackie, “I can’t do it.”  The whole procedure was quite comical because the chair resembled a half birdcage shape and swung and rotated as one tried to get into it.  After what seemed to be about five minutes, Jackie was panting and had built up quite a sweat, “You’ve either got to lower it or get me some steps,” she said and Sam who is by far the tallest of all of us said

“A great chair dad, a real cool chair, but we’ve got to overcome the business of getting in and out of it.”  Off they all went then to start on tea leaving me scratching my head as to how I could keep the height but at the same time being able to get into the thing. I got a small pair of steps from the garden shed, then went into the kitchen to get my camera.  I put the camera around my neck and returned to the chair.  Sitting in it was perfect.  I could sit now in the light breeze, gently swaying in the chair, listening to the bleating lambs with their mums in the valley and wait for that exceptional snap.  I had taken a picture of a most annoying Great Spotted Woodpecker some weeks ago whose main aim seemed to us to be doing his level best to try and demolish our wooden windows so he hasn’t been very popular until one morning about three weeks ago. I had been making the early morning brew and the annoying critter was halfway up a tree, halfway up the garden and I was able to take quite an amazing photograph, which incidentally, The Guardian Newspaper wanted my permission to publish it sometime in August, which obviously, I am thrilled at.

Back in the chair, I heard the woodpecker call, but this call was the woody woodpecker of the cartoons, similar, and whenever you hear that type of call, it is the Green Woodpecker you need to look out for.  I sat there.  I have always known there is Great Spotted and Green Woodpeckers in the area, however, to get both types in your garden that is a rare combination.  I sat there half hidden in the chair.  I knew he was down on the lawn behind me.  I just sensed he was there, but I was having difficulty in getting a 360 degree turn in the chair.  Eventually, this ridiculous situation resolved itself in as much as the woodpecker came round to the front of my camera, rather than my camera going round to meet with him.  As he drilled his beak into the lawn looking for Leather Jackets which are the larvae of the Flying Daddy longlegs, I thought, “This Green Woodpecker is doing as much good aerating our lawn as that Great Spotted was doing damage to our windows. As the saying goes, ‘nature giveth and nature taketh away.’”

                 The Green Woodpecker was good enough to let me take a few photographs of him while he was having his supper.  As much as I love this chair, from here on in known as the woodpecker chair, I don’t think I’ll be letting David Attenborough know about it any time soon as it is still a bit raw and clumsy for most good photographers to want in their tool kit.

Lucky enough to have the gorgeous Green Woodpecker in our garden as well as the Great Spotted. Quite rare to have both. 

This is the coolest chair that I was fortunate enough to be gifted with. The Woodpecker Chair.

Wildlife and Speeding Michelin Don’t Mix.

We’ve just been on the receiving end of some very welcome rain.  The grass and trees are certainly in need of it. 

As I was saying a couple of weeks ago, I had a “To do” list which is still here but not quite as long, so it still means working seven days a week to get on top of it.  Mind you, the light is very much being seen at the end of the tunnel.

As I travelled along the road this morning to work, the country lane verges were still very much sodden with water from yesterday’s evening deluge and for those of you who have studied young pheasants with their mothers, they don’t much care for getting soaked in the long grass, so after rain you very often see them in the middle of these country roads.  After negotiating a few groups of pheasants my path was then hijacked by a hare that had just ran out of a gateway and was now running up the middle of the road in front of me looking all nimble and fast.  It never ceases to amaze me just how graceful a hare is in full flight.   You can never get round these “Road Hoggers” so you have to sit patiently behind them with the odd honk of the horn which helps, until they eventually see the error of their ways and run off the road into another opening.  All these animal orientated obstacles had been successfully handled when in the distance going up the opposite side of the road, was quite a large lumbering hedgehog.  With these blighters you have to be even more careful because they go just where they want to go, totally unpredictable.  The landrover was knocked down into second gear as the hedgehog stopped and so did I.  Just then a car being driven in the opposite way had a speed of what seemed to be a formula 1 racing car, I quickly turned up onto the verge to avoid hitting him. It was a warm morning so my window was down and as he approached I put my arm out waving to him.  He almost took this as a sign to go faster, and as the vehicle went by I could sense that he was trying to slow the machine down.  I looked back to the road, the hedgehog had been flattened, just then the car came to a halt and the chap got out of it and he was effing and blinding at me for having the gall to gesticulate at him over his speed.  After the hair dryer treatment he then walked round to his off side front tyre.  For a split second I thought what a lovely car he was driving compared to the old beat up landrover I was in, “but I have no need for speed” I thought.  Momentarily, I was gob smacked by the cavalier, arrogant attitude of this total buffoon.  Not once had he looked back at the squashed hedgehog and shown not a seconds remorse for his actions.  While he was looking at his tyre cursing, I got out of the landrover and walked up the road to put the dead hedgehog in the hedge off the road.  As I returned to my landrover the man was walking towards me.  “That bloody hedgehog has punctured my tyre,” he said, “and I’ve got no spare.”

“So?”  He looked at me and gave me a sickly smile. 

“We’ve got off on the wrong foot, I’m terribly sorry, I am in a desperate hurry as I have a train to catch.”

“A leopard never changes its spots,” I thought, I then said to him, “The nearest garage is five miles away.  These little lanes are terribly quiet on Sundays so there might not be another vehicle along this road for some time.”

“Exactly,” he eagerly said.   He then went to get into the passenger side of my landrover.

“Oi” I said, “Next time you are charging along these roads, give a thought to other road users and the wildlife that use them also.  You are not the only one who has things to do, in future get up half hour earlier, you have behaved like a cretin and I hope you miss your train.  Cheerio.”

Rock n' Roll Hedgehog

During the week I had been down to the local blacksmith’s in the village and asked him to make a cage that would hold ten badgers.  The material we all seemed to think was right for the job was a 2 inch gauge weld mesh, welded to 2 inch angle ironed corner posts.  The whole thing was to measure about 5 feet long and 3 foot wide and 3 feet high with a lifting eye on each corner so that if the unthinkable happened the whole caboosh could be lifted up without too much sway and tip.  “What’s all this about?” asked the blacksmith.

“Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies,” I replied.  All that was a couple of days ago.  Alongside the instructions for the badger cage manufacture Jackie, Sophie and Sam had camouflaged the Cooper’s invalidity buggy and they all seemed very pleased with the result, according to Jackie, none more so than the Coopers.  Well tonight being Friday as all parents know when kids get to a certain age their social life is much fuller than the parents.  Tonight was no exception.  “We’ll walk off down to the badgers later,” said Jackie. 

“Certainly,” I said.  After tea Sophie and Sam went off to do their own thing and about 8:15pm Jackie and I walked off in a roundabout fashion toward the badger sett.  Sun shining beautifully, a tad cooler than it had been along with a nice breeze and the birdsong still quite full.  As we listened to the skylarks as we sauntered along down the hedgerow toward the river Jackie said, “Look,” and I turned my gaze toward the track heading towards the badger sett at Beech Wyn, and there was a cloud of dust moving at what seemed to be quite a pace.  Jackie said, “What is that? A little whirlwind?”

“Yes, being generated by the Coopers,” I replied.  Jackie roared with laughter.  Now you could see them quite clearly, Mrs Cooper driving and Mr Cooper hanging on.  “That thing goes at quite a speed,” Jackie said.

“Yes, if they want to stay inconspicuous to go along with the camouflaged paint job they are going to have to slow down in this dry weather as the dust will give them a way.”  We soon arrived at the Beech woodland.  There, rammed up between two trees was the Cooper mobile.  They had thrown a couple of small branches over it and to be fair, you could only just see it.  We walked on up through the trees and the Coopers were already in position.  On their two deck chairs by the side of the big stones as if they were at the theatre waiting for the curtain to rise.  “Hello Mr and Mrs Cooper,” said Jackie.

“Oh hello Jackie, take a seat upon one of those stones and tell us about your week.”  As Jackie started the conversation she had that look upon her face as in a leg pull.  Something was coming.  “Oh Mrs Cooper, I rang the disability shop today and they said they’ve got another invalidity buggy in which would suit you probably better than the one you’ve got and as you were so disappointed with the one you have I told the man that we would change it tomorrow.”

“Don’t speak so ridiculous,” snapped Mrs Cooper, “We are not at all displeased, this buggy is heaven sent, no we are definitely keeping this one, so you can tell that man to bobby off as we are very happy with it.”  Jackie laughed and then the Coopers saw that it was a leg pull and laughed with her.  I sat there thinking, how many badgers do they honestly think they’ll see, these three were making more noise than the local pub.  The time now was about five past nine and they were still at it ten to the dozen, conversations about all kinds of bygone nonsense.  “You do expect to see some badgers then?” I asked.

“Of course, I and Mr Cooper chat all the time we are here, all this silent nonsense, absolutely ridiculous, badgers love a good conversation.”  Just then the badgers started to appear.  After seeing the third head, Mrs Cooper threw out a handful of peanuts.  Jackie and I were really quite amazed, the badgers didn’t flinch.  They just snorkelled up the peanuts and just browsed around completely oblivious to the small audience watching them.  Their trust of the Coopers and ourselves was quite unnerving.  They actually looked up to the Coopers from time to time, almost expecting another handful of peanuts and I felt sure that once the cage was in place one word from the Coopers and they would soon be inside it, but then again, that is probably just wishful thinking.  After about twenty minutes of this wonderful show you could hear an odd snorting, squealing, and a low pitched squeal.  “What on earth is that?” queried Mr Cooper.  The badgers stood stock still and you could see they were not at all frightened, they had heard this woodland rhythm of sound before.  The noise was getting a tad louder, “What on earth is that?” repeated Mr Cooper.

“Guess,” I said.  After guessing from everything from squirrels to rabbits, to hares to frogs and even toads they gave up.  “Hedgehogs,” I said, “Mating hedgehogs.”

“Never!” said Mrs Cooper and Jackie simultaneously.  Just then 10 meters further up the bank above the badgers a female hedgehog went scurrying by, a few seconds after that an amorous male Usain Bolt like hedgehog was in hot pursuit.  A hedgehog can run surprisingly fast.  The female had gone round the fallen bough, the male decided to gain a few precious seconds and climb over it landing by the side of a young badger who had his head underneath the bough trying to get hold of that always hard to get at last peanut.  This startled the badger as well as himself.  The hedgehog quickly wound himself up into a prickly ball.  Under normal circumstances this would have been quite a sensible survival move, but as they were half way up a bank proved pretty miserable for the hedgehog in question as he then started to roll.  Mrs Cooper, Mr Cooper and Jackie averted their gaze to this rolling hedgehog as it glanced and brushed past a few trees gathering speed on its way to the bottom of the wood.  The Coopers roared with laughter, “That’s the type of rock and roll we love nowadays,” they giggled.

Jackie and I decided to call it a night.  As we got up to leave Mrs Cooper asked if there was any more news or plans afoot to do with the badgers.  She assured Jackie and myself they were keeping a very close eye on things and you could see that they were.  “No more news as yet,” I replied, “Goodnight.”

Hedgehogs run surprisingly fast and are very competent climbers.

George, Your Ministers are Letting You Down

How disheartening it is to constantly listen to the powers that be harp on and on about badgers and the wider implications of bovine TB, the latter in their opinion needing the proposed badger cull to sort out. In a week that has seen the birth of a future king, you would assume the British government would be doing everything in its power to ensure the future little might has got something to point a pair of binoculars at. Always the same old tune is heard: “we’re still ten years away from finding a vaccine for cattle against BTB” - they’ve been saying this for years! Like all drugs, it is a fortune in manufacture and I personally think that this has been the problem: not nearly enough investment. Surely the time is now right to sensibly use a small percentage of the moneys that are frequently wasted in Brussles to try and find a solution to the problem once and for all, as well as a percentage of annual farming subsidy would go a long way to financing a future vaccine for cattle. The grass has been steadily growing beneath our feet and the problem, for whatever reason, is getting worse as this government - like all other previous governments - pay lip service. If young Prince George, the future King of England wants to grow up and see the type of countryside and all the wonders of nature within it as we have all been lucky enough to witness, as a nation we have got to soon wise up.  Bees are down, butterflies are down, most breeds of British birds are down, invertebrates are down, native trees dying off, Ash, Oak, Chestnut. And, if this was not already enough, we are now embarking on the annihilation of the badger - environmentally we have to start doing more. I suppose one consolation is that the young Prince will not be stung as many times as I was when I was a kid.

Devon Cattle, enjoying life.

A Fox's Tenacity

As I sit here looking down over the fields to the river, thunder bellowing out overhead, I think of an evening similar, easily thirty five years ago. The day had been super. Sports day was one of the most eagerly awaited dates on any kid’s calendar. It had been very productive from my point of view as I had very much excelled myself as I’d triumphed in the sprint, high jump and the throwing of the cricket ball. Once home, mum made us tea which was devoured with the same haste as I’d put into the afternoon’s field event with the idea to get down on the river bank, fishing as quickly as I could.

  Tin of flies and fishing rod in hand, I was there in position within ten minutes of walking through the field of ewes and lambs.  A glorious summer’s evening. The peace and tranquillity of a translucent river.  As I fished, the storm clouds got ever darker and the much needed rain you could tell was only a short time away. Just as I thought it was about time to be getting home to escape the oncoming deluge that even to a twelve year old looked imminent, just then I saw him.  A fox I had studied from my bedroom window on and off since the previous winter.  There had been a few chickens missing from the village along with one goose and a turkey and I knew this fox to be the culprit because he always seemed to bring back his quarry to a camp that my brothers and I had made in the woods but I used to say nothing as the old timers moaned and groaned about their losses.  I always thought this fox to be quite special and, on this balmy, stormy summer night, what I was about to witness left me in no doubt.  As I was saying the weather had been hot and sultry over what seemed to be weeks, melting weather which made this oncoming storm all the more welcome.  As I turned to leave the bank from the night’s fishing I saw at the top of the field just down from a cover this old fox very slowly meandering down passed the lying sheep who took not the slightest bit of notice of him and as he walked he was gathering something in his mouth.  The odd lamb would bounce up to him in a “King of a Castle” like bounce, head down, almost wanting to take him on in a kind of head nuggy contest, but this old fox’s mind was not to be averted from what he was aiming to do.  I was quite mesmerised as I watched him slowly, gracefully walk down through the field of sheep picking up mouthfuls of whatever as he got nearer the waters’ edge.  By this time he was approximately 300 meters upstream.  I don’t think he had seen me.  I was lying flat on the bank, just peering over the scorched, course meadow grass.  As I laid there I had to push it away from my face as it could scratch and give you a nasty rash as it was so coarse.  The Cotswold word for that was spreed. I lay there and watched the fox enter the water, he was coming towards me downstream.  He got right in so he was partially under the water so all I could see was his head and as he floated down ever closer I could make out a white ball type object just above his snout.  All that was visible at this stage now was the white ball of something and his snout as he was now completely submerged.  Approximately 50 meters away there was a gravelled island within the river.  The fox casually walked up on to this island discarding the white ball thing and there he stood shaking violently. The white ball was now floating down the river towards me.  As I got up from the bank the fox continued to shake then jumped upon the bank and then he was gone over the other side of the river.  I quickly kicked off my socks and shoes and raced down into the water to catch the thing that the fox seemed to be nursing so preciously.  I pushed my rod out to catch it then drew it back in towards me.  Once it was safe in my hands I threw the rod up the bank and started to inspect this fox’s fascination.  It was wool, many pieces of wool.  That’s what he was obviously doing coming down through the field of sheep, gathering it to make the most cleverest flea extractor that I had ever seen, for this ball like mouthful of wool was covered in fleas.  I quickly threw it back into the river.  “Good heavens, that was clever.” I thought.  By submerging himself into the water holding the wool clear, the fleas were leaving his body to get onto the dry ball of wool in his mouth.  Once the fox thought he had relieved himself of enough of these parasitic fleas, he then released the flea laden wool back into the river.  Just as I got back onto the bank the heavens opened.  Thunder, lightning, torrential rain. As I walked back up the field through this kaleidoscope of colour and noise, I thought to myself that this fox scenario I had just witnessed was going to stay with me for a lifetime and for that memory alone a thousand soakings of that severity would still make that evening’s fishing so worthwhile.

A hot, sultry evening, an hour ahead of the storm.

MPs, I Doff my Cap to You

“Aah, Friday night, best night of the week.” I’d been home for less than what seemed to be a swish of a donkey’s tail when the scorching voice of Mrs Cooper was heard through our kitchen window bellowing at the top of her voice, “I know you’re in there, I saw you get out of your landrover.  That invalidity buggy is rubbish, absolute rubbish it looks awful and it goes too fast and all the paint is scratched. It really won’t do it won’t do at all.”

“Calm down Mrs Cooper, let me explain. Your other car couldn’t negotiate the rough ground at the end of the track.”

“Only because you ploughed it all up,” she snarled. 

“You know the reasons for that as well as I do. Mozart’s Magic Flute won’t stay magic for very long once every Tom, Dick and Harry get to know where the badger sett is.”

“Quite right,” she agreed calming down somewhat. I continued with my reasoning, explaining that the buggy is more robust with the bigger wheels, slightly wider wheel base for stability, a far superior machine. As I talked it was becoming clear she was really warming to the buggy and the clincher was yet to be delivered.  “It will carry Mr Cooper as well as yourself with ease over all the terrain between here and the sett.” What Mrs Cooper didn’t know was that I had a painting design team in mind to repaint the vehicle in the late Sir Peter Scott’s Gun Boat colours, which he designed for the Royal Navy in World War II, a murky grey and green mix. Along with their green jacket attire Mr and Mrs Cooper would barely be noticed trundling back and forth from the badger sett. The painting team was to be Sophie, Sam and Jackie, the only problem was that I hadn’t told them yet, but never mind, I will cross that bridge when I come to it.  I looked at Mrs Cooper inquisitively as to ask the reason for her call because quite apart from her disgruntlement to do with the machine, I could tell that there was something else bothering her.  “Michael’s bedroom window is sticking and in this hot weather, I like to air the room.”

“Ok, I’ll come over and do it tomorrow.”

“I’d sooner you did it tonight.”

“Ok, let’s get at it. Are you riding with me or are you walking?” I asked.

“With you obviously, I’ve had enough exercise for one evening.”  I helped her up into the landrover and off we both went.  In a few minutes we were at the front gate of her cottage.  I helped her out and then we both found Mr Cooper with an oil can in his hand oiling the wheels of the new buggy.  I turned to Mrs Cooper and said, “Well, Mr Cooper looks quite happy with it.”

“Mmm” was her reply.

“Evening Mr Cooper, how goes it?”

“Hot son, very hot. Can I get you a glass of ginger beer?”

“Love one”. As he went off to get the refreshments, I started to point out the attributes of the buggy to Mrs Cooper, and now, in her excitement, she was giving the technical data back to me. 

“Extra wide wheel base, we’ll never turn that over,” she said, “It’s as strong as a small tank,” grabbing and shaking the steering column.  Just then Mr Cooper came out of the house with the tray of drinks and we sat under the parasol in their cottage garden.  Mr Cooper started to tell us with glee in his voice about the government’s defeat on the first ever badger cull debate.  147 votes against, to 28 votes for.  “I doff my cap to the 147 MPs, a great day, a great day for the badger,” they both toasted raising their glasses.

“I’m sorry to prick your balloon, but it is only a debate, I fear, it won’t be enough to stop next summer's proposed badger cull, DEFRA is still hell bent on seeing it through.  They seem to have put too much stock in this way of going about things.”

“Right, let’s get to this window.”  Mr and Mrs Cooper didn’t like what they had just heard. 

On entering the cottage, we went up the stairs to Michael’s bedroom.  Mr Cooper opened the door and saluted the uniformed manikin.  The SAS military uniform of their late son.  Mrs Cooper walked up to it and kissed it lightly on the chest, just above his band of medals.  I saluted it also and said “Alright Major?”  This brought a smile to both their faces.  As I planed the rebate of the window, easing it to enable the casement to open and shut easily I looked into the corner of the bedroom which was pretty much the same how Michael had left it.  His bookcase full of books, an old kite in the corner, the one we called the Eagle kite that I can so vividly remember flying with him and on the pillow of his bed, a big old bristly badger cuddly toy, about the size of two footballs that apparently he had for his fifth birthday.  Mr and Mrs Cooper had left me alone to do my work and when I finished the window, I patted Michael’s manikined uniform on the back, “See you soon pal,” and left the bedroom closing the door behind me.  On getting back out into the garden I filled in Mr and Mrs Cooper on the next part of our badger protection scheme.  I told them that I was going to visit the local blacksmith and get a steel crate made large enough to hold the eight badgers and how Mr and Mrs Cooper were going to spend the rest of their summer nights baiting the cage and trapping them and releasing them over and over again so it became second nature.  The badgers will associate the steel cage with a lovely evening treat.  As I told them about the RAF Falcons that we had great pleasure getting to know a week or so ago, it was like speaking to children that the arrival of Father Christmas was imminent.  Their faces were full of excitement, their eyes were wide open as I told them about the possible evacuation plan if things were to go Owen Patterson’s way.  I left them on an excited note and said that the camouflage team would be down sometime over the weekend to make their car less conspicuous. 

Ginger Beer, still a very much favoured country summer drink.

Badger Who Dares Wins

Amazingly enough, this heat wave is responsible for us as a family putting on pounds when one would naturally think that in this hot weather and the amount of sweating one does you would lose weight. However, I think our temporary weight gain is due to the extraordinary number of pig roasts we have been invited to. It seems when you have a couple of really hot sunny days, people think, “Aha, let’s have a pig roast,” so, as a family we have been very well entertained, none more so than Friday evening. 

My wife had an invitation for us all to go along and see the RAF’s Flying Falcons.  A reputation of cutting edge brilliance, so off we all went in a very exhilarated mood to witness these dare devils for ourselves and they didn’t disappoint.  From a 10,000ft speck in the sky my wife started jumping around saying “I think I can see even smaller specks from that one speck,” We all followed her gaze up into the heavens. The parachutists had jumped from their aircraft and were now in freefall, then as if by some mysterious quirk of magic all the chutes seemed to open more or less together along with coloured smoke trails from canisters which looked to be attached to their ankles.  They descended into view.  The colours in the canisters were red, white and blue and they looked truly magnificent and you couldn’t help feeling patriotic and very proud as they touched down on the green grass in front of us.  They hit the ground with the ease like us mortals getting out of our family cars.  We were all immersed in their professionalism for a few seconds as the parachutists looked at each other with smiles and congratulations in their faces to one another.  On taking the salute, we marched on promptly to the roast pig area which had seemed to be cooked with the same type of professionalism as we had just seen tumbling from the sky.  As we stood there mingling having a casual summer drink, accompanied with an exceptionally nice piece of pork between two lumps of bread you couldn’t help but notice a rather good looking fellow, a James Bond type appearance, 6ft two inches tall, and didn’t appear to have an ounce of fat on him anywhere.  We caught each other’s eye and were soon in deep conversation.  Within a very short time you knew you were talking to someone who was exceptionally talented.  He was telling us how he was one of the main parachute testers for the RAF.  He explained how all parachutes and all military hardware went out to tender to at least three manufacturers and to be tested and put through their paces to see which product was good enough for the use in Her Majesty’s armed forces. He travelled the world to test different climates, air pressure and various tolerances.  In total he has made to date 3,000 jumps.  As he spoke his tales were mesmerising and which made it even more inspiring was his absolute dedication and modesty and the matter of fact way in which he described his month on month adventures, because adventures were what they were.  What made this conversation more remarkable was the pride in the way he spoke. It was very contagious as he went on to tell us about the part of his job that interested me and caught my imagination more than anything else he had said.  We re-charged our glasses as he told us more about this particular part of his work that he found highly satisfying.  Dropping dogs to SAS forces deep behind enemy lines.  “Reason being?” I probed. 

“Sniffer dogs are vital, especially in some bomb booby trap scenarios.”  Of course, it was strikingly obvious once he had pointed it out. 

“From what height do you drop with them?”  I asked. 

“Thirty three thousand feet” was his reply and his face was stony still.  I was speaking to an ultimate professional as he explained how they cradled the dogs up and had them on oxygen half an hour before the drop along with himself.  I then went on to tell him about our own military exercise, ‘Operation Mozart’s Magic Flute.’  To my astonishment he was as equally enthralled with my tale as I was with his.  He agreed with the total seclusion and the attempt by us and a couple of people, Mr and Mrs Cooper (whose invalidity car arrived this afternoon and they are not best pleased with it, but that’s another story), who knew about the sett to keep it off grid for as long as it is humanly possible.  And then he asked “What was the contingency plan?”

 “What do you mean contingency plan?”

“The contingency plan to fall back on if and when the badger cull snipers arrive.  In other words, how are you going to get them out?” The truth was I didn’t know.  We mused over my predicament.  “How would Special Forces do it?” I asked. 

“Chopper, what height are the trees?” he asked, I said he would be able to clear them all at 50 meters.  “How many head?”

“About eight,” I replied. He then gave me a phone number, well three phone numbers to be exact, and then with his smart phone he asked for a map grid reference and I pinpointed the sett.  He locked this onto his phone and then said “While all this badger cull nonsense is about be in constant awareness mode, practise kitting them out and caging them up, that’s how we will get them out.” 

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.” We toasted each other and as we shook hands we both muttered “He who dares wins.”

A mature Beech tree can grow to a height of 40 meters

Gone Fishing

Just lately, the “to do” list seems to have got longer and longer and I seem to have got somewhat behind in just about everything so, in order for me to get abreast of it all I  worked yesterday and today which has not been without success.

This morning while getting stuck in to what seemed to be acres of painting, I was listening to the BBC discussion in which they announced that fishing rod licences had dropped in number over the last few years quite dramatically.  They were putting this down to people not having the same interests as they once had which all seems rather a shame.  I know my two children liked nothing better than to pack a picnic with their mum and myself and the four of us with rod and net in hands would all trudge off down through the fields of meadow grass towards the river to partake in the most magical of outside amusements and always the indication that you had spent long enough there was the sun going down and their mum saying “Goodness, we have been here all day”. 

Fifteen years on the kids have traded their nets in for rods and the joy and the fun is as great now as it was then.  In fact, I will be going down for a couple of hours later myself for a nice summer evening’s fishing.

 Listening to the radio I could not help but wonder, certainly not comprehend, just how children’s lives have changed over the last thirty years.  Whether it be jerseys off thrown on the ground to make pretend goal posts or rolled up sleeves in the Ian Botham style, bat and ball and any old sticks for wickets.  It was almost a game in itself just finding the wickets.  It appears to me that something of the great outdoors has been lost in transit somewhere and as a nation I can’t help feeling we are so much worse off for it.  It is always very noticeable to me that when you are privileged enough to see children outside playing in gardens it is because their parents are expecting visitors and  are trying to put over the message that “our kids play outside, our kids are not always on Playstations.”  The sad point of this observation is instead of Timmy arguing with Tommy whether the goal was good, bad or indifferent or whether the wickets were bowled, knocked or just blown over the art of a good disagreement overcome by a good douse of sporting argument has been lost and with it a vital part of a learning curve in a childhood that can never be regained.  Although Playstations, Gameboys and these incredibly complicated games are no doubt fun, one can’t help to come to the conclusion that they are indeed the finest babysitters ever invented. Kids can lose hours, upon hours, upon hours and while they lose that time totally engrossed, they are losing the art of communication and all the basic social skills that are needed to get on in these ever increasing global markets than ever before. 

So to go back to the chaps debate on the radio this morning, my take on the whole situation is for football, cricket and the beautiful sport of fishing takes just a little bit more effort to get up and get at it.  

Great fun to catch and even better to eat.

Nature is Best when it is Left Alone

Summer is moving along at quite a pace, the young badgers are now well grown and make an appearance around nine ‘o’ clock each night to play rough and tumble over the well worn mounds of earth, utterly peaceful. They never seem to have a care in the world. Last night, just as the last of the sun’s rays were licking at the edge of the forest, four fallow deer browsed up close to the sett, the badgers looked on nonchalantly. As I watched the interaction between these beasts I could not help thinking just how privileged I was to be witnessing the coming together of two of the UK’s most iconic animals. It was soon time for me to leave, the night was warm and lazily calm, still not so much as a rustle through the leaves as I walked back through the woodland. Suddenly I started to hear a faint squealing sound which appeared to be gaining in volume as I walked on. I stopped and tried to focus on the sound. Silence… How odd. Then, from underneath a small fallen bough of timber I saw stoat with a full grown rabbit, the Wednesday evening supper for her family. Nature is our greatest leveller, totally magnificent when left to her own devices.

Winston Churchhill Would Have Been a Badger Hugger.

This week my wife has been having a torrid time with an over grown rose. Each time she climbs into her car it tries to grab her and embed a prickly thorn into her.  Yesterday being Friday, her patience finally snapped; “Get that rose sorted out or I will,” she yelled pulling out another rose thorn from her right thigh. Another job on the to do list for Saturday morning. Saturday duly came. Jackie went shopping and I was left to tackle this rather beautiful human impaler.  As I stretched up to lop off the offending branch, a voice from the track was heard.  “Are you the idiot who ploughed up the track down at Beech Wyn?” It was Mrs Cooper and she looked wild wobbling about on her sticks.

“Yes guilty as charged.”

“Well how am I supposed to get down there now? It’s broken my little buggy, those awful big gaping ruts.”

“OK, calm down we’ll sort it.”

“Why have you been so inconsiderate? There’s more than you who uses the track.”

“I ploughed through the track to stop any no gooders getting too near the badger sett down there.” “Well you need not have bothered, they have all gone, no sign of them anywhere.  I was down there last night, all that I could see was a load of rocks.” I was secretly very pleased with this last statement of her fact for she and her husband, Horace had been regular attendants at this old badger sett for as long as I could remember.  I had known the Coopers biggest part of my life and her bark was a thousand times worse than her bite, but her bark to all of us who have known her had got decidedly worse since her only son Michael had lost his life on the Northern Ireland, Southern Ireland border in 1982.  He had been in a Special Forces unit called out on an IRA booby trap hoax to look at a dodgy communications mast and was machine gunned on his descent half way down it. But all that to one side, next to my parents, I don’t think that I have respected two people more.  The conversations with them were brimming with intelligence and interest and bore no malice or bitterness. They were ferociously proud of their late son.

 I turned to Mrs Cooper and told her that she was having difficulty spotting the badger sett and getting to the badger sett due to an operation that I had put in place called “Mozart’s Magic Flute”.  On hearing this she wobbled, I thought she was going to fall on her sticks as she was pushing herself up to her full height, straightening her crooked back. “You’ve got our full support, obviously Allan.  Horace and myself will do whatever is necessary to keep your secret our secret,” she frowned.

“Great!” I replied, “For a start, I think you should keep away from there for a bit because it looks pretty conspicuous, an invalidity car scorting about down tracks 10, 11’o’clock at night, could give the game away somewhat because I have recently heard DEFRA is putting a Lieutenant Colonel in charge of logistics to get this badger cull working with total military precision.”

“A Tory government, a Tory government, we have voted Tory all of our lives, Winston Churchill would turn in his grave, I’ve met Winston Churchill you know.”

“Yes, I Know,” I replied.  She had told me a thousand times how in the fifties she had been a young secretary up in Whitehall and had experienced Winston’s cigar smoke on more than one occasion, and on one of these occasions that she was most proud of he had turned to her and said, “I will use that phrase in my next speech Mrs Cooper.”  She was beside herself with emotion and excitement whenever she repeated this story which always made me smile.  “Winston loved badgers,” she said. “I’ve also met David Cameron, a nice clean cut looking gentleman and to me he certainly doesn’t look like a badger hater.”
“Well does it matter?  The badger cull is upon us. I will go down and pick up your invalidity car and try and repair it.”

“I fear it’s knackered.” She replied. “But how long do we have to stay away from the badgers?” she quizzed.  “Horace and I can’t go for weeks and weeks without our badger fix.”

“I will take you once a fortnight in the Landrover,” I replied. 

After saying farewell to Mrs Cooper I got into the Landrover and headed over to Beech Wyn. As I drove I thought of the Coopers, their entwining lives with various politicians and both Mr and Mrs Cooper’s admiration and adoring fondness of the Good Friday’s Agreement architect, the late Labour politician, Mo Mowlem, who according to the Coopers was one of the finest politicians since the Second World War.

On reaching the buggy you could see immediately the way the two back wheels were positioned both striking inwards at a very painful angle that the back axle was broken.  “Damn!” I thought.  I reversed up to it, roped it up and dragged it home.  I got to the house just as Jackie was returning with the shopping. “What are you doing now?” she asked.

“That track I ploughed up in the week, Mrs Cooper has come to grief on it, she has disabled her disability buggy, and I fear this will never go again.”

“Heavens, you can be a real imbecile at times Allan.”

“How was I to know they were going to go scorting across it?”

“You will have to get it repaired for her,” Jackie snapped.

I started to get in the shopping while Jackie got on the phone to a disability shop and made an appointment to be in their showroom for 12’o’clock.

Arriving at the store’s showroom, (Jackie had got us there at breakneck speed), the salesman advised us in no uncertain fashion, that a snapped back axle is pretty much curtains for an invalidity car.  Jackie and I looked at each other.  “This could be expensive” we both muttered simultaneously.  “Have you got any good second hand ones?” I asked as the price tags on the new ones were most eye watering.  I noticed as soon as we mentioned second hand that his over patronising, pleasing tone very slightly diminished. 

“Follow me,” he said taking us into the rear of the shop and there in the corner I saw the future Cooper machine.  Wheels were slightly bigger than average, the machine looked much more durable than the norm and looked very much like a countryside off roader.  “That’s the one,” Jackie said quite excitedly, and then we asked the all-important question, the price.

“It wants new batteries and a new seat,” the salesman pointed out to us. I got aboard it. 

“The seat is fine, what weight will it carry?”

“The normal weight, perhaps a bit more than normal, why?” asked the puzzled salesman.

“The Coopers like to ride two up,” Jackie retorted.  The salesman quickly turned to me and asked,

“Is she having a laugh or what?” I’d seen the expression on Jackie’s face time and time again.

“No she’s serious, what weight will it carry?”

“30 stone with ease.” 

With some quick calculation from Jackie. “Mrs Cooper is about 9st and Mr Cooper is about 11st, we’ll take it.”

 

I like pigs. Dogs look up to us. Cats look down on us. Pigs treat us as equals.

Sir Winston Churchill
British politician (1874 - 1965)

Slamming the Stable Door After the Badger Has Bolted.

In one of my earlier blogs of Sunday 9^th June, “George Would Have Told Them to Keep Dodging the Lead”, which by the way, I hope the badgers continue to do, key evidence has emerged from the EC on the dangers of 13million cattle movements per year in the UK. 

The European commission in its evidence to the Environment, Food and Rural Affairs committee (EFRA) states that the UK has more movements of cattle than any other country in the EU.  They urged for greater movement restrictions to be introduced as a priority as cattle movement is such an important part of disease transmission.  Living out in the country this has been clearly visible for the last twenty five years with the closing down of small abattoirs, cattle markets and the small to medium cattle lorry companies going out of business giving way to the so called ‘Super Abattoirs’ with their own network of hauliers. 

The findings of the European Commission are:

 “Around 40% of all British cattle are moved annually and over 13 million cattle movements take place every year as farmers buy and sell stock.  Closely mirroring the historic rise in Bovine TB cases is the rise in cattle movements with 480,294 more cattle moved in 2010 than 2009, cattle movements have more than quadrupled between 1999 (3,373,646) and 2010 there were (13,690,294) and have involved over 127million animals since 1998.”  

So it seems to me to be very disingenuous to be blaming the badger for all the Bovine TB ills.  The farmers have a living to make, like any other industry they need to be profitable but farm subsidies could have been better targeted to have got a handle on this problem when Bovine TB numbers started to increase immeasurably.  Now it appears that they are slamming the stable door after the badger has bolted.  If we are to believe all we hear about regulations never being stricter, beef welfare never being better, why were we all so alarmed when we were woken to the fact earlier on in the year that as much as 20% of ready meals were being made out of horsemeat?  It seems clear, that type of regulation is neither use nor ornament.

In my humble opinion, Owen Paterson’s time would be better spent trying to alleviate the problems around the transmission of Bovine TB in cattle movement than being hell bent on wiping out 70% of all British badgers, but then I suppose shooting the badger is the easiest option. It requires a lot less thought and tenacity, something our ministers seem to be lacking.  Irrational actions have created a litany of disasters throughout the countryside over the last 30 to 40 years.  Let’s not add to it in the case of the badger.

The Decoy

Operation Mozart’s Magic Flute has been a blinding success up to now, as the early summer vegetation encloses and envelopes the badger sett, so it is completely hidden from all view; this is to such an extent that one can sometimes hardly find it one’s self. This morning the dogs, Mitch and Shep, and myself went off to plough up the last length of track leading up to the beech wood, just to make life as awkward as possible to any fly-by-night snipers that might just stray into the neighbourhood. The plan was to cut the grass first and then go over it with the plough; all that was needed was a low profile, speed and a fair dose of stealth. Simple, you might think, but as with so many a plan, you’re only as strong as your weakest link. After about an hour, the job being almost complete, I noticed a group of three or four people further down the track followed by another small group. ‘Heavens they’re too close!’ I thought. Typical, when you can do without seeing any one, you see them all. The hikers, who had strayed from the beaten track, seemed to be captivated. I climbed down from the tractor and plough. ‘What are they all looking at?’ I mused; they all appeared to have their cameras out snapping quite furiously a hundred or so yards down the track, strange but how very fortunate. ‘Whatever it is taking their fancy it’s kept them away from us,’ I thought. I whistled up the dogs, Shep came along over but no Mitch. I whistled again and then looked back off down the track towards the other tractor and cutter where the group of people seemed so captivated. Lo and behold, it was Mitch causing the spectacle! There he was, sat as proud as punch and rearing to go atop the cutter! I chuckled as he has always been one to be at the centre of attention. Or was he just the greatest decoy ever? The badgers and I reckon it’s the latter.