five go rewilding

So Quigley was the first to go.

 Actually he found a gap somewhere and flew off then spent the next two days squawking loudly on top of the tunnel, in front of the tunnel, behind the tunnel and from a nearby hay bale. So I opened the door and a day later Mouse flew out to join him on top of the dustbin. She flew off to explore and then the rook with no name eventually left after I’d gone.  I thought that was it until Quigley turned up back inside the tunnel demanding to be fed. The next day Mouse had returned and then Noname. It works really well – they fly around the sky, sit in the tree tops then come back inside when they want a bit of nosh.

When it rains they all sit in a row looking grumpy on a branch inside. Or if I’m a bit late in the morning with the food they also sit there looking grumpy with a what time do you call this ? sort of look on their faces.

When I feed the Jims - Mouse lands on my shoulder squawking loudly in my ear, pecks at my clothing and demands to be fed too. He’s just trying it on but I still pop some tasty morsel – more than likely a piece of cheese which they all love- into his gaping mouth. I love watching them flying up in the sky – wheeling in the thermals. It’s hard to tell if they’ve been accepted by the Rookery Boys. I suspect they are planning their own rookery inside the poly tunnel. They’ve certainly made a tribe of three so far. Although I know it’s usually best to let nature take its course and I have purposely not picked up two other young rooks from the track as I would have done if I didn’t have a rookery of my own, it was sad to find both of them dead the following day. If I found dead rooks I used to bury them in the leaves but now see the sense in leaving them to feed some other animal as long as it’s not Rocket or Pocket. We have put rings on a couple of the birds here so we know should I find a dead bird that it's not one of "ours".

So now I've had to shut them out as the Jims are learning to fly properly inside the tunnel. Soon they'll be gone too. Young jackdaws are sweet, curious, affectionate, destructive and demanding and they're meant to be wild. I saw two youngsters for sale on Face Book for £150 each. This is not right but apparently legal if they've been born in captivity. I can't imagine that knowledge makes them feel any better if they can't taste the wind and the clouds and be as wild as shadows in the grass.

The rooks are really cross that the door is now closed to them and I've had to buy a bird table to put outside the poly door. Mouse is on look out on top of the grain feeder on the farm and when she sees me coming in the morning she yells out, madly flapping her wings and is sitting on the bird table before I can get there. Although the others join her she is the only one who likes to sit on my arm as she eats - the others have truly rewilded and don't like me getting too close.

The garden ducks have decided to rewild too, they've found a gap in the hedge and gone native, marching off to the yard and rummaging around the straw bales looking like a bunch of old biddies  scrapping over items at a jumble sale. The black duck is the leader and very much in charge. When he's had enough he leads them back in a straight line through the hedge and into the garden.

This is Mouse or Quigley on the straw bale.

Rocket likes to lie on his back his paws akimbo as if his legs are fashioned into origami shapes. When asleep they kick and he whimpers and snuffles as he dreams. Here he is doing the same thing in mid-air as he flies through the long grass on a day outing to the Isle of Wight.

 Pixie's very interesting fact is that Biophilia is the love of nature and living things. She thinks I might be a Biophiliac.

 Pocket has taken up reading.  I asked him why he was doing that and he said "A book must be the axe for the frozen sea inside us." And I said you must have been reading Kafka. And he said "Don't you mean Katka?"

It's been a glorious year for roses. Here are just a few of the different varieties we have in the garden.

The Meadow

by Wendell Berry

In the town's graveyard the oldest plot now frees itself
of sorrow, the myrtle of the graves grown wild. the last
who knows the faces who had these names are dead,
and now the names fade, dumb on the stones, wild
as shadows in the grass, clear to the rabbit and the wren.
Ungrieved, the town's ancestry fits the earth. they become
a meadow, their alien marble grown native as maple.

j'adore jackdaw

Here are two baby jackdaws that fell down two separate chimneys. Like the baby rooks they are not related.

 Also like the rooks they were given to me by a wildlife rescue centre as I am happy to help out by hand feeding them and also am around to be able to do so. I have called them Mr and Mrs Jim. Jim after Jim-ney - down which they fell.Collectively just referred to as the Jims.

 The Jims are smaller than the rooks but no less demanding. Every two hours. I had to take them to Bridport with me in a box the other day as I would have been unable to meet their busy eating schedule. I fed them in the car park by the beach and also in a lay by. Next week it'll be London.

 Meanwhile here is Mouse and Quigley2. They are now free range in the shade tunnel and have been joined by a third rook who I am not giving a name to and have never handled. He came being able to feed himself but not able to fly. He is learning and so are the boys.

 I refer to them as the boys but they may well be girls, particularly Quigley 2 who took a piece of food in his mouth, hopped over to Mouse and popped into his mouth. I was touched by his/her caring gesture. Mouse meanwhile likes picking up stones and making a little pile of them. They can both feed themselves but when they see me they jump up and down flapping their wings and opening their mouths - so just to humour them I pop bits of food in.

Took Rocket to a dog's festival the other day. It was wonderful - hundreds of dogs and nobody fought.
They had a terrier and lurcher racing event where you could bring your dog into the ring to chase a hankie which sped round on wires. Rocket was artful. Proudly watching him it reminded me of sport's day at the girls' school.
                                 

                                          

Pixie's interesting fact for this post is that Tug o War was an Olympic event from 1900- 1920

 This is one of Nancy's favourite places. The little seedlings and nice plants are all squashed. It's hard to garden with a dog who digs everything up and a cat who lies on everything.
I asked Pocket (photo not featured as already seen lounging on the dog bed with Rocket) for his pearls of wisdom particularly if he had anything wise to say about gardens and he said "It is idle, having planted an acorn in the morning, to expect that afternoon to sit in the shade of the oak."
I said "oh so you've read Antoine de Saint-Exupery?"  He blinked, looked at me idly and carried on sleeping.

 

Here is the garden at the Pink Tower (available to book on air BnB) where Rocket is not allowed so things aren't dug up here though once in a while the ducks get into it and trample a few things. The cats and Rocket are not allowed inside though once Rocket sneaked in and ate the chocolates I put on the bed.

The Fathers’ Race

From Dog Days by Linda Coggin

                     

            The school bell tolls as they jockey

at the line, casual, acting the goat

wishing they were dead or down the pub

still time to do that deal –

but then they’re off and scorching grass

as fast as squibs across the turf

past sons and daughters who perch

in mirth and dig each other in the ribs.

Brogues and trainers blaze the furlong

outrunning hares, with lungs protesting.

Men in nightmares running nude

with limbs of lead and feet in glue.

A cry goes up – a man is down.

Embarrassed as his father falls

one boy goes red and turns away.

As the first men pass the line to yells

and shouts, it seems that flowers sprout

within the empty grass that separates

the winners from the rest

and insects brave the crossing of

the track and big black birds sail and tack.

Then short of breath with barrel chests

the others totter in behind.

These are the slack, the flimsy men

the unstrung heroes of the field

the real winners of the race who

brave the torment of the chase

to whom the anthem should be sung.

For these are sons of fathers

who had never run for them.