I've Seen Ye. Stick Around And I'll Kill Ye .....

  So, unusually, I'm in town today. I didn't mind though. Figured I'd make a bit of a day of it. Took my binoculars and figured to have a look around at the wider birdlife / nesting activities.

  I've done that, and then I thought I'd go down and check out my Gray Wag' box, under the twin arched bridge over the river in town.

  As I reached the cross roads, it suddenly struck me that I needed to draw some cash. Walk up to the ATM, then back down to the river? Or the other way round?

 Fuck it. The other way round would take me back past my local. Where I had a pint sat on the bar. It was a steaming hot day. I was already fucked from steaming up and down, doing shit. Bank first.

  I made that decision because I am god like. Had I gone to the river first. Or done Anything else a split second sooner or later than I did? Ye wouldn't be reading this. 

 Because I wouldn't have been writing it. The Matrix would have glitched. As it is; Read on ....!

  So, I've munged me up and rolled on down to the river. Strolled onto the footbridge beneath the double tunnel bridge where I have my Gray Wag Box. And sat down for a quick and comfortable examination of the situation.

  I'm delighted to report ~ for those with the least interest ~ that bird shit on a couple of rocks in the river, right by the nest box, show the GW's are definitely haunting the spot. I'm quietly confident they'll adopt that box :-)

  And, having ascertained that, I lowered my binoculars. That is to say, being right handed; My brain sent the message for my hands to lower my binoculars from my eyes.

 Somehow, my CNS produced a slightly leftward and down action, as part of the would be 'removal'. And some instinct, still within me, managed to scream a warning.

 Because, even as my hands lowered, my eyes still glimpsed. And I smacked those bin's hard back against my eyes. And I looked ~ with the focus wheel already set to perfection ~ at the big, black cat.

 That's what my brain went for. " There's a fucking great, black cat just heaved itself out of the torrent. There, in the left hand tunnel! Look at the wet, black, spiky fur on that muvva fukka!!! Wow! "

  Split second later, my real brain kicked back with: " Illogical, Captain. Cats don't emerge from fucking rivers. Pass beneath bridges ~ running deep with water ~ then slip into the water at the far end, like ye just witnessed."

 Minutes later, I'm relating this to my main man; Hugh Logan. Hugh told me this:

 " Ditch; In a life time of living here, I've heard men say: 'There could be mink on that river.' 'There must be mink on that river.' Even, 'There are mink on that river.' 

 But, I've never yet heard of Anyone who's actually Seen a mink on that river! And, for you to have seen one? In broad daylight? On a busy Saturday afternoon?!"

  Yeppers. The town has entrusted me with the duty of protecting 'our' stretch of river, while encouraging the birds. I'm taking my role extremely seriously.

 And now I've been sent a sign: " The Butcher ". I've Seen the duck slaughtering bastard! I want his arse!

Kudos To Dean O' .....

  So, cutting to the chase of an otherwise extremely long story:  Dean O's pulled up at my place, tonight. Just after I realised that really was fucking Snow flakes I was seeing ....!

  Never mind that. I'm ready to roll and have my Gray Wagtail nest box in my bag. Pair of Obo nails in my pocket. And I think to check Dean has a hammer in the van.

  He has. We're all set then. This evening, I get my Gray Wag' nest box popped under the bridge in town.

 One of us to hold it in position. Other to beat the masonry nails into the underside of the bridge. Team work. Fuckin' easy.

  Stopped off at Dean O's, on the way. He grabbed his Hilti Gun ~ why beat spikes when ye can blow them in? And his own gum boots too. We had water to walk in. Unknown, but certainly above the ankle depth. 

 Fuck almighty! First, the gate to the bank to the river's padlocked. No worries. We're big boys. Over the fence ~ wrong side of the fence / bridge. Dean 'O points out how we'll easier approach the bridge from the other side. Off we go.

 It's getting dark, by now. Just how deep Is this fucking river anyway? Looked a piece of piss, last week. In broad daylight.  Tonight, I watched carefully, as Dean O' trod, carefully. I made sure to try and tread where he had. 

 Crouched over. Carrying weird shit to be carrying under a bridge in town. In the dark. It felt like 'Being in the SAS'.

 Well, it probably felt nothing like that. But, weird, uneasy, scary as this felt? Fuck being in the SAS! This was quite enough 'excitement'.

  Then the Bangs!  There's Dean firing the Hilti, to shoot the nails in. Only, it's more like " Bang! Ping! Fuck! " This fucking tool fires nails into scaffold tubes. I've seen it. But, natural Irish stone rocks? No fucking way!

 Just as he ran out of nails, I felt one stuck in the wood of the box! Bastard things had been ricochetting around our fucking ears in there!!! FFS! It Was like being in the fucking SAS!

  So, this box is plainly coming back home with me. I'll need to figure something else out. But, I suck it up and don't make any miserable comments. We'd tried.

 Then Dean O' says the most remarkable thing. He says; " Only way to do this is to use an SDS drill, and plug into these stones. " I, 'jokingly' say that, yeah; But, I don't think any of my extension leads will reach this far.

 " No. " Comes this voice in the darkness. " But, mine will. If I bring the generator ..... " Then I hear purposeful strides against the current. He's off .....

 All fucking credit to the guy. I mean, this is my baby. Yeah? My project. I'm the one obsessed with fucking nest boxes. It's also Friday night. Dark. Freezing fucking cold and we have " Dexter " waiting to be watched and beer to be consumed.

 But, no. He's slung the tools back in the van and drove all the way back to his place. Fucked around, testing the genny. Loaded up some more tools and driven us back down to that god forsaken river.

  I now have a Gray Wagtail nest box securely positioned beneath one of the bridges in town! I'm a Fucking Happy Bunny!

 The knock on effects of that box being there will now spread, like a tiny, soft ripple, through the whole community. And it'll bounce back too; To the benefit of wildlife. How cool is that?

  And all because my mate, after a damn hard weeks work, was willing to pick up the tools and sacrifice another hour of breaking his fucking back, stooping around beneath a dark bridge in a freezing river.

  I fuckin' Salute the guy!
 

The Ducks Are Fucked ~ Again .....

  Just a courtesy call, really. To let ye know I was down there the other day. Couple of Jackdaws picking over the last of the 'duck food' on the bank. 

 No sign of any ducks what so ever.

Mink trap's still there.

 Fucked if I know .....

Wot ~ No Ducks ....?!

 Now what?! Someone's dumped a length of old rain guttering along their bit of bank. It was obviously filled with 'Duck Food' and that's been liberally slung all over the place. 

 There's also a large patch of the stuff where they usually sat. Only, no sign of any ducks. I looked up and down the river. Nothing.

 Local Intelligence ~ in the usual form of my mate, Hugh, my Butcher ~ tells me one duck was seen waddling up the hill road. That road leads away from the river and off to god knows where.

 Mink trap's still laying there. Mid stream. I just don't know what to think anymore. Whole saga's just getting a bit surreal!

 More, next week. No doubt!
 

Nine Ducks ~ And Counting .....

  It's all getting a bit sad, and pathetic, now. Last week I reported how someone had put eleven ducks back on the little river, in town. Today they were, already, down to nine.

 I counted them as I passed by, on my way to the library. Coming back, I decided to photograph them for ye. But, even as I came along, camera out and the setting chosen, a woman crossed the little bridge above them and a moggy appeared from the car park behind. Pandemonium!

 Fucking ducks were everywhere! No where to go. No where to hide. About half a dozen jumped into the water, quacking their heads off. The rest just slapped their feet on the narrow bank which is all the home they have.

 I spoke to Hugh, my Butcher, about it. We spoke of how they have no shelter. No proper food source. No real hope. They're fucked ducks.

 

It's Still There ....!

 A week ago, today, I found a mink cage in the river in town, yeah? Told ye all about it Below / Here.

  Back in town again, today. Have to have a look, don't ye? And, fuck me; There it is!

  Shifted and drifted a yard or two. Otherwise still much as I first found it. Can ye imagine that happening in england? I can't!

  Local people are now even suggesting I just " Bring it with me. " But, as I still explain to them; That's not the way I see things done, around here. It's not my property. I'm not touching it. Period.

 Saying that; It bodes damn well for me, doesn't it? Should I ever choose to set some traps of my own down along that river. No bugger'll interfere with those either, look.

  Sadly, that's not about to happen. Simply because I only go into town once a week. Can't go about, setting even killer traps, then just inspecting them once a bloody week! Some modern Gamekeepers might. I wouldn't.

 Makes me wonder what story lies behind all this though; Someone ~ his name's known ~ fenced the river in. Bought ducks to sit on it. There's even an automatic feeder there for them. 

 Then a mink came along and started helping itself to the ducks. So, someone bought a trap and set it. Now, all that's there is the feeder and the trap.

 The truth behind it will filter through to me, eventually. I'll tell ye, here, once I find out.