06.11.07
My world’s gone to the birds..
Note: regular readers will be familiar with the swallows. I decided they deserved a column. Someone who commented, Tom? got a quote…
I’m from the country so theoretically I shouldn’t find living there such a trial at times. You’d think I could enjoy the close observation of nature and give thanks but it just doesn’t work out like that. Not long after we moved in, we were joined by some swallows who liked the cosy environment of our boiler house. The door of the shed didn’t quite go the whole way to the top and they could fly in and out with ease. I was pleased with the company and approved of my self-image as benevolent earth mother living at one with nature. This ornithological streak of goodwill lasted until the bird droppings started piling up on the boiler. However, chicks arrived and it was too late to serve eviction notices on the squatters. My mother-in-law didn’t approve, but we let them be for the summer.
When they migrated for the winter I held my nose and cleaned out the shed. Then lethargy set in for our second summer and the swallows came back. I was happy to see them, but really, the poo situation was pretty bad. Spring sprung and the father-in-law visited and pinned wire to the door to prevent a re-incursion. Inspired by his father’s industry, my husband took a fit and acquired a ladder to dismantle the nests. I didn’t protest but had some misgivings which turned to dismay when he called me out to witness a discovery. He’d found two tiny chick corpses. For whatever reason, they hadn’t made it and were curled up dead together in their nest. It was so sad and here we were barricading out their surviving siblings who would fly all the way from southern Africa to come home and nest. Oh dear.
As one friend remarked, it was a sad reminder that life isn’t always fair and bad things happen to good people (and creatures). For me it was yet another opportunity to wallow in an identity crisis. So much for the earth mother. I put up with the rabbits destroying my white thorn and forgave the foxes for cutting off our supply of free range eggs. Blocking up our boiler house door was an act of war against innocent beings in which surely only a cold hearted colonist from the city would engage. Birds are the most amazing creatures who can keep warm and breathe at high altitudes over thousands of miles. Their internal navigations systems are a mystery to us yet they can circumnavigate the world and find their way home even if deliberately thrown off course. Our swallows would take a month to fly the 6000 miles from the Cape Province resting in traditional spots along the way. Thwarting them on the last few yards of their stupendous journey seemed petty.
My farmer uncle refuses to condemn foxes for taking the occasional lamb claiming that they are only God’s creatures who are entitled to live too. I decided not to bother resenting the 3000 rabbits who scamper around our garden on the basis that they were here first and I’d lose the battle anyway.
Peaceful co-existence is obviously the favoured way forward and were the swallows toilet trainable, they would be quite welcome to my boiler house. But they are not and would have to go. A couple of weeks later the exhausted swallows arrived to find themselves fenced out of home. They dive bombed the door for a few days before eventually giving up. I felt bad but what could we do?
It didn’t end there however. Several weeks ago, I heard an unusual sound effect from the kitchen extractor fan. It was the sound of birds. The builders had neglected to put mesh over the vent and there being a distance of some eight feet from the outside wall to the fan, some starlings decided it would make a comfortable abode. This time my own mother joined the mother-in-law with the advice. We should scare out them some morning and cover the vent. My sense of justice detected a balancing act and I was reluctant to nag my husband into implementing this strategy.
We’d thrown out the swallows so the starlings moved in. If this was the karmic solution to the problem of supply and demand for housing in the bird world, well then so be it. I stopped turning the fan on except when absolutely necessary. I figured the noise and the draft wouldn’t go down too well with the tenants. All was well until I went away for a couple of days and on my return noticed a strange whiff in the kitchen. I put the bin outside the door and hunted for soiled nappies or rotting fruit. As the smell intensified I sent for my father. Within minutes he detected the source: the shit had hit the fan.
I was outraged. This is how my benevolence was repaid? I let them nest in the fan and while congratulating myself on my generosity they were shitting into it? Was this some kind of sick parable? I welcomed the immigrants and offered them shelter and now they were abusing the hospitality. Typical. They couldn’t just accept gracefully what had been offered and keep a low profile. Word of the easy life down at Carey’s was probably spreading and the other birds were preparing to occupy guttering, garden furniture and hanging baskets. Not that I have hanging baskets, but if I did the wretched birds would be queuing up for a time share slot.
I stuffed newspaper into the kitchen-side of the vent to stem the noxious fumes and pondered what to do. The chicks were obviously hatched at this stage but how would I know if they were capable of flying? I could attack the site with chimney sweep brushes but if the babies couldn’t escape there could be a risk of escalation. I didn’t want to create some Hitchcock-like scene with starlings attacking me every time I stepped outside the door in revenge for the destruction of their home and family. And the vent opened just over the back door. They could lie in wait and ambush me with faecal bombs in what was clearly a dirty war.
My father preached patience. He claimed starlings weren’t like swallows who hung around all summer and might raise two or even three broods. The starlings hatched once and tended to clear off pretty quickly. Sure enough within a couple of days we noticed that while the smell lingered the cheep-cheeping from the fan silenced. They must have left. Now we all have to do is arrange for some man to come and clear up the debris and cover the vent to stop any other starlings with bright ideas from moving in.
The smell will go but I won’t forget. I might be a blow-in but I’m in and I’ve got rights.