Blocked

An enormous tree, branches gnarled and clawed, lies in the road like a fallen dragon. I stop the car; my journey in this direction is at an end. Uncertain what to do, where to go next, I sit admiring the felled beast. It is a handsome giant; an old ash, probably wracked with dieback, unable to withstand the power of the morning’s stormy winds. A few minutes earlier and perhaps it would have come crashing down on the top of the car, crushing me under metal and glass. I breathe a sigh of relief at my lucky escape. How many near misses do we experience in our lives? I am reminded of how fragile and precious life is. We don’t know how much time we have so we should make the most of every moment.

The tree in the road reflects my current mind state. I am blocked; unable to decide in which direction to go. Should I continue with the new job I’ve started, it’s worthwhile working with vulnerable adults but limited in scope, or pursue the teaching career I worked hard to qualify for, and am good at, but left behind long ago to home educate? Should I give up work altogether to focus on my writing and creativity (currently struggling under the weight of fresh responsibility and doubt)? Or is there some way to manage all the options? I’ve said we should make the most of every moment, but at what cost? I want to enjoy stillness too; quiet periods in the place I’m in, room to breathe, space to appreciate beautiful things.

An impatient blast of a horn jolts me from my reverie. In the rear-view mirror, a cross-faced man directs me to move my car out his way so he can reverse and turn around. My journey must carry on. I have to decide which road to take. Where will I go?

Chick mother II

Walking down the street in my local town, happy in the company of my daughter just returned from university for the summer, we spotted a baby crow precariously hopping about on the edge of the pavement. Our hearts jumped into our throats as it skittered into the path of an oncoming builder’s van. Helpless at the side of the road, we watched it miraculously dodge vehicle after vehicle. Then, with a sharp intake of breath, we saw a lorry run over the wobbly creature.

“That’s it.” I said sadly, only to see it emerge unharmed the other side.

We tried hopelessly to cross the road to rescue the bird but the normally quiet street had an unexpected rush of traffic. Finally, a car hit the little thing and catapulted it back onto the pavement. My daughter rushed forward and scooped it up. She held it gently in her hands where it looked about, dazed and confused, but seemingly unhurt.

“We can’t leave it here.” she said.

For a few seconds, we stood uncertain where to go, passers-by looking at us as if we were mad. Then, I had a brainwave.

“We’ll take it to the churchyard, it’s only around the corner, perhaps its parents will find it there.”

My daughter looked doubtful.

“It’ll be safe there,” I said, “It’s quiet and there are lots of bushes to hide in.”

We made our way to the churchyard; the baby crow apparently happy in my daughter’s grasp. In a shady corner of the cemetery, close to a protective hedge, we deposited the little bird. It sat on the grass, still a bit dazed. Crows cawed noisily in the trees above and flapped from rooftop to chimney pot.

“Maybe that’s its parents.” I said.

“Mmmm, maybe…” my daughter replied.

There were chores to do in town, so with a backward glance and a quiet good luck, we left the baby crow.

Fifteen minutes later, we were back in the cemetery. Our chores completed, we had both looked at each other and said, “Do you think we better check it’s all right?”

The baby crow squatted on the grass, a few hops away from where we’d placed it, pathetic and vulnerable.

My daughter looked at me pleadingly, “It’s going to die, Mum. It’s too young to look after itself, probably fell out of the nest. We have to take it home.”

“It might manage…” I said, unconvinced, “They advise you to leave baby birds.”

“Mum, we’ve already moved it because it got hit by a car. Now we have to look after it.”

I sighed. I had known the moment we rescued the bird that it would end up coming home with us.

“You stay here and hold it while I pop in the pet shop to see if they have a spare box.”

The lady in the pet shop was very kind, finding me an empty dog biscuit box and filling it with straw for the crow to sit on.

When I returned, my daughter was sitting on a bench, with the crow quite comfortable in one hand, expertly thumbing through internet information with the other. She had found out what to feed baby crows and how to care for them.

“They tame very easily and are pretty much impossible to release into the wild once rescued.” she added.

“Great.” I said. I didn’t really want to add a pet crow to our menagerie.

The baby bird flapped anxiously when we put it in the box but settled once the lid was firmly closed. I drove the car round to the churchyard so that we didn’t bump the box too much. We went to collect my son from his piano lesson.

“We rescued a baby crow. It got hit by a car. It’s OK, just dazed…” my daughter told him excitedly when he climbed into the back of the car, “It’s in a box in the boot. We’re taking it home.”

“Great!” my son said. Crows are one of his favourite birds.

All the way home, my daughter and son provided crow facts.

“Ring your father and tell him to get the spare chicken coop ready in the barn for our new visitor.” I said.

My husband had made the coop comfortable, so we transferred the baby crow straight into its new home as soon as we got back. It sat on the floor, purple-black feathers a bit crumpled and piercing blue eyes surveying us with interest. We gave it some water and left it to calm down and settle in. Birds are highly sensitive and can die easily from stress.

A couple of hours later, I took the crow its first meal – tinned dog food. I had brought up a baby bird once before, so I knew that a good way to feed it was to use a cocktail stick. The crow snapped its beak hungrily at the smelly meat and was soon gobbling it up. After its meal, it helped itself to water from the pot we had given it and gave itself a good preen. This little crow was a fledgling, far more developed than little Chickpea had been, but still not quite ready to manage alone. It stretched and beat it wings to exercise them and hopped about clumsily. It jumped onto its perch and wobbled there for a while. I estimated it would need another week or two to learn how to use those wings properly and fly.

The next two weeks involved regular feeding of dog food, grains and peas. There was also exercise time; the baby crow learning to hop from my arm up to the top of the coop. A few times, I took the crow into the paddock to encourage it to fly, hoping it would join the cackling crow family that roosted amongst the trees, but it gripped my arm tightly refusing to leave me or climbing onto my shoulder. I wanted to be able to successfully release the crow back into the wild but it looked more and more like the bird was becoming tame. It called for me whenever it heard me outside the barn and when I came in, it fluffed up hoping for a scratch.

The crow was growing bigger and stronger. It no longer wobbled and could fly with confidence from perch to perch. Its feathers were beautiful and sleek. Its eyes still a piercing blue. We had decided it was a jackdaw because of the eye colour and size. Although all adolescent crows have blue eyes, our crow would keep this colour. Jackdaws have pale blue eyes; bright eyes to frighten off competitors.

My dilemma was how we were going to continue to look after this lovely bird. It was able to feed itself happily from a dish and would catch live insects it found on its travels around the barn. However, it wouldn’t leave me or fly away. My nephew came to the rescue. An avid bird lover and keeper of many different species in large cages and aviaries, he agreed to take the young crow.

We were sad to see it go after two weeks under our care and attention but we knew we had found the ideal solution. We would be able to visit whenever we liked and the crow would be able to live amongst other birds in a more natural environment.

One week later, I am happy to say that the crow is settled and enjoying its new home. It roosts every night on a perch with its bird buddies. I feel privileged to have had another close encounter with a wild animal but I hope I’m not needed as a chick mother again any time soon.

Chick mother II

Somehow, I managed to lose this post from my page after putting it up earlier today, which means I’ve also lost comments from my readers. Sorry about that – I’m still not an expert at blogging – but here it is again!

 

Walking down the street in my local town, happy in the company of my daughter just returned from university for the summer, we spotted a baby crow precariously hopping about on the edge of the pavement. Our hearts jumped into our throats as it skittered into the path of an oncoming builder’s van. Helpless at the side of the road, we watched it miraculously dodge vehicle after vehicle. Then, with a sharp intake of breath, we saw a lorry run over the wobbly creature.

“That’s it.” I said sadly, only to see it emerge unharmed the other side.

We tried hopelessly to cross the road to rescue the bird but the normally quiet street had an unexpected rush of traffic. Finally, a car hit the little thing and catapulted it back onto the pavement. My daughter rushed forward and scooped it up. She held it gently in her hands where it looked about, dazed and confused, but seemingly unhurt.

“We can’t leave it here.” she said.

For a few seconds, we stood uncertain where to go, passers-by looking at us as if we were mad. Then, I had a brainwave.

“We’ll take it to the churchyard, it’s only around the corner, perhaps its parents will find it there.”

My daughter looked doubtful.

“It’ll be safe,” I said, “It’s quiet and there are lots of bushes to hide in.”

We made our way to the churchyard; the baby crow apparently happy in my daughter’s grasp. In a shady corner of the cemetery, close to a protective hedge, we deposited the little bird. It sat on the grass, still a bit dazed. Crows cawed noisily in the trees above and flapped from rooftop to chimney pot.

“Maybe that’s its parents.” I said.

“Mmmm, maybe…” my daughter replied.

There were chores to do in town, so with a backward glance and a quiet good luck, we left the baby crow.

Fifteen minutes later, we were back in the cemetery. Our chores completed, we had both looked at each other and said, “Do you think we better check it’s all right?”

The baby crow squatted on the grass, a few hops away from where we’d placed it, pathetic and vulnerable.

My daughter looked at me pleadingly, “It’s going to die, Mum. It’s too young to look after itself, probably fell out of the nest. We have to take it home.”

“It might manage…” I said, unconvinced, “They advise you to leave baby birds.”

“Mum, we’ve already moved it because it got hit by a car. Now we have to look after it.”

I sighed. I had known the moment we rescued the bird that it would end up coming home with us.

“You stay here and hold it while I pop in the pet shop to see if they have a spare box.”

The lady in the pet shop was very kind, finding me an empty dog biscuit box and filling it with straw for the crow to sit on.

When I returned, my daughter was sitting on a bench, with the crow quite comfortable in one hand, expertly thumbing through internet information with the other. She had found out what to feed baby crows and how to care for them.

“They tame very easily and are pretty much impossible to release into the wild once rescued.” she added.

“Great…” I said. I didn’t really want to add a pet crow to our menagerie.

The baby bird flapped anxiously when we put it in the box but settled once the lid was firmly closed. I drove the car round to the churchyard so that we didn’t bump the box too much. We went to collect my son from his piano lesson.

“We rescued a baby crow. It got hit by a car. It’s OK, just dazed…” my daughter told him excitedly when he climbed into the back of the car, “It’s in a box in the boot. We’re taking it home.”

“Great!” my son said. Crows are one of his favourite birds.

All the way home, my daughter and son provided crow facts.

“Ring your father and tell him to get the spare chicken coop ready in the barn for our new visitor.” I said.

My husband had made the coop comfortable, so we transferred the baby crow straight into its new home as soon as we got back. It sat on the floor, purple-black feathers a bit crumpled and piercing blue eyes surveying us with interest. We gave it some water and left it to calm down and settle in. Birds are highly sensitive and can die easily from stress.

A couple of hours later, I took the crow its first meal – tinned dog food. I had brought up a baby bird once before, so I knew that a good way to feed it was to use a cocktail stick. The crow snapped its beak hungrily at the smelly meat and was soon gobbling it up. After its meal, it helped itself to water from the pot we had given it and gave itself a good preen. This little crow was a fledgling, far more developed than Chickpea had been, but still not quite ready to manage alone. It stretched and beat its wings to exercise them and hopped about clumsily. It jumped onto its perch and wobbled there for a while. I estimated it would need another week or two to learn how to use those wings properly and fly.

The next two weeks involved regular feeding of dog food, grains and peas. There was also exercise time; the baby crow learning to hop from my arm up to the top of the coop. A few times, I took the crow into the paddock to encourage it to fly, hoping it would join the cackling crow family that roosted amongst the trees, but it gripped my arm tightly refusing to leave me or climbed onto my shoulder. I wanted to be able to successfully release the crow back into the wild but it looked more and more like the bird was becoming tame. It called for me whenever it heard me outside the barn and when I came in, it fluffed up hoping for a scratch.

The crow was growing bigger and stronger. It no longer wobbled and could fly with confidence from perch to perch. Its feathers were beautiful and sleek. Its eyes still a piercing blue. We had decided it was a jackdaw because of the eye colour and size. Although all adolescent crows have blue eyes, our crow would keep this colour. Jackdaws have pale blue eyes; bright eyes to frighten off competitors.

My dilemma was how we were going to continue to look after this lovely bird. It was able to feed itself happily from a dish and would catch live insects it found on its travels around the barn. However, it wouldn’t leave me or fly away. My nephew came to the rescue. An avid bird lover and keeper of many different species in large cages and aviaries, he agreed to take the young crow.

We were sad to see it go after two weeks under our care and attention but we knew we had found the ideal solution. We would be able to visit whenever we liked and the crow would be able to live amongst other birds in a more natural environment.

One week later, I am happy to say that the crow is settled and enjoying its new home. It roosts every night on a perch with its bird buddies. I feel privileged to have had another close encounter with a wild animal but I hope I’m not needed as a chick mother again any time soon.

Oh, I do like to be beside the seaside

Look at them laugh and relax on the beach,

paddling toes, digging holes, smooching on sand,

slapping on sun cream, sucking on a peach.

These days are our last, don’t they understand?

 

While filthy litter makes the planet choke,

fleeing children starve under smoking skies,

plastic fills the sea from our greed for coke,

homeless bundles huddle, fear in their eyes.

 

Don’t they know the great time of man has passed?

Or do they make hay while the sun still shines?

The wealth and the excess will never last;

protective lotion layer coating minds.

 

Do they bury worry deep in the sand?

Block ears with the sound of the soothing sea.

Like me enjoy the small things while they can;

cover eyes with shades so they cannot see.

Chick mother

In the garden, the birds are getting busy. They sing beautiful, flirtatious songs. They flutter and spiral in aerial dances designed to impress.  They collect twigs and soft cashmere undercoat from the goats, helpfully deposited along the wire fence as they rub luxuriously along it. Two shiny blackbirds, bright yellow beaks and beady button eyes, face off at the bird feeder whilst a dowdy brown female watches with indifference. All is industry and love making. Soon, nests will be full of hatchlings; oversized beaks gaping and calling for food. Soon, parent birds will be even busier keeping their youngsters satisfied.

All this activity has reminded me of my old dog Sam, a few years back when he was a little more energetic. One spring afternoon, I stepped out of the back door to find him crouched on the pavement, head bowed. As I got closer, I noticed between his paws, two tiny featherless baby birds. On the fence, staring in anticipation, sat my three cats, licking their lips meaningfully. Helpless creatures fallen from the nest above, safe in Sam’s attentive care. He had protected them from becoming a tasty snack.

I’d noticed a pair of blue tits building a home in our rafters over the previous weeks. The babies had obviously tumbled down and landed on the path. Luckily for them, they were unhurt and Sam had found them before his feline friends. My heart was touched by his tenderness but I didn’t hold much hope for the pathetic little things. There was no way their parents could get them back in the nest and they were very young; bald, cold and eyes firmly shut. After Sam’s show of heroism, however, I couldn’t leave them to die so I scooped them up gently and took them indoors.

This was the start of a new role for me: chick mother. I found a little box, lined it with kitchen towel and placed them with care inside. Then I decided it would be more comfortable and warmer for them if they had a nest, so I took an old plastic bowl, put it in the box and filled it with shredded paper and tissue. They seemed happy in their new nest but still cold. I borrowed a small soft toy, a fluffy bear, from one of the children and sat him atop the nest like a surrogate mother bird. Then I searched the internet for any advice on rearing baby birds. Nothing encouraging came from my searching, mostly the information was don’t do it; never move a baby bird if you find one as its parents may return and rescue it. I could see the sense in this but my situation was different. If Sam hadn’t protected those birds, the cats would have had them for dinner. I had to bring them inside and see what I could do. I had to try. Further searching followed and I discovered that parent blue tits feed their young on green caterpillars that are abundant in the trees in springtime. They feed them many, many caterpillars every hour each day and into the night until dark. Never ever feed baby birds worms as these are too sticky.

My next job was a caterpillar hunt. There were plenty of trees; bashing the branches with a stick sent down all kinds of invertebrates onto my big white sheet of paper. There were quite a few caterpillars too. I took them inside and chopped them into pieces. A yucky, mucky job, poor caterpillars, but I knew parent birds regurgitate their offspring’s food and I wasn’t going to chew them! I found some cocktail sticks to use as a feeding implement. By this time, the baby birds were making quite a lot of noise and opening their beaks wide in starvation. I stabbed a piece of caterpillar and gave it to the first bird, which took it gratefully. This was the beginning of many days spent collecting caterpillars and feeding baby birds. Every two hours, to begin with, I fed my babies.

SONY DSCSadly, on the second morning, I came down to find one of the birds was dead. The process continued for the other bird, however, which seemed to be doing fine and ate greedily. After a few days, I bought some live meal worms and chopped them up to feed too. I was struggling to find enough caterpillars; the baby bird ate and ate. The more she ate, the stronger she got and the more food she wanted! I’d also developed a system for giving her a drink of water using a cotton bud. I called her Chickpea.

SONY DSCOver the days and weeks, Chickpea grew bigger and more active. Her eyes opened and she grew feathers, downy at first and then beginning to show her true blue tit colours. As she began to move around more, I realized the box was no longer a safe home so I constructed a makeshift cage from a bigger box and a clear plastic seed tray lid. I put in a small branch as a perch. She began to hop out of the nest and flutter clumsily onto the branch. Soon I realized she would need lessons in feeding herself and flying practice.  I started squashing meal worms onto the branch where she could pick them off. At least the gaps between feeding times were growing longer. Eventually, she had a bowl of meal worms to pick at as she chose. Then I started letting her out of the cage so her wings could grow strong. She would fly up onto my shoulder, then back to the perch, then up to a shelf and back to me. Once she was flying with confidence and feeding herself happily, I realized it was time for her release back into the wild.

One morning, just after dawn, I carried Chickpea, tucked safe in her box, far into the woods. When I got to a tranquil spot, full of the calls of other blue tits, next to a babbling stream, I opened the lid. She didn’t waste a moment, out she flew, up into a tall pine. She sat on an uppermost branch and sang. Then she pecked at the mossy bark and flew away. I’m not sure if I ever saw her again. On my woodland walks, I often hear a familiar trill but there are many, many blue tits living in the woods. I hope she lives there happily with them.

Keep it under wraps

Wake to a foreign land,

heavily silent.

The earth keeps

secrets smothered

under cold, crisp layers.

 

Blanketing, blizzard

buries all.

 

Not a babbling bird

tells its tale,

nor murmuring mammal

speaks its story.

 

Whispering world of

words unsaid.

 

Our past is

entombed deep.

Truth suffocates us

beneath a

pure, white face.

 

 

Paradise Lost

The radio told me

as I buttered toast,

There is no paradise now.

Beautiful beaches are

wrecked on Bali’s coast.

 

Under a fresh blue sky,

no shores lie pristine.

There is no paradise now.

The salty sea’s cold tongue

cannot lick them clean.

 

Waves spit dirty rubbish

on damp silver sands.

There is no paradise now.

Only rainbow vomit

formed by human hands.

 

On shopping bag jellyfish,

turtles choke and die.

There is no paradise now.

We cannot close our eyes;

pretend, ignore, lie.

 

Marine creatures swim in

our colourful spew.

There is no paradise now.

No putting the world right

or making it new.

 

Those dreams of romantic

escapes are all dead.

There is no paradise now.

We made a wasteland; must

face ruin instead.

 

 

Sometimes the news creates a feeling of hopelessness in me. This story did just that. Since David Attenborough’s Blue Planet, awareness is growing and people are starting to act but is it a case of too little, too late? How do we change attitudes on such an enormous scale?

(Picture: AFPG/Getty Images Newsround BBC)