Suicidal Birds

There was somebody knocking on the side of the boat, it sounded urgent. Typical, I was in the shower. I guessed correctly what the problem was, a boat had passed too fast causing the rear mooring pin to be pulled from the ground leaving my back end drifting across the canal. By the time I was dressed my new neighbour was already pulling me back towards the bank.

As I have cruised around this spring I could hardly help but notice the duck chicks, hundreds of them. What is surprising is there are still so many newly hatched chicks about, while some have already reached adolescence. It’s also noticeable that as the size of the chicks increase, so the numbers of the brood reduces. Perhaps they are eating each other! The biggest are reaching life size, all of which look as though they are females. They can’t be otherwise Mallards are about to go into decline, so I suspect the males feathers change colours at an older age.

Whilst on the subject of young birds I have to say I have seen so many suicidal birds this year. I have already mentioned the pigeon I rescued from the canal, then when I last went to my house young fat crows sat on the ground, heads buried in feathers, waiting for the cats to find them. Then riding back to my boat parked near Banbury a bird on it’s maiden flight flew into my front wheel, no mean feat given the Brampton has such small wheels. It lay flapping in the middle of the road, so I returned. I picked it up, held it in my hand to calm its futile movements and sadly watched the life drain from its little body. Very sad. I felt a little happier leaving in the undergrowth rather than lying in the road to be hit by a passing car.

I made my way to Banbury to spend a few days there. The intention had been to go there in a single day from Lower Heyford but it never happened, I became side tracked and stopped in the middle of nowhere in spots I liked the look of. A single days journey took four, three of travelling a couple of hours at a time. That’s the beauty of living of living on a boat, you can stop anywhere you like, even if its only half an hour from where you were last moored. On a holiday you would feel compelled to push on and use your time

boating. The main reason for going to Banbury was to empty the loo and fill up on water. The loo was just about full, though I suspect there was water left, but 17 days between after last service stop is by far the longest I have been, by about 10 days. You can guess from that I haven’t had any visitors recently.

I rang at Bodicote, a pleasant ring of 8, on the Sunday and joined their practice the following night. I have to say they are not only a good ring, they are good ringers and sociable as well. For me the highlight was the atmosphere in the pub afterwards, I was welcomed with open arms and made to feel one of their regular ringers. When I am in the area I shall certainly return.

Wandering around Banbury I passed a company called Thomas Cakebread. Bakers you might think, but no, they are Monumental Masons. They have probably changed their name from Thomas Brownbread. They are highly thought of and rarely make a mistake, but when they do its a monumental cock-up!

Caroline joined me for a days boating, the idea being to give a bit of boat handling experience so she could join me later in the year on the Hatton flight. Before hand she told me how she lacked spacial awareness. I didn’t have much hope for her. My fears were confirmed as we zig-zagged along the canal at the start of the day, but to her credit she picked it up quickly, gained confidence and was perfectly able to handle the boat. She surprised me doing very well overall. As with every beginner, myself included, the direction the tiller needs to be pushed to steer can cause confusion. I have seen it so often, a learner pushes

the tiller the wrong way, then as the boat turns in thewrong direction they push it further making the bow head straight for the bank. At one point my neck was scratched by overhanging brambles we were passing, my fault entirely for not looking. I became distracted looking at a man’s legs. There’s an admission, though his long skinny legs were sticking out of the shortest shorts I have ever seen, and Caroline didn’t even notice them. Our late lunch was timed to perfection as rain, mainly from a single heavy showers, came down for the only time all day. By evening we made it back to my favourite spot at Somerton, pointing in the other direction. It feels so strange pointing the opposite way looking out expecting to see an open field to be greeted by trees. You can’t do that with a house!