Chuffed to Bits

I’m Cornish, raised on stories of Piskies, Buccas and Spriggans.  And of the Cornish chough - the almost mythical bird which appears on the Cornish coat of arms.

A small member of the crow family with a distinctive red bill and legs, the chough had become extinct in Cornwall due to loss of habitat.  When I was a child, the only choughs left in Cornwall were a couple of depressed specimens in a cage in Newquay Zoo.

However, just a few years ago, birds from Ireland or Wales colonised Kynance Cove, to the far West of Cornwall.

When in Cornwall, my priority is to spend time with my parents so getting to Kynance Cove slipped from one year’s to-do list to another’s.  I never would see a Cornish chough.

However, this year, so as not to expose my parents to any risk of Covid, Nigel and I booked holiday accommodation near Truro and, in between family visits, walked the coast.

On the very first day at Trevellas Cove (many miles from Kynance), a high pitched ‘Keeaugh, keeaugh’ made me look hard at a quartet of crows.  In fact only three were crows, the fourth bird, smaller and more delicate, was a chough.  I was beyond excited.  However, the crows were bullying this lone bird.   We visited Trevellas twice more, but saw no chough. 

Finally on the penultimate day, we walked a particularly rugged section of cliff path between Porthtowan and Portreath.  ‘Keeaugh, keeaugh’ first a pair, and later, a small group of choughs reminding me of porpoises as they flew away.  The choughs here were not being attacked by crows, and looked settled.

How did I feel about my first sightings of the legendary bird of Cornwall? 

Chuffed to bits of course.

(With thanks to Pascoe and Richard for the sophisticated pun)

Lord of the Flies

Although year on year our  insect population is declining due to use of pesticides, there still seem to be enough of them around to bite me.

So when Carenza and I visited Butser Ancient Farm, I applied some of the Ancient Insect Repellent which has for some time resided in our car. 

‘No thanks,’ said Carenza.

As we showed our tickets at the entrance, I began to find it hard to concentrate, even to speak.  I had been surrounded by a thick cloud of small flies.

As we had a coffee in the picnic area, the flies, overcome by some strange invertebrate ecstasy, began to dash themselves against my arms, still slick with sunscreen and repellent.  They adhered there as if I were a human flypaper.

Even the Butser Farm goats had fewer flies round them.

I evaded them for a short time by stalking rapidly to the ladies’ loo.  When I got back, Carenza said she’d been worried they might start bothering her, but instead they had remained buzzing wistfully around my chair until I returned.

‘They really love me, don’t they?’

‘They think you’re their queen.’

In fact, the explanation was that insect repellent contains pheromones which in large quantities ward off insects, but in much smaller concentrations, attract them.  So the one thing worse than having no insect repellent was having very old insect repellent.

Unless of course, you want to be ‘Lord of the Flies’.

 

Don’t Mention Blair Witch

 Carenza and I were going for a mother-daughter camping weekend. 

I had pictured us tramping the South Downs Way, traversing a bright carpet of chalk-hill flowers and remarking the ancient tumuli and hillforts.

However, due to the pandemic, it was incredibly tricky to book.

So when I finally spotted a pitch, I grabbed it without too many questions.

I’d never tried woodland camping before, but it was sure to be lovely.

Early on Friday evening we reached the tiny village and drove up a narrow lane to the farm where an improvised sign sent us up a track, and another arrow directed us along a grassy bridleway, until finally we were at the wood, deserted except for one other couple, also newly arrived and equally apprehensive.

There were, in fact, only two pitches, maybe forty metres apart, each in its own clearing.  The ‘facilities’ consisted of one broken portaloo.  Worst of all, there was no phone signal.

‘I’m really glad that other couple is there,’ I said to Carenza, half wondering to myself, whether it was possible visually to distinguish axe murderers from ordinary folks.  But by the second night they had moved on and we were alone.  Wordlessly, I placed my hiking pole next to my sleeping bag.

In the event, it would be wrong to say that we were not disturbed, but all the disturbances were good ones - a family of frolicking badgers, a small herd of fallow deer including one pure white animal like something from a myth, some very talkative tawny owls and the local larks who could not keep from singing the moment the sun showed its face.

On Sunday, once we had packed the tent away, I said to Carenza, ‘It’s okay – you can mention The Blair Witch Project now.’