On Generational Eccentricity And Opening A Crow Restaurant.

There’s a patch of grass in the cemetery where pigeons loaf, dogs pee, and local children casually launch leftover chicken into the undergrowth. Or more specifically, my grandchildren, who like to take leftovers up there of an evening to feed their favourite ghosts, Frank and Mary. The pigeons dine on chips and breadcrumbs, while Frank and Mary are the proud recipients of cold pasta salad and chocolate brownies. The good stuff.

Yeah, these kids waste food on purpose. But I really don’t mind, it’s fun to listen to them talking to their invisible friends while setting out their evening meals. The cemetery itself is a small oasis of peace and greenery, sheltered from the persistent onshore winds that gave our town its original name. It’s often bathed in soft, warm sunlight and it’s always full of birdsong. We spend a good deal of time here.

At the northern end the headstones give way to a flat open area of grass, and this has been claimed by the pigeons as their home turf. They like to hang out there, foraging ceaselessly, cooing contentedly while ignoring the dog walkers and their canine companions.

If easy pickings suddenly become available the gulls descend from the nearby rooftops, all noise and aggression. The pigeons don’t care. There is no inter-species animosity there, and the pigeons know that if they eat quickly it’ll all be gone by the time the gulls have even finished fighting each other for pole position.

Pigeons are smart but lazy, and are deeply unbothered by anything unless it brings food. They’re not stupid, they just prefer vibing and strategically loafing.

The crows will sometimes join the pigeon party, but if the gulls are there then they hang back. The crows hate the gulls, and the gulls hate the crows right back. Possibly because both are supremely smart and remember everything. They are rival families in an ancient blood feud, locked in an eternal struggle over territory and moral superiority.

“What light through yonder headstones breaks, Crowmeo?”

“It is the east, and Gull is a plague upon it.”

Ever the diplomat, I started feeding the crows separately, further up the path on a large, smooth, flat gravestone. A much more bougie area. They appreciated the more refined dining experience and started hanging out there in anticipation.

I watched them fly away after eating, and realised that they usually went in the direction of the flats where I live. There’s a line of trees behind and I figured that’s where they were roosting. No gulls there! Except on a Monday morning, pre-refuse truck, where they cause utter mayhem with the bin bags.

It was May. Half-term, which meant the grandkids were with me and the world felt louder and fuller than usual. When they returned home, though…well then it would just be me and my son Tom, 25, with a life of his own and totally independent. Except on laundry days. Or hangover days.

Tom has a pet, Splat the gecko, nocturnal, contained, mostly silent. Tail-less. The perfect pet when everything is forbidden by tenancy agreements and thin walls. But crows… crows felt like a loophole. Pets that aren’t pets. They are wild, quiet, prefer small family groups of 2 or 3 rather than hanging out in crowds. They are gothic in their sleek black feathers and they carry an air of wary intelligence I recognised. Kindred spirits. Me, but with feathers.

So I started feeding the crows closer to home, initially by scattering food around the grassy areas anonymously, and watching them from my window. One crow would find the stash, fly off, and be back within a few minutes with its mate. I assumed that training crows would take some time. But I seriously underestimated just how intelligent they really are. It wasn’t long before they were waiting close by to see where food was going to be dropped. That’s the moment when the idea fully crystallised in my mind. I wanted the crows to *know* who was feeding them. I wanted them to recognise me and trust me. Maybe one day bring me a gift - a bottle top, or a coin, perhaps.

Honestly, I’d accept a rusty nail if it meant I’d been promoted from bird caterer to crow confidante.

Cue Operation Birdie Buffet.

The aim was to find an area from where I could see them, but more importantly they could see me. If they know where I live then they will know where to leave trinkets, right?

There’s a moderately high wall separating the main car park from the neighbours’ garages, and conveniently this is right outside my kitchen windows. A very suitable site for a crow restaurant! Line of sight. So I can see guests arriving, and more importantly, so the guests can see who runs the establishment. Because of course she’ll have her face pressed to the window the whole time they’re eating. Which, now I think about it, might answer my later question: “Are crows normally this jumpy?”

I began serving breakfast and light evening meals at optimal feeding times, which are of course subject to change with the seasons because it’s basically sun-up and sun-down, with snack breaks in between. Internet wisdom suggested I should also have an audible cue, for reasons I haven’t quite fathomed as there’s clearly nothing wrong with their eyesight or brain power. But I duly started practising ‘dinner gong’ noises to announce mealtimes.

I soon learned that I’m utterly unable to produce anything resembling ‘caw’ sounds. I briefly considered using an actual mini dinner-gong, or even a bell, but settled instead for a ‘tock-tock’ noise using my tongue. Less ‘mad spinster’. Hopefully.

The crow buffet was prepared and ready, and I awaited the dusk and my first feathered customers.

Having fed the grandlings and finished the washing up, I hovered near the kitchen window, hoping to catch a glimpse of sleek black in the trees opposite. I chattered on excitedly about my plan to train the crows to recognise me as a friend and maybe one day bring me a gift. I told them everything I knew about corvids, and how smart they are.

They didn’t find this interesting at all for some reason. They boxed up their leftover chicken nuggets and pizza and departed for the cemetery as usual.

“Have fun guys, and say hello to Frank and Mary for me.”

They gave me a strange squinty side-eye look as they left, clutching their Bento of offerings for the pigeons and ghosts.

Like I’m the weird one!