On Bribery, Avian Logic And Moments Of Awe

It was late July and the schools had closed for the summer. The grandchildren were staying over again, and the weather gods had continued to bless us.

They’d been here for a few days already and when they weren’t out and about, they were mostly to be found on the sofa, earbuds in, heads slumped forward into phone and laptop screens.

We’d done the beach so often they had a thin layer of salt permanently covering their skin. We’d done walks, played in the park, created sculptures and painted works of art. All under a bit of duress. They preferred being online, watching endless reels of total drivel, lost in their own little worlds. The silence was…unnatural.

Their current doomscrolling session had lasted for several hours and they showed no signs of boredom. Or any desire to move. Hell, I’d have been happy to see one of them blink at this point. I attracted their attention by jumping up and down, waving my hands, and repeatedly miming the action of removing earbuds. Their eyes struggled to focus on such a distant object but eventually they uncrossed and recognition dawned that Nana wanted something.

“The gulls are still raiding the crows’ food, so I’m going to relocate the buffet. Who wants to help me? It will involve a little tidying up out the back and possibly a visit to the other side of the fence, but it shouldn’t take long.”

Blank faces.

“Plus it’s a lovely sunny day, it’ll do you good to get out and breathe a bit of fresh air and top up your vitamin D.”

Still no takers.

“Bubblegum ice-cream once we’re done?”

Yeah, I’ll resort to bribery if needed.

Two “No, thanks.” One, begrudging, “Sure.”

The youngest. Still prepared to be helpful if there are treats involved. Not yet near enough to teenagehood for the ennui and apathy that have afflicted the older two, but even she didn’t exactly jump up, just sighed and slid herself off the sofa into her flip flops.

Once outside we reconnoitred the area.

1 motorcycle, under cover. 1 moped, under cover. 1 barbecue, cover missing. 2 bags of briquettes, open to the elements. My favourite baking sheet, no longer non-stick but blackened and with signs of rust. 3 empty beer cans. 3 large offcuts of oak, 1 burnt.

Evidence of a party that I was unaware of and not invited to.

Further along, a chest of drawers in good condition. Not mine. But clearly abandoned and therefore that makes it mine now.

Wait…that’s gull logic right?

Damn.

Shrug…

There was also an old clothes airer, also not mine. It was so rusty it was only being held together by the plastic corners. It was taken round to the recycling bins, along with the beer cans.

The briquettes were stowed under the barbecue, the cover located and put back on to keep everything safe from the elements.

Well, that took all of five minutes.

We manhandled the chest of drawers towards the fence and scanned the tree line, assessing the most suitable spot for the new bird restaurant. It had to be semi-undercover, with no flat landing sites. It also had to be within reaching distance so we could top up the food supplies when needed. The best cover was on the far left, under some low-hanging pine branches.

The labourer was sent over the fence, and the chest hoisted up and over. Minus its drawers for health and safety purposes - we wanted to avoid any crushed toes, especially as she refused to wear the regulation safety shoes.

The chest was too tall, the top being obscured by the foliage. It wasn’t an easy task getting it back over the fence again. The labourer didn’t have enough prior experience of furniture moving. She also managed to get tangled in some brambles, and totally freaked out by a bit of spider web that brushed against her toes. I reminded her that I did question the wisdom of wearing flip flops for this job.

Somehow, despite the obstacles, we got the chest - complete with its drawers - back where we found it. But positioned a little more tidily. Because no-one likes a messy rubbish pile.

The only other thing to hand that had potential was one of the oak pieces. They were large, quite heavy, and with a useable flat surface when laid sideways. Actually…perfect.

I hauled the largest one over the fence and the grandling wedged rocks beneath it to keep it level.

Build complete.

She was therefore promoted to interior designer. Armed with shiny and sparkly objects, she climbed the fence once more and began threading them through the pine branches. The result? A living, breathing, outdoor Christmas tree wearing the world’s smallest baubles. A shiny silver bowl, full of reflective, rippling water, was placed on the oak slab below. Because every fine dining establishment needs a chandelier and wine service.

Tom arrived home from work as we were putting the finishing touches on. He fixed us with a long stare and enquired, ‘What on earth are you doing?’

“Decorating the tree to attract the crows. It’s going to be the new feeding station.”

I couldn’t hear what he said as he went inside, but I’m pretty sure it ended in “…sake”.

Birdie buffet Mk3 was ready and visible from the original site on the wall. Now, if we could persuade Crow to eat there, he would be able to see us putting food out here, and would think, “Ahaa, the snack-witch has put shiny things on that tree, and has handfuls of peanuts. I shall check it out as soon as she leaves.”

We scanned the rooftops. Crow was there, preening his feathers, enjoying the sunlight. No evidence of Karen the gull or her noisy offspring. So we put a large lump of peanut butter fat ball on The Wall and retreated to The Oak to wait for the opportune moment.

Crow did not disappoint. He swooped silently down towards the wall, eyes fixed on the prize.

The raucous squawking of Karen was not far behind.

Crow grabbed the food and disappeared in a hurry without ever having landed, let alone noticing us hovering near the trees. Karen did land on the wall. She fixed us with a beady eye. And in that moment I realised her tactics had never been about watching me, recognising meal times or learning my routines. She just followed Crow around and watched him. Then made a fly-by grab whenever he spotted lunch! Clever girl.

The air-raid siren landed in the car park, shouting for his mum to ‘feed me feed me feed me!’ Time to beat a hasty retreat. The labourer was totally up for that. YouTube and ice cream are what she lives for, and payment was now due.

The following day dawned bright and clear. Perhaps a different beach would inject some enthusiasm into my grandchildren. I loaded them into the car and set off with music blaring and the feeling that today was going to be a good day.

We took a winding road through the countryside. Blue sky above, trim fields on either side. All was calm. Until it wasn’t. As we rounded a left-hand bend the sea appeared below us, framed between rolling hills and hedgerows. A perfect, picture-postcard moment.

And then they arrived.

Not one. Not a handful. A flock. A congress. A murder.

Corvids. Hundreds of them!

Not scavenging. Not hungry. Celebrating.

Diving from field to field, dancing in the air, dodging traffic with audacity. Not a food run but a ritual. A gathering. A joy-fest. To me, it felt almost like a religious experience. If God had feathers, a loud voice, and a tendency to divebomb tractors. Of course, I slowed the car to a crawl. One must honour the moment.

Van man Dave in the transit behind me was clearly not as enthralled at the majesty of airborne corvid communion. His honking and close proximity to my rear bumper politely suggested I put my foot down and get a move on.

I don’t care if you’re practically in my boot, Dave. The birds come first.

Some people just don’t get it.