On Understanding, Acceptance And The Illusion Of Control

Crowchella was a spectacular failure. Not a minor wobble. A full-on Fyre Festival but with feathers. I had strategically placed various dishes of different foods under the trees and shrubs at the back of the flats. I hadn’t tried to entice the crows to visit, having learned previously that they’re far too suspicious of changes to be easily lured in. I decided instead to let them come to it in their own time. I was so happy to see that they’d caught on very quickly and for a few glorious days I thought I was running the Glastonbury of corvid cuisine: the food piles vanished twice a day, the menus “sold out” faster than a Harry Styles presale.

Getting home early one day, I went to the window to have a little sneaky peek at my wild pets, and Crowchella was buzzing with activity. But not with my crows. Blackbirds. Bloody blackbirds! Resident freeloaders in the trees above, hoovering up every crumb before my VIP guests even found the buffet.

I had to accept defeat. Especially when I’d tried literally every other angle short of hiring security and issuing wristbands. I sadly gathered the dishes and slunk back inside to clean them off and put them away. Possibly forever. Now what? Back to where I started? The cemetery? It is an excellent place to feed the birds, being a car and neighbour free zone. You can’t annoy anyone if you just feed them there. Although you do have to be careful what you include. Free range canine foragers abound. I’ll probably never get a present from the crows either. If they did bring something, how would I know where they’d put it? We don’t have one regular feeding site up there, it’s more a series of tactical food drops to avoid being overrun by pigeons and gulls. But… I don’t really need a gift to know that they see me as a trusted friend. That they accept my presence and aren’t afraid. That in itself is actually more than enough.

Cemetery it is.

It was one of those rare days when the crows were off somewhere doing crow things. The cemetery was a bird free zone as I began my walk. So I had bimbled around the town for a while and intended to feed them on the return leg instead. Supposing of course that they themselves had returned from their day trip.

I bumped into Tom at the top of the hill and we entered the cemetery together, quietly chatting over the events of our respective days. His tales spoke of an active and very social life. Mine spoke more of a mad hermit who needs to get a life. But we’re both content in our own ways and are always happy to hear each other’s stories without (outwardly) casting judgement.

As we sauntered up the central path, Crow landed on a headstone a few feet from us. I stopped and whipped out the bag of bird treats, and several other crows swooped down and landed on nearby headstones, like tiny feathered gargoyles. Karen Jr also plopped to the ground in a most ungainly fashion, determined to gate-crash and grab his share. His tatty entourage landed shortly after. I scattered a little food to keep them distracted and hustled further up the path, Tom a few steps ahead, still chatting. The crows flew alongside us, headstone to headstone, like little black chess pieces sliding forward on some invisible board.

“Are they following you?” asked Tom.

“Yes,” I replied, matter of factly, “of course they are. It’s dinner time”.

Once the coast was clear of gulls, I threw food in all directions. The crows swarmed. For a few incredible moments Tom was engulfed in silent, dark, feathered wonder, as they passed within inches of his face.

“That’s pretty blooming cool, to be honest,” he said.

Then: “I want a crow too!”

Suddenly, his mum seemed just a touch less crazy.

By the time we got home, a mere five minutes’ walk, the crows had finished high tea (or whatever you call it at 5 p.m.) and were already waiting on the wall for seconds. I dumped the shopping and jogged back out with some walnuts. Gone before I even stepped inside. Still they sat there, looking toward the window like patient customers at a drive-thru. Fine. More food required. There were five of them today and winter was approaching. Out I went again with chopped chicken. Instantly scranned. Still waiting. Third run: flapjacks and monkey nuts.

“That’s your lot,” I told them. “You’ll be too fat to fly at this rate!”

They ignored me, of course. And of course, a fourth lot was soon served, because clearly they are starving. I noted, through all this, that Crow was no longer being given preferential treatment. Crowdad actively hogged the food while Crow shuffled behind, trying to get a beak in. Apparently the days of table service were well and truly over.

Unfortunately it ended with Crow sitting on the wall, peering into the kitchen window like a tiny Victorian orphan saying, “Please, ma’am, may I have some more?” And of course, I give him some. Because I’m weak. And because he’s had all day to practice foraging and now he needs his high-protein, high-fat top-up. He’s still scruffy. He still needs nourishment. That’s my excuse, anyway.

They’d eaten so much that I needed to quickly whip up some more CrowBarz, otherwise tomorrow’s breakfast would be a meagre affair. In my haste I managed to fluff them up somehow. I’m not sure what I missed out, but the result was a pile of expensive, time-consuming crumbs. I’d run out of coconut oil so I resorted to a little melted, unsalted butter. Stirred it all together, cooled it, and voilà — a very snappy, savoury cheesecake base. I wasn’t sure how it would be received.

I shouldn’t have worried. This is now their new favourite food. So much so they’ve started stalking me. Nip out to the bin? There they are on the shed roof. Quick walk to the shops? They’re flying from rooftop to rooftop behind me. Leave for work? They appear on the wall like tiny bouncers waiting for their boss.

Safe to say it’s not about the location anymore. It’s me. As long as I’m inside their territory, they’re on me like groupies. Stray too far and they don’t follow. From this, I managed to map what seemed to be the extent of my personal crow escort service — roughly 250 m from the home tree. They may well forage further. But they know where I live, and they know I’ll be back. No need to infringe on another crow’s patch when the delivery truck will be returning soon!

Meanwhile, Tom’s friend was battling a starling invasion. They also appeared determined to eat everything in sight before winter, and word had got out that he was running a 24/7 fast-food joint from his kitchen counter. Even closing the curtains didn’t help; the starlings just slipped round the sides and carried on helping themselves to everything. Being clever little devils they’d watched him opening boxes and packets and thought ‘we can do that’. And did. Wild bird food, muesli, beef jerky… nothing was off limits. Where a crow would have freaked at a sudden arm wave and hastily retreated, the starlings simply blew a big fat raspberry and carried on raiding the cupboards.

Much to his delight. And my continued annoyance.