I COPED quite well with empty nest syndrome, but this is something else. Tragedy has struck, not in the form of a wet border terrier this time (see previous post) but a real, live, predatory heron. As I opened the door at 6.30 to get a breath of air on a (yes, really) summery morning this week, I saw a massive heron taking flight from the side of the pond. A rare and magnificent sight. Or so I thought. Later as I casually examined the pond I realised with horror that there was not a goldfish to be seen. There had been four: three small ones bought at the start of the summer, and a large one which was here when we moved in. Plus loads (10 at the last count, which was when Charlie was here last week) of baby goldfish which were a real bonus. We’d enjoyed watching them grow and, wouldn’t you know it, I’d just bought a little book on caring for your pond and its inhabitants. I hadn’t got to the bit about predators.
What a blow – and there I’d been, smug in the belief that the sculpted heron bought for Ian four years ago (left) and made from recycled bikes by a man in Darlington whose work I saw at an Oxford arts week, would act as a deterrent to the real thing. Amazing that I actually saw the thing take off: presumably with my goldfish in him. How sad.
Darren Greenhow was his name. The sculptor, not the heron. Google him and you’ll find him on YouTube.
TOWN MOUSE IN THE COUNTRY 