The Appeal of Mrs Toogood

Unbidden and largely unannounced, wildlife has moved into my orchard and made a home of it. I’ve been sent photos of first one and then a pair of gaudy pheasants mooching around the saplings and helping themselves to the grounded scatterings near the bird feeders. I don’t know a lot about birds so in order to find out how rare and exotic such sightings are, I check the RSPB website. My disappointment proceeds along these lines: where can you find them in the UK? Everywhere. When can you expect to stumble upon them? All the time.

So, not exactly the type of rare bird sighting that will bring delirious twitchers flocking towards Ticklepenny Lock, but exciting news for me nonetheless. Admittedly it’s not the most auspicious start for a blog post that will depend on the birds’ newsworthiness for its appeal, but you have to work with the tools you’re given. Or tell massive lies about the appearance of a Honey Buzzard just near the bridge me and Dad built. That’s always an option.

First up, a weekend reconnaissance mission to the field. I’m offered a lift by my sister who is heading over from Nottinghamshire for her monthly haircut. Presumably she doesn’t trust out-of-county hairdressers. I can’t criticise. I’ve not had a professional haircut since my curly locks evaporated in the early nineties. Maybe Louth is the best and only place to go for bleach-intensive 1980s New Romantic haircuts. I’m sure she knows what she’s doing.  A cosy trip on the heated seats of her family BMW would have made a nice change but, ultimately, the timetable doesn’t work out.

Instead, I clamber aboard the bus near the prison, as I always do, and then ask for the wrong ticket, as I also always do. Day tripper, day rider, day out: there are so many synonymous options and only one of them will get me to Louth for under a tenner. The bus driver frowns and offers me the correct fare and I hobble back to my traditional seat: lower floor, left hand side, two rows back. Perfect views of the approaching countryside and not too far to lurch if I fall asleep and almost miss my stop again.

There’s an awful noise on this bus. I think a mudflap must be catching on something abrasive. The racket is emanating from my side of the vehicle, so I hope my added bulk hasn’t been the final straw. It’s unlikely but that doesn’t stop me stressing. I climbed into a friend’s car once and the suspension exploded. It’s not something your ego recovers from quickly, particularly when your friend’s eight-year-old son insists on pointing and reminding you about it every time he sees you in public.

The noise is really bad. I briefly consider getting off in Wragby and waiting for the next one but it’s not until Monday and that’s an awful long time to sit on a plastic seat outside the Co-Op, even if they do sell Pocklington’s Plum Bread.

Despite the racket, I tough it out and we eventually arrive in Louth, the official and undisputed capital of the Wolds. Before heading over to Pheasant Central, I grab some food from a local café and do a bit more internet research. I learn that the ancient Normans were bonkers keen on pheasants and passed stringent laws to protect them. The laws were judged a success and pheasant could be found on the menu of all kinds of posh-knob medieval shindigs thereafter. I think this is some strange new use of the word protect that I’ve not previously encountered but never mind, I know what they meant. Over the centuries, breeders tried all manner of complicated schemes to ensure the production of a bird that would leap gloriously into the air for local hunters but wouldn’t fly very far from their breeding grounds. The last thing you want after blasting a bird to Kingdom Come is a long walk to fetch its corpse. I shelve any further reading when the serving person wanders over: I’m keen to “protect” my lunch before it gets cold.

Obviously, when I eventually finish my grub and head off to the orchard there are no signs of birds, pheasant or otherwise. “I only really see them in the mornings,” says Barb. So be it. The way forward is clear. To be honest, I’m not too disappointed. Today’s trip had an ulterior motive: it’s time for the annual firework and family bonfire extravaganza. This year’s odds on the hedgerow catching fire: evens.

Five days later, my strategically just-out-of-reach alarm forces me up at six and I head off for an allegedly guaranteed meeting with pheasant-kind. I stumble myopically through the pre-dawn gloom and almost miss the hole in the hospital fence until a conveniently head torched jogger lights up the gap and I’m saved a lengthy detour.

As I stand at the bus stop, a stocky local emerges from the gloom and strides nonchalantly past. I’ve seen this chap many times during my stay in Lincoln and I guess he’s a bit of a local legend, marching continuously around the city from dawn to dusk, eschewing both eye contact and weather-appropriate clothing. As I admire his humongous calf muscles, he bends over and collects a discarded Oasis bottle from the kerbside undergrowth. I never knew he tidied the streets. People do great things when no-one is paying attention.

There are two other passengers on the early bus, which is two more than I was expecting. It calls into question the heroic nature of my journey and I’m keen for them to decamp and sod off back to bed, rendering me the only early doors renegade. The windows are mostly clear, but the fields are swathed in fog and darkness as we steam along. Road signs emerge suddenly from the night offering diversions to Rand and Fulnetby on the left or Goltho and Apley on the right, but we set our faces like flint and head ever onwards. The call of the Wolds must be answered.

My excitement grows as we approach the turn off for Willingham Road. Heading east at around this time, I’m hopeful of catching the Sun rising beyond the far end of the tree lined avenue, illuminating the reds and golds of autumn leaves and blowing my tiny mind out the back of my head. In reality, all I end up seeing is thick fog and enduring darkness. It reminds me of the stories my sisters tell me of the time Dad dragged them up Kinder Scout in the middle of an end times rainstorm. “There are amazing views here,” he said. “If only you could see them.”

Willingham Road might have let me down, but the Louth Navigation canal path is on glorious form. Pastel coloured light ekes through the trees and the burbling canal makes a decent fist of drowning out my tinnitus. I was supposed to be hotfooting it to the orchard for maximum pheasant-spotting efficiency but I couldn’t resist grabbing a few poorly focused photos on the way. By now it’s about eight-ish so there are dog walkers trying to avoid eye contact. I am indifferent to their demands and say good morning to every one of them.

Barb’s horses are waiting for me at the gate to the field. Well, they’re waiting for Barb really and do a fairly poor job of disguising their disgust when the human shaped figure in the mist turns out to be me. Regardless of their dismay at my lack of pocket carrots, I clamber over the gate (hinge side, obviously) and try to sort of quietly hurry to the trees. This is it. Come on, Mother Nature, give me a pheasant. Just one glimpse. I’m not asking for much.

I round the back end of the stable and there’s not a bird in sight. I catch a quick glimpse of fleeing rabbit arse but of feathers there is no sign. The pheasants must have found somewhere better to winter. I knew I should have brought raisins. Suddenly, I am alone in a cold, wet field and re-evaluating the wisdom of this whole trip.

Only I’m not quite as alone as I think. As I stumbled past the stables I must have triggered the motion detecting CCTV system. A text from Barb pings onto my phone screen. “The code for the door is 7145*. Help yourself to a brew. I’ll be there in 15 minutes.”

Big Brother saves the day.

*That’s not really the code. I’ve changed it for security purposes. 7145 is my pin number.