Deciphering the Country Code
I've just returned from a week's holiday in Devon with a bunch of old college friends and our respective families. Eleven adults and nine kids of assorted ages, running riot in a rented barn conversion by the River Exe near Bampton, made for an eventful time. The creatures we encountered during our sojourn made it even more so.
Speaking as a man who spent his formative childhood growing up on a farm, overlooking the sea at Ravenscar in North Yorkshire, and bearing in mind several of our friends now live in, on or near the country, greenbelt, or parks, our combined knowledge on all matters rural turned out to be pitifully small. Typical conversations went like this:
Whilst out on a short hike near Tarr Steps we were walking across a lush field when my son, Christian, said, 'Are those potatoes?'
'No son, they're sheep,' I replied.
'Very funny, daddy. Not those, these.' He pointed down at several leafy plants growing amongst the tufted grass.
'They're bay leaves,' said Kay, a supposedly educated friend.
'I think you'll find they're dock leaves,' I said.
Kay looked startled. 'Sorry, that's what I meant, of course they're not bay leaves. How silly of me.'
Sheep are now called potatoes in our family.
On a later occasion, as the adult males sat outside one evening, beers in hand, watching the sun set and putting the world to rights, several large multi-coloured birds pecked and scratched their way towards us across the courtyard from the nearby working farm.
'Are those hens?' asked my friend Dave.
'Nah,' was my considered reply.
'They look like pheasants but their colouring is wrong,' said Mike. For a townie he sounded quite knowledgeable.
'They could be exotic ducks?' I offered.
'What. Without bills and webbed feet?' queried Dave with a smile.
'Oh yeah,' I answered, blaming my oversight on the strength of the premium beer we were drinking. 'I know,' I said with authority, 'They're a type of turkey.'
At that point, Kay arrived and placed a tray full of fresh beers on the table. 'There's only one turkey around here,' she said. Her smirk was aimed firmly at me. 'But I think you'll find those birds are guinea fowl.'
Touche.
We faired just as badly on bovines. Another Steve in our group, who lives on a farm - albeit of the hobby variety - is a communications consultant by trade and so should have known better than to talk cows when he should have been talking bullocks. Perhaps he was doing both?
Even the owner of our property, a partially Deaf Dutch Lady (we called her DDL for short), who treated us like intruders rather than guests, got in on the act. On our last day, just before our 10 o'clock kick out time, the other Steve spotted something small and furry run across the stone flags in the kitchen and disappear behind the fridge. He decided it was only fair to the next guests to inform the owner so she could do something about it. Handing the keys over to DDL, he said, 'I thought you might like to know. I saw something scuttle in from outside through the open doorway this morning.' He led her to the kitchen and pointed at the fridge. 'It went behind there. I think it was a vole.'
DDL nodded eagerly and replied, 'Ja. I got it from Argos.'
The only creatures we all recognised during the holiday were those of the insect variety. Our first experience we called the miracle of the multiplying houseflies. When we arrived, the holiday property was infested with flies. And I mean infested. I counted over forty in the kitchen alone. Even allowing for double-counting - they will insist on moving around - that was a lot of flies. Add in the dozen or so in every other room downstairs and I think it would be fair to say we had an insect problem.
'Ja, I know about zis,' said DDL when we politely complained.
'Well, why haven't you done something about it?' we asked.
'Vot do you expect,' she said shrugging her shoulders, 'Ve are in ze country and zer's a river nearby.' She patronisingly shook her head as she gave me a couple of those sticky fly papers that you dangle from the ceiling as her solution to the problem.
They didn't work. Nor did the zappy electric fluorescent thingy that was permanently on in our kitchen and which the flies used to light up their flight paths at night.
We bought fly spray and liberally dowsed every room until it was filled with a coughing cloud of death. That worked, until the next morning when things were as bad as ever. We were surprised as all the windows and doors had been shut overnight so there was no way they could have come in 'from ze river' as DDL suggested. They were obviously hatching inside. Probably up above the cupboards and beams.
Plan B was initiated. I bought five Rentokil fly killers - the ones that look like air fresheners - and strategically positioned them in overlapping kill zones. The number of flies on my toast and marmite dropped exponentially each morning and by the end of the week we were fly-free. I pitied all the previous guests who had to dodge silly dangling sticky papers as well as flies all season because DDL was dodging her responsibilities.
The other insect issue we had was more serious. Hundreds of wasps had joined us on our country break and set up their holiday home in an unfilled hole between the thick stone wall of our converted barn, and the wood panels above our double patio doors. With toddlers, babies and one adult allergic to wasp stings in our happy group, using the patio or play area became a running and flying battle with our striped friends.
DDL's response was to be expected. 'Ja, I know about zis problem.'
'Then why haven't you sorted it out.' I had that feeling of deja vu at this point.
'I vud spray zem, but I cannot reach.' She looked at me expectantly. I looked back thinking, 'It's your baby not mine.' I had dealt with wasps' nests before, but without my wellies, overtrousers, kagoule, goggles and gardening gloves as protection she was on her own.
It still wasn't sorted the next day. Or the next. It was on the third night, when we were tucked up in bed, and hadn't drunk copious amounts of wine with our evening meal, that my wife and I heard a rasping noise behind our skirting board. It sounded like a cat purring with the odd rustling noise thrown in for variety. We initially thought it was a mouse or a rat. By morning we were bleary-eyed and shocked when one of our friends said it was probably the wasps. It was certainly in the right place, as our bedroom was above the hole where they'd made their nest if you looked at it from outside.
'They make their nests by chewing on wood and converting it into paper-like nests,' said Julie who was a brilliant person to have on your quiz team. 'That's what that purring noise is. There must be hundreds of them behind your skirting flapping their wings and vibrating their abdomens to speed up the process as they gnaw at the wood.'
'That's just great.' said my wife, Gillian. 'If we do manage to fall asleep with that racket going on, we're likely to wake up with wasps crawling all over the bed.'
We decided to push DDL on the subject.
'Ja, I'm on it,' she said.
'How exactly?' said my wife.
'I've called ze pest man.'
DDL wasn't getting off that lightly. 'When did you call him, and when will he be here?' demanded Gillian.
'Er, tomorrow?' said DDL looking shifty.
'Well, if he isn't here tomorrow, I'll expect a reduction in the rent for having to sleep on a sofa,' said my wife. DDL heard that one clearly enough. She positively scuttled off saying, 'It vil be done,' as she went.
The next afternoon a man who looked suspiciously like one of the farm workers - the tallest one - came to spray the hole with wasp killer dust. Two hours later our wasp nightmares were resolved.
So there you have it. We had a brilliant holiday, creatures aside, and I heartily recommend Devon as a destination, but not if the landlady is called DDL. I shall part with a different creature related line uttered by the head of my son's School Parent's Association at a recent fund raising quiz, when she was asked to clarify the answer to a particular picture of a garden bird in the nature round.
'I'm sorry...' she said firmly, '...I won't give you songbird, but I will give you Thrush.'
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