Bird Brains

Who the heck ever thought of the term “bird brain”? As a serious intellectual and major literary figure I often find myself humbled by the simple birds in my garden. I have a wonderful crow called “Hook-beak” who lives in a nearby oak tree rookery. I’ve been watching him for the past 5 years so I know he’s at least that old. His favourite little trick to is pick up dry bread and bring it to my bird bath to soften it. 

In France I have my two lovely pigeons Colin (the escaped racing pigeon) and his wild French lover Coline. Yes – he gave up his life of international travel and his batchelor pad in Scunthorpe UK to devote himself to love in France. 

And now I have Bongo, the performing pigeon. Like many quirky old Doris types I have a bird feeder – meant for sweet little birdies. Bongo has been studying it for months. The only thing that distracts him are lady pigeons before whom he poses and warbles before attempting a poorly planned sexual assault. At last he has cracked it. I am going to model my future on this bird. Just a couple more bounces and, if I can stretch just a little further, I’m gonna suck seed. 

Oooh – this blog just gets worse and worse. OK- I know what you really wanted. Blah blah buy my books blah blah. 

Emma Thinx: Do panic! You won’t fly if you can’t flap.

Colin and Coline

Colin (wearing the rings) and Coline in post coital pose

Anyone who read my recent post about the lost racing pigeon must be wondering what has happened since. The first thing is that I named the pigeon Colin because French for a dove is une colombe. I am sure that Colin is English because he’s got that kind of sandals and socks Brit abroad look about him. 

Fellow bird lovers – I have great news. Colin has found Coline, a young local pigeon who was born here last year. Today, I spotted them shagging on a 15th century rafter in my barn. My guess is that pigeons have bobbed, cooed and spread their feathers in a mating flap on that beam since the time of “Green Gallant” king of France Henry IV.

A bird called Colin

At first it was just regular cooing but you get to know the sounds of love when you hang about in old French barns. So, I climbed up with my camera to be certain that it was indeed Colin. In the end I managed to get a shot of his rings, which of course, are not worn by local peasants. It looks to me as if he’s gonna  see out his mortal span in Saint Savinien. And I sure don’t blame him! Somewhere in’t north of England, a pigeon fancier is scanning the darkening dusk willing his bird to clock in. Colin shrugs and shags.

Now, I am a francofilly if ever there was one. All the same, I’m not sure that they always drive as safely and wisely as possible….need I say more? A couple of days ago I was on my bike in a nearby town and spotted the driver of a car about to pull off. It’s all done by smell…..

Emma thinx: When you get tired of flying – wing it.

Mon Ami Le Pigeon Voyageur

What else is there to share with friends than the moment? Anything longer is contrived.

Homing pigeon – you can just see the leg ring on the right.

This evening in my French garden a lost homing pigeon has arrived and is perching on a beam in the barn. I guess by his accent he is English. Every few minutes he takes off and circles the town before being drawn back by some invisible magnet as sticky as the human soul to the beam in my barn. He/she is lost and miles from home. Maybe in the dawn the bird will find the way or maybe it will die, confused and alone. 

This life is a concoction of unseen beauty and unacknowledged suffering. Fly little bird. Please find your way home.

Emma thinx: Home – what the homeless have not.