Here at the house things are getting broody as we find a large bird nesting in a flower-pot by the back door.
The mother-to-be is a speckled grey pheasant. She has laid a number of eggs on the soil under a sheltering plant.
Here is a picture of our new neighbour’s nest; taken from an upstairs window when she hopped out to find a bit of food and water.
Taking care of Flossie
Because Flossie, as we now call her, needs sustenance. She must stay in one place and keep her clutch warm for at least three weeks before they hatch.
Flossie also needs to be left alone. This bird must not be frightened in any way, or she may decide to abandon the nest.
We feel protective. From now on, the back yard is out of bounds to the postman who has been asked not to bring his van too close to the house.
The postie is one thing. What we do about the delivery men, I do not know, as they tend to arrive at all hours of the day.
Then there are the dogs. The MacNaughties are used to careering out the back first thing in the morning and last thing at night. They are generally yelping frantically on the way.
So, for the next month or so, the Chow and the Norfolk Terrier are banned from using the tradesman’s entrance. Instead, they must go in and out of the front door.
Which is an upgrade. Yet Delilah and Bennie look confused.
When does a dog use a front door?! Maybe yours always does. Then yours may be a cleaner and better-behaved pooch than ours.
Pheasants are dizzy creatures
It is a strange thing. Here in the Scottish countryside pheasants are ten a penny.
There are thousands of them and they mooch about, often living a precarious existence. Because a pheasant is a game bird.
Now, I have never shot a pheasant. Yet I must admit to sending a few of them to bird heaven.
Because this is a dizzy creature. One that has a distressing habit of launching themselves in front of your car.
Yet for the chief and for me, it has become important that this particular pheasant survives.
Fingers crossed on that one. And good luck to all birds nesting at the moment.
Feeding time in the beech hedge
This morning there are frantic squeaks coming from the beech hedge at the other side of the garden.
Standing back to observe, a mother bird flies in with a beakful of worms.
Or it could be a father bird. Because when it comes to feathered friends, dad often helps out with the feeding.
Unlike a male pheasant. His job over, off he struts. A vain glorious multi-coloured male making his way down the drive without a care in the world.
It is all rather irresponsible. Poor old Flossie. Left there to cope on her own.
We will guard her as best we can and if we can get a picture of the chicks, we will do.
