27th February 2024.
February. At the moment, to coin poet Kevin Crossley-Holland, Guernsey’s ‘waterslain’. Spring struggles to know it’s reborn. And a soggy rascal skulks. A cutie. Black face masked, bandit fashion.
Queen Pidge, the missus and my neighbour, was a credible witness. I believed her sighting in Le Grand Pré nature reserve. A reedy, damp world the missus calls “our mini Somerset Levels” that’s a boot-sucking twenty minute squelch around t’other side of the garden fence.
Prompted, I WhatApp Daughter Number One and Daughter Number Two: “Guernsey’s got a feral ferret problem.”
Her funny bone proper tickled, Number One’s reply was a pair of laughter tears emojis. Number Two’s: “Is that worse that weasels?”
Feathered or whiskered, prey beware. Closer to a polecat than a whippet to a wolf, and clever, fearless and determined best sums up a ferret. Which explains their tons of numbers after an oopsie introduction of a few into the wild.
Grizzled Geoff, this sea rock’s Mr ‘La Cage’, Mustela furo catcher extraordinaire, licensed to nab the musky niffers for love nor money, has his work cut out. The latest spot’s likely drawn to the reserve’s chainsaw silence. Recent storms’ tree casualty clear up’s now nigh complete.
Avian sounds again rekindle the soul. Ducks and gulls. Warblers. Water rail, that narrow bird designed for in-between reed mobility ‘chiffs’ and groans. And an alarming cock pheasant, currently perching on the garden fence avoiding both ferret and wellies.
Buckets down every day, mind you. I have it from the horse’s mouth that the doctor’s home well is a cause for concern. Because it’s actually alarming, too. Obviously I’m not talking chipper state of health but imminent flood.
Groggily buzzing me to open the back door, the bumblebee. It’s wintered cosy behind the tumble dryer. Yesterday it sought the great outdoors. I strongly advised against it.
I recall an old Somerset saying that winter’s only over when a virgin lass can place her foot on seven daisies. Which meant spats over the size of the ugg mugg. On Guernsey, however, winter’s end is signalled not by bee whim or virgin tootsie but by collector and super hero fan, postman Lawson Pipet. Who’s something of a local celebrity having been on the telly. ITV Channel Islands news no less. Making a change from the Island’s budget deficit.
Bedraggled, his blue, Guernsey Post jacket dripping on the door mat, knees wet-glistening below unseasonal shorts, Lawson hands me the States of Guernsey annual Waste & Recycling bill along with a parcel. The missus’ ordered bumper pack of pumpkin seeds.
Then Lawson asks for a donation. Of our cheeky garden weeds in their first flush of youth. Adding: “This is the best part of the island.” Wistfully stroking his neat moustache he eyes the antirrhinums and cyclamen enjoying the driveway crack lifestyle. “No,” I say.
Dandelion and chickweed, though, fall prey. Water dropwort is refused. Categorically. “It’ll poison them,” Lawson asserts. ‘Them’, to every journo’s delight, being his… FIFTY-SEVEN tortoises! Possibly an excessive number. His dad kept a mere three. Passed on to Lawson for ‘guardianship’. The rest continue to pitch up in dribs and drabs. Largely as elderly, trusting Guerns face the prospect of popping their clogs.
Wakeful, their own hibernation incredulously over, the shell company now poddle, tummies rumbling, from Lawson’s fridge. One tortoise, I know, he names Timmy.
“I once met a tortoise called Timothy,” I say, highlighting my own surprise longevity. “Actually a Mediterranean spur-thighed her. An easy mistake, I’m sure. Filmed her. At Powderham Castle. She was a bit doddery. A luggage label attached to her rear leg read: ‘My name is Timothy. I am very old. Please do not pick me up.’ She’d been a ship’s mascot in the Crimean War. Was at the bombardment of Odessa. 1854’s. Not Putin’s. Lived to 160. There’s a book about her.”
Lawson seemed a tad perturbed. “A her? 160?” he mutters.
“Yep,” I confirm.
I confess to Lawson that I too have a weakness for Testudines. Had a couple of terrapins as a youngster. That didn’t quite work out. Moved on to turtles. Wooden ones. And I share a tale of fabulous serendipity.
After a chivvy from the missus, the final thing I picked up before last closing our Somerset cottage door and ferry dawn bound for Guernsey was an inherited, small, hand carved, specimen. It’s polish, sun-bleached. Tiny ivory eyed. Brought back from Burma in his kit bag after the war by my sapper dad, Maurice, along with a cartoon of himself that a chum chalked on brown packing paper ‘cos ants had eaten the pukka stuff.
The afternoon of our island return and the missus wanting a vase for blooms we mosey to a bric-a-brac charity shop. House clearance stuff. Amongst the tut, a turtle. A flipping twin! Only a mite littler than my dad’s. Definitely a tad shinier. But same whittle marks. Same eyes. Gobsmacking. My dad maybe having served with its previous guardian was food for romantic thought. I paid the 20p.
The couple seem delighted with their window view of Le Grand Pré.
Lawson scoots with his limp booty towards his van. I call after him: “Hope your middle name’s Methuselah! You should swap your home’s Spiderman posters for Ninja Turtles!” His reply is lost to the wind and plothering rain.
I extract a bumblebee corpse from a puddle before going to pay a bill. The ferreting missus has begun to nibble.
Illustrations and text © 2024 Zum Beamer/Charles Wood.
Zum Beamer 