Garden Intruders' Chaos: Nigel Slater's Unfiltered Opinion on Fox Droppings, Mischievous Squirrels, and Loud Parakeets
Hankerin' for a furry critter, preferably a red squirrel or a little deer, a pine marten or an otter - or even a hedgehog would do. A dream, right here in this petite urban patch. But city living means compromises, so I make do with what's on offer.
Woodpeckers were early this year, pecking away on the tall sycamore next door since January. Same spot, same tree, but is it the same avian? I like to think it is – whether marking his territory or a midday snack of insects from the bark, his raucous hammering can be heard from one end of the terrace to the other. He's quite the alarm call, but sometimes you wonder if he's reliable.
Morning found him drumming away before the sun even peeked over the horizon. I might not have binoculars, but from the top floor, I can still make out that striking green, black, and white plumage. He's just one of the many intriguing visitors to my little haven.
The little birds are a delight, particularly the numerous robins with their crimson chests. Or perhaps they just stand out because of their color. Blue tits zip around like kids on Christmas morning, darting in and out of the jasmine. They like to jet through the fancy holes in the fence finials. Wrens, plentiful here, are so tiny I often mistake them for mice. They scuttle back and forth, usually in pairs, apparently having the time of their lives.
Now, the pigeons, not so much. They strut about the garden, portly gentlemen puffing themselves up, almost too stuffed to fly. Their appetites are one reason this garden is no longer a haven for fruits and veggies. Once a productive allotment, pigeons would descend at dawn, picking at whatever they passed by. Even if they were edible, I wouldn't want them in my pie.
Lately, somebody's been snacking on my primroses. Despite the wire mesh hat, the buds get picked at the first sign of yellow amidst the greenery. I wish I could celebrate the pigeons, but I can't. Sorry, gentlemen's club members, I blame the mice, the real culprits in this case.
The biggest visitor? The fox, handsome, regal, with his ginger, rust, and white coat. He surveys the garden with pride, taking no notice of my demanding he leave – though I must admit, he does leave quite the mess behind. Was it the fox who left those torn pigeon wings on the newly mulched beds? Who knows.
The squirrels? All thanks to me. They're fun to watch, particularly in quantity due to the many trees I've planted. This used to be a lifeless, tree-free space, but now it's alive, teeming, a climbing frame for these little parkour masters. They dash from branch to branch, leaping from fig to medlar, medlar to greengage, and then on to the robinia, crab apple, and apple trees. They do thank me by picking my strawberries, digging up my bulbs, and snapping tulip stems – not to eat, but for the thrill of it. They're theurchinsof my garden, the snarky kids that tip over your bin.
This garden lacks water, so no dragonflies, newts, or other aquatic creatures are here. But it thrives as a haven for moths and butterflies.
On cool summer days, azure confetti from the common blue is a daily delight, but it's the painted ladies I long for most, perched demurely on apricot petals or even blending into a pile of orange-and-tan Persian carpet draped over the garden bench. I need more butterflies. I have plans, like many more single-flowered, fragrant plants for more bees too. Watch out for the bees swarming honeysuckle, foxglove, and rose blossoms.
In spring, they're my winged garden angels – hovering from greengage, plum, and apple blossoms, doing their crucial pollination work. Last spring's damp cold meant no amount of orange crocuses could entice them to rouse from their slumber. A warm, early spring means I'll be picking pears and gage fruits in a few months.
I've always found my garden guests, whisper it, a bit ordinary. I'd love to see a stoat on my footpath. Or maybe I speak too soon – currently, there's a pair of parakeets up in the elder tree, making quite the spectacle. Green, lime, and salmon, with an orange beak – a flying carnival, though I'm not sure how long it will last.
I have a neighbor who claims they screech like banshees and can strip the buds off her magnolias before she can even grab the binoculars. Perhaps I'll stick to my fox.
- The garden, teeming with life, has become a climbing frame for the numerous squirrels, a result of the many plants and trees Hank has strategically placed.
- The fox, with his ginger, rust, and white coat, surveys the garden with pride, leaving a mess behind, reminding Hank of the unpredictable nature of urban wildlife.
- While he dreams of owning a furry critter, Hank contentedly appreciates the array of fashionable birds that visit his garden, such as the common blue moths that leave azure confetti on cool summer days.
- In an attempt to attract more butterflies and bees to his garden, Hank plans to plant more single-flowered, fragrant plants, even considering ways to create a home-and-garden friendly environment for intriguing travelers like the stoat or the parakeets, while juggling the challenges and compromises of city living.
