The Puddock

A puddock sat by the lochan's brim, 
An' he thocht there was never a puddock like him. 
He sat on his hurdies, he waggled his legs, 
An' cockit his heid as he glowered throu' the seggs. 
The bigsy wee cratur' was feelin' that prood, 
He gapit his mou' an' he croakit oot lood: 
"Gin ye'd a' like tae see a richt puddock," quo' he, 
"Ye'll never, I'll sweer, get a better nor me. 
I've fem'lies an' wives an' a weel-plenished hame, 
Wi' drink for my thrapple an' meat for my wame. 
The lasses aye thocht me a fine strappin' chiel, 
An' I ken I'm a rale bonny singer as weel. 
I'm nae gaun tae blaw, but th' truth I maun tell- 
I believe I'm the verra MacPuddock himsel'." ... 

A heron was hungry an' needin' tae sup, 
Sae he nabbit th' puddock and gollup't him up;
Syne runkled his feathers: "A peer thing," quo' he, 
"But - puddocks is nae fat they eesed tae be."

John M Caie


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I'd been down to the Figgy already in the early morning sun (I do like it when it gets back to lighter mornings and my body-clock 7am awakening can be indulged), with a first Greater Spotted Woodpecker in a while; belligerent Coots; feisty Mute Swans; and menacing Tufted Ducks. But after then spending most of the rest of the day breaking our backs in the garden and a reappearance of some proper sunlight, it was down to the Figgy again.


Spotted the Heron hunting in a spot I'd seen him get a frog last week, so waited as patiently as he. This is the shot from the moment he was caught, the blip being at the point he flew off to.