Swan Song.

As my mate, Stapo, and I drank tea at the Taj Mulhall this morning, we noticed some curious tracks in the snow covering the back yard, between the verandah and the Gaelic Ganges flowing below.

I blamed the neighbours web-footed children, but I was wrong.

The boy you see above had missed the river runway, and skidded to an undignified halt on terra firma (alba?).

He mooched around for couple of hours, hissing-fitty and planning a fence-break, sticking his head out and rattling the bars, while his Missus and Young Fella treaded water and fussed with their feathers.

To cut a long story short, I ended up shovelling a VSTOL* strip for him, and as a failsafe, McGyvering a bridge made of scaffolding planks and cat litter, from the herbaceous border to the railing top, presenting a short drop to freedom and freshwater food beyond.

One thing I learned today;

Swans, despite their beauty, are as aggressive and as slow on the uptake as a Wicklow sheep farmer denied his rightful romance at the chipper on a Saturday night.

Things progressed slowly (too slowly), with the only obviously positive outcome being an alternative Christmas Day dinner for the Family Mills (cat included).

Then, as if shaking off the effects of far too many pints, the fucker took a run, gained altitude, cleared the fence but clipped it with his webby undercarriage, and off he went.....

Just in case it happens again, does anyone have a recipe for the Queens Bird?

*Very Short Take Off and Landing.