“Nightmare neighbours come in all shapes and sizes”
Noises, smells and boundary disputes can all create aggro between neighbours. Pam Richardson shares her own trials and tribulations
Over the years I’ve found that nightmare neighbours can come in all shapes and sizes – not all of them human. I’ve had wasps’ nests, a slug invasion, and a family of rodents move into the compost heap. One year, a far-from-friendly colony of stone bees took up residence among my potato tubers and they weren’t too happy about being dug out. Grin and bear it is my motto with natural pests; human anti-social behaviour is usually harder to ignore, but I have a theory that most nightmare behaviour is more ‘thoughtless enthusiasm’, than malice.
I’ve even been a nightmare neighbour myself. My early married life saw loud parties, louder arguments and a memorable morning when my motorcycle ploughed across the lawn and crashed through the neighbour’s hedge. When we moved, I popped next door to say goodbye. My neighbour cried! Looking back, I suspect they were tears of joy.
Noise and smells are all part of rural life and my animal neighbours in the Highlands were guilty of both. Two cute pot-bellied pigs, rather insensitively named Smokey and Streaky, lived next door. I didn’t see much of their pot-bellies because every morning they presented their rear ends through the fence rails… from my side of the fence, Stinky and Smelly would have been more appropriate names. There was a lot of noise: rutting deer; Highland cattle bellowing back in kind whenever the forestry chainsaws started up; and skeins of honking geese flying south.
My immediate neighbour, Walter, was, even by these standards, exceptionally noisy. A goose of magnificent proportions, he had no intention of heading south. Balanced on one foot with the other leg and wing outstretched, he performed elegant tai-chi moves while emitting deafening honks. He could, and often did, spend all day at it.
When I moved back south I bought a house beside a cornfield. No neighbours there you might think, but the long back garden shared its boundary with six other properties. It made deciding who was responsible for the fences a nightmare in itself. One neighbour had a huge elderberry tree that he couldn’t reach easily because it was close up against my fence and the garage so I offered to give it the chop. I should have known better… what a mistake! Every branch cut in spring sent up three more by summer. It bounced back stronger and thicker than ever, destroying the already fragile fence and threatening to lift off the garage roof. Only my fig tree could rival it as public enemy No 1.
Not all of us were keen gardeners. Weeds flourished. Some, such as cow parsley and mallow, were pretty, others including docks and nettles grew to gargantuan proportions and blew their seeds in on the strong East Anglian winds.
My most irksome neighbour was the quietest. My boundary fence was full of knotholes, and over a few weeks every one of them was poked out. I’d be sitting at the patio table when an eyeball would appear. The ‘culprit’ seemed to be a child because the ‘spyholes’ were no higher than knee level. At first I ignored it; he seemed content to gaze at the garden, but gradually, if I wasn’t doing enough to keep him interested, a ball would fly over. As he got older and bolder his aim got better. Teacups and wine glasses regularly went flying. Sometimes I threw the ball back. He never came round to ask for it. When the family finally moved I sort of missed him. Like my neighbour from years ago I might have cried if he’d come round to say goodbye... ✿
Walter the goose performed tai-chi moves while emitting deafening honks