People, dogs and rare birds don’t mix
I’M really sorry for the casualties who were on that bridge that collapsed in the States, and their grieving families. There’s an axiom that approximately says ‘Any fool can build a bridge that doesn’t fall down. But an engineer can build one that JUST doesn’t fall down’. And the way the oversized meccano set folded up showed exactly that.
What it also revealed is just how fragile our dense inter-related commercial hive is. Just a momentary loss of power on board one ship will disrupt logistics in that corner of the world for many months. It’s only a coincidence that this particular bridge serviced a limited geographic area of commerce. There must be no end of transport bottle necks which would have far greater effect, should they fail – or be deliberately trashed.
I’m reminded I was chatting once to a representative of a national timber trade body. He was an upstanding, forthright old chap, bemoaning how newly-Westernised Baltic states were caning us with their cheap exports. I ventured that surely his organisation could organise the purchase of a couple of rusty old freighters, and scupper them across the entrance to one or two key harbours. ‘By Jove Anton, you’re right! I was in the Marines... I could do it myself!’
An aspect of this time of year is becoming increasingly uncomfortable for me. As you may recall, my lovely sweet wife and I have, for contractual reasons, been observing some wildlife lately, and the results are sobering. Through most of my 60 years immersed in the landscape, I hadn’t given a lot of thought to exactly why some wildlife persists, nor why it survives where it does. But it has become very obvious that some remain only where human feet tread least. My dangerously burping cows and voraciously nibbling sheep don’t seem to bother them overly,
But troops of brightly clad visitors seem to bring more than dropped sweetie wrappers, and little clusters of a white flower amongst the undergrowth that turn out to be loo roll.
As said, Alison and I have been compelled to note where certain birdies feed and nest. We’ve had cause to talk to experts in such matters – Alison even has something called an ‘app’ on her phone which tells her what birdsong she’s hearing. And it’s become glaringly obvious that the rarest of our birds really really don’t like people… or at least people who don’t smell faintly of cow muck and sheep’s feet. More specifically, I suspect it’s their dogs, which is even more curious, because we have a number of dogs around the place. But what we don’t have are spaniels/labs, or such dogs which have been carefully bred to snuffle along trying to find and flush birds.
As I fed some cows last weekend, I watched a couple a few hundred yards away, walking close to the riverbank. Their dog was roaming off the lead, 100 paces ahead of them, rooting through the undergrowth all the while. Now if I was closer, I would have had words with them, as I take exception to dogs running off the lead on my land, especially when the ewes are heavily gravid, or have lambs at foot. And such encounters frequently result in unpleasant retorts, because the vast majority of these otherwise perfectly reasonable people are absolutely positive that their little pooch would never hurt a fly. It’s a horrible aspect of my life, which I despise… having to deal with other people’s selfish assumed entitlement. Of course, many are happy to oblige, and immediately put Rover on a leash. Most of those then let him off again as soon as my back is turned, but what can I do.
And here’s the thing. The fact that the adored pooch hasn’t actually chased and bitten my sheep today masks the other effect he has. Because it’s become blatantly clear that where these dogs are hunting through the vegetation, ground nesting birds are no longer extant. Both the resident species, and equally, even the migrant winter visitors. If stretch of moorland is easily accessible from where Joe Public can decant from their cars, for a 20-30 minute walk with poochie, there are none of these birds. Once the pattern is revealed, it’s astonishingly clear. And this is in the windswept rain sodden heart of a comparatively undeveloped upland National Park.
It’s almost a given that amongst the owners of these dogs, should you question them, will be supporters of various tin rattling wildlife charities. They – in their turn – carefully find someone else to blame rather than alienate their source of income. And mostly, like everyone and his brother, they’ll want to blame the farmers. Hmm.
It’s almost a given that amongst the owners of these dogs, should you question them, will be supporters of various tin rattling wildlife charities