Category: Village

Flirty Birds and Pesky Pests

Spring is springing, bulbs are sprouting, the sap is rising and mating season is in full swing. The dawn squawk is dominated by flirty birds in the mood for a little lovin’, and love nests are being adorned with clumps of moss ripped from our cottage roof. I guess our feathered friends are doing us a favour, but it’s hard to appreciate that while I’m sweeping up the downy green slime-bombs carelessly dropped all over our front yard.

And after a five-year gap, the moles are back once more to slaughter worms and decimate our lawn. There are reckoned to be as many as 40 million moles in the UK, and judging by the mini-mountains of mole hills poking up through every patch of open ground hereabouts, it seems like most of ’em live in Norfolk. We’ve been tracking their relentless march beneath the nearby playground and our neighbours’ gardens, and now the tell-tale signs of excavation have appeared along one of our garden fences.

Last time, I counter-attacked with organic repellent and coffee grains. This time, I’ve gone all hi-tech with a German-engineered sonic spike. Apparently, moles are virtually blind and extremely sensitive to sound and vibrations. The spike emits sonic pulses and a high-pitched buzz to piss off the pesky pests.

The jury’s out on whether these fancy devices actually work, but so far so good. We’re keeping everything crossed. Come a summer sizzler and sunny wine time, we don’t want the BBQ toppling into a mole hole and sending under-cooked bangers rolling off the grill.

Chedgrave Common

Pigs in the Proverbial

It’s now been five years since we moved out to the sticks. One day we were enjoying city centre living like pigs in the proverbial, the next we were in the smallest cottage in the county surrounded by the stuff. Such is country life in the Norfolk flatlands.

We’ve been invaded by ants, spiders, moles, slugs and rabbits, been charged at by a seriously pissed-off heffer and kept awake by bloodcurdling screeching and the unforgiving dawn squawk. We’ve also endured fierce storms, leaks and the occasional power cut. And like everyone else, we were put under house arrest by a pandemic.

Local wildlife of the human kind is mostly friendly, though. No doubt, the odd blue-crested bigot still lurks in the undergrowth, but they’re an endangered species nowadays.

It’s our sixth move since we met that fateful evening 18 years ago in a West End gay bar, and unless we end up in a maximum security care home for the bewildered, I reckon this’ll be our final resting place. Never did I imagine as a young gay about London town that I would end my days in the middle of nowhere. But I’ve never been happier or more satisfied with my lot. I feel blessed.

Waking the Dead

Recently, our sleep has been rudely disturbed by bloodcurdling screeching coming from outside our bedroom window. It’s really spooky, and loud enough to wake the dearly departed in the hallowed churchyard next door.

We couldn’t think what it could be so we asked around. Friends suggested it might be feral cats indulging in a bit of night-time nookie. We weren’t convinced. We remember well our Bodrum days, when we were regularly serenaded by an ear-splitting cat’s chorus as local litters indulged in orgies of Roman proportions. In any case, feral felines aren’t that common round here. No, this sound was altogether different and more sinister. So I did a bit of Googling, like you do, and it turns out it might be foxes. This is what we heard…

Here’s the thing. While foxes are a familiar sight on the mean streets of London, in all our time as village people, we’ve not once seen one. Plenty of rabbits, hedgehogs, squirrels, mice, rats and even the odd muntjac deer, but never a fox. Clearly, our ginger-furred friends are more elusive than their urban cousins.

Apparently, foxes scream at night for a variety of reasons – mating rituals, marking territory, communicating with other foxes. Having been woken up by that chilling racket, I reckon that’s why people of yore believed in ghosts, ghoulies and things that go bump in the night.

Early Yuletide Logs

Anticipating weather on the turn, we took advantage of cheap summer supplies for the log burner. We’re now fully-stocked for the shorter days to come and the cosy candlelit nights in. We don’t actually need a real fire to keep warm. Our central heating does that job just fine. But most wintry weekends we light up anyway because it looks pretty. It’s particularly snug come Christmas. A bit of an extravagance, I know, but we’re lucky enough to afford it. But there’s a downside to a blazing fire in a small cottage. It can get too hot. To stop Liam from stripping off down to his undies and startling the dog-walking passers-by, I open a window to let in the cold.

Postcards from Paxos – Second Delivery

Some Like It Hot

We knew Paxos would be hot, but we didn’t know quite how sizzling. The mercury rises with each day that passes – 38 degrees and counting. Afternoons are either spent cooling off in the pool or quenching our thirst in breezy harbourside cafés watching the ebb and flow of the yachties from the fancy boats. Some struggle in and out of the small dinghies that ferry them back and forth. Yes, we do laugh – discretely.

All the Nice Boys Love a Sailor

We made an excursion – to nearby Loggos – for a spot of lunch. The bus was blissfully air-conditioned, with fares collected by a formidable Greek grandma – not a woman to trifle with. Smaller than Lakka, Loggos is every bit as cute. The swarthy fisherman we spotted gutting his catch was pretty cute too.

Sundowners

Sunsets in Lakka are glorious and best watched while sipping a stiff cocktail strong enough to put hairs on the chest. Talking of chests, our cocktail waitress has a novel way of keeping her cool – stuffing a hand-held fan down her cleavage. Village food is more hearty than haute cuisine, and the very quaffable house white is probably poured from a bucket out back. But hey, who cares? Tastes good to me.

Star Struck

Lakka isn’t quite St Tropez, so imagine our surprise when we spotted Tim Rice, he who wrote the lyrics for global musical megahits like Jesus Christ Superstar and Evita, among other smashes. We guessed he’d dropped anchor and jumped ship for dinner. Liam also spotted Frances de la Tour, the wonderful character actress who once flashed her tits at me in a West End play back in the seventies. All for her art, of course.

Thank you to chatty man Kostas for a memorable time and also to our wonderful Albanian chambermaid, Manuela, who has an economics degree and is fluent in three languages. Manuella works two jobs to keep food on the table for her family.

We shall return.

Postcards from Paxos – First Delivery

The Crack of Dawn

We were up at the crack of dawn for our sunrise flight to Corfu. Although we’d booked our seats with TUI, one of the world’s largest travel companies, they’d run out of planes so they hired in some help and we boarded an unmarked Boeing in virgin white. Who were they? No idea but the safety instructions were in Czech (I think). Our journey – flight, taxi, hydrofoil, taxi – passed without incident, and a few hours later we were putting out our smellies and putting away our smalls. Kostas, our handsome nothing’s-too-much-trouble host, had taxied us from the ferry port, chatting ten to the dozen all the way. I was a little alarmed when he called himself a cretin until I realised he meant Cretan, from Crete. More alarming is his habit of driving hands-free along the narrow country lanes.

Upping Our Game

Compared to our last visit in 2022, we’ve upped our game, accommodation-wise. Our pretty digs for the next twelve days are bright, spacious, comfy and clean. Mind you, Greek showers do tend to be on the small side, and we end up wearing the shower curtain while wiping down the business end.

Cock a Doodle Doo

Living in a rural Norfolk village, we’re used to the dawn squawk. But we didn’t reckon on the all-day Grecian-style chorus of bolshie cocks and randy cicadas. So we loll about our warm salt-water pool plugged into Spotify to drown out the racket. It’s a small price to pay for our little slice of paradise.

Luscious Lakka

Paxos is a blesséd isle of endless olive groves and breathtaking views across the Ionian Sea. Luscious Lakka is on the north side of the island, draped around one half of a sparkling, yacht-sprinkled bay. Picture-perfect and taverna-stuffed, the pretty village of alleyways and squares is a relaxed, laid-back kinda place.

They Think It’s All Over

The peace was only broken when the England Football Team reached the Euros final. There wasn’t a spare chair in the village. Sadly, England lost to Spain. “They think it’s all over. Well, it is now,” to echo the famous words of a footie pundit when England won the 1966 World Cup. Liam sank another ouzo, then another, to drown his sorrows.

I had to carry him home.

Prevention is the Best Medicine

As we strolled into the village for a few Sunday sherries, we happened upon this poster on the high street. It took us by surprise – but in a really good way.

Last week was HIV Testing Week, backed by a national campaign called It Starts With Me and offering free home testing kits for all. We’ve come a long way since testing involved a heart-stopping clinic visit and a nail-biting two-week wait for the result. While AIDS may not be the kiss of death it once was – unless you live in Sub-Sahel Africa, that is – the disease still stalks the bars and bedrooms. We have the real opportunity to rid ourselves of its toxic embrace once and for all. Because, after all, prevention is the best medicine.

The Kindness of Strangers

I was surfing through Nextdoor, the local neighbourhood app, and happened upon this message from a resident of the nearby town of Beccles…

Hi everyone, during the pandemic my son put a large sign in my window saying ‘please wave to me’. I am a paraplegic and sit near the window often. The response was phenomenal and I had flowers left on the doorstep and even chocolates through the letterbox. A lot of the same people still wave to me every time they pass and I wanted you all to know that there are lovely people in our community for whom I am very grateful and just how much a wave really cheers me up. Thank you and please don’t stop. I hope I can pay forward to others. I hope you have a happy holiday. Thank you, thank you and thank you again.

Now and again I see or read something that restores my faith in humanity. This was such a time.

Wishing everyone peace and goodwill, whatever Christmas means to you. I’ll leave you with a few random festive images which got me in the festive mood.

  • Festive Feet
  • Stuck Santa
  • A Jolly Cottage Christmas
  • Loddon Christmas Tree
  • Norwich at Christmas
  • Carnaby Street Christmas Lights
  • Half-Way to Heaven
  • Broadwick Soho
  • Festive Blooms

The Molly Boys

I’ve been watching Suffolk and Norfolk: Country and Coast on the box. It’s a gentle pilgrimage through the timeless counties that make up ancient East Anglia. By episode five, we reached the picture-postcard Norfolk village of Great Hockham – AKA Hockham Magna – and its Hornfair. The annual bash dates back to 1272 when King Henry III granted the villagers permission to hold a fair and weekly market. These days it’s an excuse to get a bit silly with daft games like the Woodchop Challenge and the World Stick Balancing Championship. And then there’s molly dancing. Molly who? You may well ask.

Molly dancing is a form of English Morris dance which was traditionally done by out-of-work ploughboys during midwinter in the 19th century. It was a way to fill the fallow season between Christmas and spring ploughing. The farmhands would visit the more well-to-do parishioners and offer to dance for money – because a boy’s gotta eat. Those who refused might see their mixed borders turned over.

Molly was an old term for an ‘effeminate man’, and dancers always included at least one fella dressed in women’s clothes. Who knew 19th-century country life could be so fluid? I wonder what else the molly boys did for a few farthings when times were hard? Well, it’s better than slipping a ring on Daisy the cow.

Molly dancing has enjoyed a recent revival, and the Hockham troupe are called the Clobhoppers – clumsy bumkins – and here they are in action doing a rather aggressive stick dance. These molly men don’t muck about, even in a frock. And don’t be put off by their black faces. It’s not intended to be racist. The ploughboys of old painted their faces with soot so they wouldn’t be recognised as they ploughed up your prize pansies.

What a Dick!

Shortly after we moved to the village, the good lady wife of our local pub landlord popped round to the cottage with a housewarming gift. She said, “I saw this and thought of you” and handed over a pot plant. It was an echninopsis lageniformis f. monstruosa, more commonly known as a penis cactus. And you can see why.

I did extensive research – ok, I googled it – and in Italy the plant is known as cazzone – that’s dick to you and me – so that’s what we called it. I also discovered that Germans call the prickly plant frauenglück or happy woman. Ouch! Oh, and a word to the wise. There is some evidence that Dick contains mescaline, a psychedelic drug. So no licking Dick.

I wasn’t quite sure how to look after a desert plant in a centrally heated house on an island with a temperate climate but I did my best, placing Dick next to a south-facing window, and dribbled a little water into the soil once a week. I didn’t hold out much hope but, to my great surprise, Dick lived. Then, just recently, I noticed that Dick was sprouting a brand new appendage. As it’s a bit on the small side, we’ve called it Little Dickie. We’re hoping it’s a grower. Either way, the publican’s missus is a happy woman.