Bilco

At 08.00 hrs this morning the Law descended on me with a search warrant, together with an RSPCA girl, an RSPB girl and a bloke, an English Nature girl, and Two Constables. They carried a big plastic "Raid Box" into my house and started in opening cupboards, drawers, looking on shelves, etc. Several of them went to inspect the birds and returned saying they were well fed, watered, housed and accommodated. But need scraping out. Somebody tell them, pigeons are renowned for s***ing. They also noted three culls I had placed in a half filled droppings bag. They then bagged up specimens of everything and anything they did not like the look of, Ridzol, Vaccine, Canker cure, Vitamins of all numbers and letters, B1, B2, B3, B12, etc., louse drops, DMG, and so on, two tins of Suanovil 50, bought in a French Pharmacy at €22 each from a French Vet (Nobody tell them we are in the EU ???). All my rockets, my brand new Bownet, unused, for catching magpies (illegal they said), my computer, even my desk phone book with family phone numbers etc in. I heard that they also hit our friend Mo at the same time. Well I didn't think much of the RSPB before, now I detest the slimy ********. They certainly run our UK Gestapo. Heil Hitler! And I thought he was dead.

LES PIGEONS DE LA ROCHE . . . With the air of a man long practised in his art, the travel guide rose from his seat at the front of the coach and took up his microphone. The 40 passengers turned their heads to him as one, ears cocked for the anticipated description of the Chateau they were fast approaching. The castellated towers, rising sheer above the great walls, already told a tale not unfamiliar to their inexperienced eyes, of days long past when Lords of the Manor fastened themselves and their serfs in for the night, secure from the bands of robbers, rogues and vagabonds that roamed the countryside, intent on raiding and pillaging whatever they could. If walls could speak, many an old castle would have tales of desperate battles, more often against these malcontents than against enemies of the State or country, Chateau de la Roche was no exception, and as the guide droned on his tale unfolded on not unwilling ears - for the man was an expert in his trade - having led many hundreds of coaches laden with tourists all over the sights of Europe. From the western coasts of France to the Iron Curtain, from Calais down to the very foothills of the Alps that marked the boundaries of Switzerland, the Guide had roamed the land, year after year, absorbing his knowledge from textbooks and the places themselves until he was literally an encyclopedia on the history of places famous and renowned throughout the world. He also knew much of castles whose names never reached beyond the nearest towns,and the Chateau de la Roche was such a place. As a regular bringer of trade, in the shape of his tourist cargo, the Guide was - in turn - recognised and welcomed by the patrons of those places he visited, and from them he learned yet more, of family histories, of languages, expressions, country lore that was denied to all but those whose lives were spent in these ancient, quiet places. The coach drew slowly along the last few hundred yards of the tree lined drive, and its passengers gathered to themselves their impedimenta, ranging from cameras and binoculars - for the "Proof I've been there" brigade, to the scarves and sticks of the older, more experienced ones, to whom comfort meant more than a photographic memento of a place that had stood far longer than their own life spans. The driver handled his great charge like the veteran he was, and parked his vehicle in a cool shaded spot where he could be sure of a decent nap, undisturbed for a least a couple of hours. Moments later, the eager band of tourists flooded forth on to the shaded drive and, a little like a flock of sheep at first, began to make their way hesitantly towards the great iron-studded doors of the Old Chateau, George Massey, the Guide, took up the lead with the casual air of a man long accustomed to entering those massive portals, his flock surrounding him eagerly, just a little subdued by the grim towering walls whose slitted windows gazed down like the eyes of a sightless man. As the band approached those great studded doors they opened inwards, silently tended by an ancient who regarded tourists as a necessary evil, for from them he gained the pourboires that made life just that little bit bearable, when he was able to submerge his aches and pains in a bottle of decent wine, and thus forget the cares and worries of life almost over. A silence dominated the interior of that great Chateau, a silence so complete that even the boldest of the tourists could not but cast an occasional glance over his shoulder, fearful that whatever caused such an absence of noise must necessarily be harmful to them, though such was not the case, for those mighty walls were built to keep out more than mere noises. Through great halls into equally great dining rooms, down twisting spiral staircases to dungeons - whose chains had held many a helpless prisoner - then upwards to the great turrets, from where an unsurpassed view could be had of miles of the sleeping countryside, the band of tourists trekked in impressed manner. Awed whispers came ever and anon at sight of stained and broken lances, at pitted shields and mailed fists of standing suits of armour, long emptied of the valiant knights and warriors that had occupied them in battles, and round eyed silence accompanied the introduction to those items and relics of war in the middle ages when their Guide showed them iron balls, liberally studded with spikes, the whole suspended on chains attached to a still strong wooden handle, once wielded by men worthy of the name men, to whom the thunder of cannon would have been a strange and wonderful sound. From oaken beams so stout that it must have taken hundreds of men, and horses perhaps, to lift them into place across the ceilings, hung the shreds of once proud Standards that had flown into battles hundreds of years before even the oldest of those present had been born. Antlers of stags, mighty beyond compare in modern times, spread from the whitened skulls that had once borne them so proudly, and tusks of boars that had rooted in the forests round the Chateau, still jutted forth like ivory sabres from the blackened oak plaques on which they had been mounted many years before. These were relics of an age when their owners had been hunted by a man, armed only with a lance, mounted atop a horse whose life was forfeit if he so much as put one foot wrong in pursuance of an enemy who could quickly despatch himself and his master, given half a chance. The Chateau was a large one and filled with the treasures of a long dead history, so it was with considerable relief that the assembled tourists finally found themselves led out on the great roof of the Western Hall, but - unlike the roofs of the rest of the Chateau - this one was flat, surrounded by a wall of granite blocks, a mere meter in height. At irregular intervals along the southern side there were large black patches etched into the granite exactly like burn marks, but faded with the passage of time. As the tourists set foot on the large roof, they found to their delight that the owner of the Chateau - though they had not met him, nor were they likely to do so - had borne them in mind (along with his own pocket of course) in that he had installed a small Cafe bar in the north western corner, where a Steward now prepared to serve coffee, tea or other drinks. A dozen small round tables, each with four chairs set around them, almost filled that corner of the roof, and it was with grateful sighs that the tourists sank on the chairs and quenched their thirsts. One tourist however, did not sit down. He strolled the length of the roof, quite some fifty yards or more, and stood looking out across the valley that stretched away into the distance to the south. He was a tall man, and stood erect in the manner of a soldier who had served many years. his hair was close cropped, and grey, and the steel rimmed glasses he wore served to emphasise rather than diminish his military outlook, despite his age which was obviously somewhere in the middle sixties. At length the man returned to the group, now relaxing at their ease, and ordered a cup of coffee. As he spoke, the steward behind the small bar came erect with a start. He looked sharply at the man before him, and snapped "Ja Herr Oberst" in immediate response to the order of coffee. The tall man stiffened "You are mistaken" he said, in impeccable French, "I am not German, nor was I ever a Colonel". The steward did not relax his manner but instead busied himself pouring the cup of coffee. His hands shook so violently that he slopped the liquid all over the saucer when he attempted to hand the drink over to his customer. The tall man paid for the coffee ignoring the spillage, though his brows drew together in obvious disapproval. He turned away and seated himself at the table, furthest away from the bar, with his back towards the barman who still regarded him with what can only be described as bristling with a mixture of fear and a very obvious dislike. Another man, sitting near the bar, had noticed this byplay. He was a nondiscript little person, obviously not wealthy, nor well enough versed in the French language to have understood the exchanges between the barman and his tall customer, and he wondered idly what the tall man could have done to have merited such an attitude from the steward. Just then his attention was diverted from the little tableau, as a tremendous bunch of pigeons swooped into view from somewhere below the lip of the wall surrounding the roof. There must have been more than 300 pigeons there, and they turned and circled in accord, like a team of birds all from one loft would do. The little man started from his chair, his eyes fixed on the birds as they sped back and forth, and he walked towards the south side of the roof where they circled. He was a pigeon fancier, and as the birds raced back and forth, he admired the almost uniform blue colouring of the team, their speed and dexterity on the wing, and for quite some minutes he was lost to the world as he watched them. Suddenly the birds slowed, turning and swinging in towards the roof with wings cocked and tails fanned, then without a sound they settled on the flat floor of the roof close to the south wall. The little man walked slowly towards them, a smile of pleasure and interest on his face, and as he walked he pinched small pieces of bread from the sandwich he still carried in his left hand, flicking the pieces towards the birds which pecked around on the stone flags. A voice at his elbow made him turn, and there, smiling at him with twinkling eyes set under dark brows, in a face tanned almost as dark as chesnut by sun and wind, was an elderly man, lean of countenance like one who worked hard. "You cannot feed the birds Monsieur", stated the newcomer. which caused a start and raised brows from the little fancier. "Try it, Monsieur", challenged his new companion, and, chuckling the little fancier's face creased in a smile, and he tossed several scraps of bread in amongst the birds, but he might as well have tossed them to the winds for all the attention the birds gave him. The tanned man chuckled again, "Catch one Monsieur", he said, and with a pleased expression on his face the Fancier stooped, reaching out a practised hand towards the nearest bird. His hand went right through it! For an instant the man was startled, then, "Bit too quick for me" he blurted, "I'll have to have another go" - and again he tried to catch one of those beautiful blue pigeons, pecking about at his feet, overbalancing as he did so. His face was a picture of complete disbelief as he regained his feet, and his voice was obviously startled as he exclaimed, "What the hell's going on" in raised tones. His companion chuckled again, "No one can catch them Monsieur" he stated, "They don't exist". The little fancier turned to look at the pigeons again. They were there, he told himself, he could see them, as clearly as he could see his own pigeons back home, yet he had undeniably failed to touch so much as a single feather though the birds had - apparently - walked right through the palm of his hand. "Can't anyone catch them?" he asked. The tanned little Frenchman beside him smiled, then to the Englishman's utter consternation and incredulity he stooped and caught up a fine looking blue cock in one hand, and a splendid blue hen in the other. "Monsieur", said the Frenchman, "You are a man with a great love for pigeons, or you would not see them. No-one else here can see them! For nearly 30 years now, we - the pigeons and I that is - have been here at this time of year waiting for a man to return here". He turned and pointed to the tall, military looking man, still seated at his table some 40 yards away. "That is the man Monsieur, he has returned as we knew he some day would". He then released the two birds he held, and they fluttered down to the stone flags again to rejoin their team-mates. Watching them, the little English fancier shook his head in disbelief. The Frenchman continued, almost as if he were discussing the weather, or some other mundane subject, "The war was nearly over Monsieur, the Allies were advancing fast on all sides. The Commandant of the German Garrison lived here, in this Chateau, it was his headquarters". He pointed at the seated figure, who was engrossed in studying his cup of coffee. "I was in charge of the seven lofts of pigeons the Germans used, they stood there" he said, pointing towards the seven large black marks that still disfigured the old granite walls. "The commandant ordered them to be destroyed, and he personally supervised soaking every loft with petrol. He tossed the match that started the pyre..." His voice had quietened a little, so that the fancier had to strain his ears to catch the words now. "I tried to stop that butchery Monsieur, and there" - he pointed, close to where they stood - "There was where the bullets struck, those that missed me". He folded his arms now, and turned on his heels, staring towards the object of his story, the tall man with the steel rimmed glasses, who was now looking out idly across the valley. As the Frenchman finished speaking, the tall man stood up from his table, and began to stroll towards them, one arm folded across his chest, the other scratching his chin. "We have waited a long time Monsieur", ended the Frenchman, "But everything comes to those who wait". He bowed, with a slight nod of his head to the little Englishman. "Please be so kind, Monsieur," he ended, and his gesture seemed to indicate that he now wished to speak alone to the man approaching them. The fancier nodded in dazed fashion, and stumbled back towards his own table, turning his head as he walked away, to watch what he instinctively knew was going to happen. The military looking man strolled the length of the rooftop, quite slowly, studying his surroundings with almost bemused disinterest it seemed. He stopped when he came abreast of the burn marks on the southern wall, and observed them and the pitmarks, with the air of a man studying a row of pictures in some museum. He had reached the last of them, when the dozen or so tourists who had been looking in his direction saw him suddenly throw up his arms and stagger back. They saw nothing else, but one or two of them rose from their seats in alarm as the man stumbled dangerously close to the edge of the sheer drop behind that southern wall. A second or so later, arms flailing the seemingly empty air, the man slammed backwards against the low parapet where he seemed to struggle for an eternity, then with a scream that rang out across the warm summer air like some soul in torment, he fell backwards over the yard high wall and disappeared from sight. The drop to the rocky ground on that edge was over 200 feet and there was no hope for him. The little fancier sat at his table, whitened knuckles gripping the edge of his chair, and he shook as if with a fever, for he - and he alone it seemed - had seen the little tanned Frenchman with his hands locked about the tall man's throat, and the great cloud of pigeons that hurled themselves at their quarry like gulls raiding a shoal of sprats. As the tall man disappeared from view, so too did the little Frenchman and the birds, and the rush of tourists to the spot saw only the limp body, far below. The Fancier shook as he turned to the Steward and asked him for a strong drink, and that worthy, who had not moved by so much as an inch during the whole incident, now polished a glass with a quiet smile on his face. "Whisky, Monsieur?" he enquired. "Certainly" as he handed the glass to the little English fancier he continued - with a smile - "From my Father who was a fancier, to another in the sport", and he nodded his head as a toast. A rushing sound came to the fancier's ears as he downed the glass, and a great cloud of pigeons swept past, their wings cleaving the air in precise strokes. "They fly well. Monsieur, do they not"? said the Steward. "Les pigeons de la Roche were once famed throughout France, perhaps soon they will be yet again!"

GRAN'DAD'S PIED "Poor old Gran'dad", mused Gerry, reading for perhaps the third time the letter that had brought the news of his father's sire. "Poor old man, he was a nice old character", he added, turning to his wife, who sat knitting across the room from him. He sighed and folded the letter away, tucking it in to a space behind a large old vase that stood atop the broad mantleshelf. "S'pose we'd better see about going up there for the old lad's funeral. Can't let the old fellow be buried without paying our last respects". His pretty young wife nodded, lips moving silently as she counted the stitches on her needles. Finally she put the budding jacket down and eyed her spouse languidly, "I can't go", she said, gesturing at her expanding waist line, where her advancing pregnancy manifested itself. "No good me tearing about the country like this", she added with a smile. Gerry nodded again, and with a faraway look in his eyes, recounted the days when as a lad he had watched his grandfather time in many a good pigeon in some of the toughest competition that the Up North Combine had to offer. His wife only half listened to him, as she had heard the stories of grandfather's legendary prowess many times, and truth to tell, her mind was on the future rather than the past. Gerry mused on, talking with his lilting Northumbrian accent of days long past, when his grandparent had been a name to conjure up visions of fame and fortune, days when his mining kinfolks had staked their entire weekly income on the result of a match between two birds from points ranging in distance from a mere mile to a marathon of 600 miles. Grandfather had been the very epitome of the Northumbrian miner, always neatly dressed, his clay pipe always sticking out from his mouth like the bowsprit of some clipper, his merry eyes always a'twinkle amid the numerous scars that had pitted his face, testimony to the fragments of coal that had exploded against the skin at some time of another - the trade mark of almost every miner, everywhere. He always wore great hobnailed boots, both defense and attack if a fight arose. Grandfather had been a legend in his own time and few had dared take him on when at his prime. In recent years, however, his fame declined, probably as a result of a reduced income which had prevented him from participating as he had done in bygone years, though he had maintained his loft right up to his death, a mere two days before the point in time at which we have interested ourselves in his story. So it transpired that Gerry set out the following day from his home in the south of England, where he had exiled himself following the disastrous decline of the coal-mining industry which had been his early employment, a following that had claimed his father and grandfather in the industrially expanding area of Tyneside. Grandfather had lived a ripe old 90 years and until the day of his death had maintained himself in the slightly stiff, almost arrogant manner of the Tyneside miner. An independent man, proud, aloof with strangers, a man who lived hard, worked hard, in the brief hours that had been his leisure when a working man, had played hard at the sport of the mining folk. Wrestling, rowing, running, racing whippets and pigeons, drinking aye and singing too as well as any chorister. Now the old man was dead and with him the end of an era when men had lived as men, pitting their strengths against the cold, dark and often dangerous narrow seams of coal a mile below the ground. Not for him had been the machinery, the light and modern methods of mining dictated by the advance of science. Not for him had been the chromium plate, the steaming showers, the well-furnished canteen. Not for him had been the smooth drive to work in a modern car. Rather he had dragged his feet through the darkness, the cold and wet of pre-dawn across the cobbled and tarred alleys between the rows of dingy ribbon houses, and in silence of a company of men who lived most of their lives in the blackness of the underground, he had descended, cold and uncomfortable, into the depths, so that Britain might lead the world in the might of its industry, driven by the power unlocked from the coal so hardly hewn from the very bowels of the earth. And now grandfather was dead and Gerry, his 30 years-old grandson, journeyed north to the land that gave him birth, to bury the old man and to offer a few words of comfort to his aged grandmother who lived even yet in her 91st year. After the funeral, as was the custom with those hardy folk, the members of the family all gathered to the home of their departed one and bolstered themselves with food and drink, talking heartily and loudly, perhaps as much to hide their very real grief as to make themselves heard above the hubbub, for there were many of them. By nightfall however, most of them had gone their various ways, save only the few who had travelled far. Gerry's cousins, Bob and John, and their wives and children were among those remaining and soon only Gerry stayed awake with his grandmother, for she, despite her age, refused to sleep and stared silently into the depths of the great coal fire that burned upon the hearth she had tended for so long, remembering perhaps the 70 years she had lived in that small and cramped miner's home with her now dead consort. Finally, as midnight tolled its noisesome bell from the local Methodist chapel, the old lady rose from her ancient, battered and comfortable chair and let herself out into the darkness of the small yard at the rear of her home. Five minutes later she returned and in her hand she carried a pigeon, a medium sized, bold looking Cheq Pied cock and without a word she handed the bird to Gerry. "For me"? queried her grandson and on receiving a nod he proceeded to examine the bird, a strongly built pigeon with fire in his eye, shoulders like a veritable tarzan and plumage like silk. At length the old lady spoke, "Your granda bred that one special", she said, her strong Northumbrian accent clipping the words out. "Mind now, look after it ma bairn, thur's na mair like't", and so saying she turned slowly on her slippered heel and made her way across to the curtained alcove that hid her bed. Gerry rummaged in the adjoining kitchen for a cardboard box and on finding a suitable one, punctured it liberally with holes and placed the bird in it for the night, then, that task completed, he repaired to the old divan that was to be his bed for the night. On the morrow, Gerry bade his relatives farewell and with the Pied cock safely tucked away in a small basket loaned to him by an uncle who still lived nearby, he returned to the south of England to his waiting wife and home. The following Spring, Gerry offered the Pied cock both a mate and his freedom and the bird accepted both with the same attitude and manner that the mining folk who bred him would have done, with arrogance, as a rightful due, as an expected and accepted procedure. He stayed, reared two nests of excellent youngsters and learned with thoroughness every detail of the surrounding countryside. Gerry's son was born that year at about the same time that the cock was allowed his freedom and as Gerry's wife had a hard time at the birth, the bird had no basket training. As a two year-old however, the bird joined the ranks with all the other birds and was trained to the south coast, a distance of 100 miles, several times. He had one race in which he finished 2nd Club and that winter was eyed many times as a potential candidate for the following season's Nationals. At the next year's Christmastime, Gerry's wife announced with dimpled pleasure that she was expecting their second child and laughingly Gerry begged for her not to deliver the infant on the day of the National, for, as he pointed out, she'd have to wait until he had clocked his bird before attending to her. The couple engaged in a mock battle over this and with a great show of pretended annoyance, Gerry's wife averred that she was quite sure that this was exactly what her spouse would do. How strange are the chances of fortune, how capricious is Fate, for on the very day that 5,000 of the cream of British racing pigeons were released on the quayside of San Sebastian, so too did Gerry's wife commence her labour pains and National or no National, nothing would have stirred Gerry from his wife's side, for he well remembered her difficulties with their first son's birth. At noon that warm and sunny day, Wendy, Gerry's wife, was wracked with pain and obviously in need of hospital over three miles away and Gerry went with her, forgetting completely that this was Grand National day and that he stood as good a chance as any of clocking the Pied cock, now a magnificent bird, fit and strong and carrying a small fortune in pools. The day wore on and early that evening Wendy was delivered of her second son. Gerry stayed with her until almost 9 p.m. then, having seen that both his wife and son were well, comfortable and asleep, he returned to his now empty house, his other little son being cared for by a kindly neighbour. As he entered the silent room of his home, Gerry noted that something was missing, but what it was he could not tell. It took him almost 10 minutes to fathom out was that the missing article was his pigeon clock which had stood on the mantleshelf and with a start he rushed out into the garden where, in the now fast fading twilight his neighbour was racking together the remains of a little bonfire, the smoke spiralling heavenwards almost vertically. Hastily Gerry explained to the man that all was now well at the hospital, then, before he could broach the subject of his missing clock, the neighbour commenced to congratulate him, first on the birth of the baby, then on the arrival of the pied cock. Dismay spread across Gerry's face like a thundercloud! He had entirely forgotten the race and his first question was at what time the bird had arrived - and on receiving the answer that the pigeon had dropped at 8.45 that evening, he groaned aloud in despair, for it was now past 9.30p.m. Bemoaning the tragedy of missing the chance of timing in a potential National winner, Gerry stumbled to the loft front and gazed in at the smudge of white that marked where the Pied cock stood on his nestbox front. Then without further ado, he flung the loft door open and switched on the light so that he could at least see the bird if nothing else. At once he noticed the clock standing in the centre of the loft floor and knowing that he had not left it there, he snatched it up - to gaze with unbelieving eyes at the cylinder marked 2 showing, and at the unmistakable print showing the time 8.44.25 that evening on the paper ribbon, clearly visible in the little glass window. A second later, Gerry picked up the Pied cock and looked at his legs. One of them bore a clean red rubber, the other was as the day bird had been born, thus indicating that the second rubber was indeed the clock. With a terrific whoop of delight, Gerry rushed from the loft and hurled himself at his neighbour, thanking him profusely for timing the bird in and in the same breath asking if any telegram had been despatched to the N.F.C. secretary. The man shook his head in the negative, "I didn't time him", he said. "It was some little feller who walked in here at above five minutes before the bird arrived. He took the key from under the mat, went into the house and came out again with the clock, then walked down the loft and opened the door just as the bird arrived". He stopped, seeing the puzzlement on Gerry's face. "Didn't you arrange this then"? he asked and on seeing Gerry's vigorous shake of the head, he shrugged his shoulders in bewilderment. "Never seen this old feller before" he went on. "Looked about 80-odd to me, has a little old clay pipe stuck in his teeth and wore a muffler round his neck, even in this weather. Come to think of it", he added, "I had a look at him as he passed me, and he had a lot of blue marks all over his face, just like that one you've got on your forehead". He stopped then, noting the wonderful broad grin spreading right across Gerry's face. "Ah! You've remembered now haven't you"? he asked. Gerry nodded, glancing at his watch to see if he still had time to get the necessary telegram away. "Aye, good old granddad" , he yelled, already sprinting towards the gate and the telephone box a mere 50 yards away. "Good old granddad", he echoed, roaring with delighted laughter!

THE PHOENIX LOFT I like visiting fanciers, that's how I started writing articles about them and their pigeons. I find it interesting to meet people, to hear their points of view, their theories and their fads and fancies, and as has been pointed out by better men than I shall ever be - that's the best way to learn anything. It was due to this incorrigible streak of mine that I came to be meandering down a quiet Kentish lane one mid-December afternoon. I had received an invitation from a member of a little club, on behalf of himself and his fellows, he said, to attend their annual dinner. One of the things I like to do, when I can, is to arrive in the area a bit early, and look around the odd loft or two. If this can be done without letting on that I represent the 'Gazette' in search of interesting characters, so much the better, and usually I am pleased to say I am fortunate in meeting the salt of the earth in their own back gardens, without formality, or fuss. Some lads get just a little unsettled when they know, in advance, that a Press representative is coming and they are keen to make a good impression that they tend to spoil their own natural and characteristic charm. So I don't let on, I drop in unannounced, whenever I can, as I did with the Phoenix loft... I drove the old car round the bend quite slowly, not that I was worried about the traffic but I had seen a kit of pigeons fly across the trees only a minute before. There, just ahead of me, stood one of those old windmills, a tall, gaunt wooden structure, starkly silhouetted against the sun brightened clouds that threatened snow despite the glare of the reflected light. There was a cold snap in the air and when I stepped out of the warm interior of my battered old car, I felt the flesh on my face crinkle with the crisp rake of that frosty day. There was a bunch of pigeons circling the upper storey of that old mill and the white painted dowels of what was obviously a loft, formed the topmost garret. The sails had long since broken and fallen to the ground, but the mill itself looked 'lived in'. There were curtains, clean looking, at the few small windows that were carved out of those wooden walls. The turf around the base of that towering old building was coarse and springy and in spite of the lateness of the season there was still a good carpet of it, poking through the snow in great tussocks. It struck me as odd, for a moment, that there were no footprints in that pristine mantle but with a shiver beginning to manifest itself, for all the protection of my thick overcoat, I didn't dwell long on mundane matters like this, besides, there were pigeons and fanciers to meet! An old hand-forged knocker, fashioned in the likeness of a Salamander, adorned the heavy oaken door and, aided perhaps by the chill that buffeted my ears, I beat a tattoo that resounded away into the depths of that old building. I hadn't long to wait before a patter of feet which resolved themselves into a firm sounding tread, approached the door from the inside. The timbers creaked a little as that ancient portal opened, and the rosy-cheeked, good looking woman who smiled a welcome at me from within looked every inch a country lass. She had that indefinable grace of a lady about her, a personality that no words ever formed can express but a quality that is recognisable in any species of like anywhere in the world. You see it in horses, pigeons, some breeds of dogs even; Siamese cats often have it and so do those aristocrats of the cattle world, the Jersey cows. Not that I am comparing that charming lady with animals, merely that I am trying to say in my inadequate way that this quality is universal and not confined alone to the inhabitants of stately homes on landed estates. I think the term 'thoroughbred' expresses what I am trying to say, and I hope you know what I mean as I am sure you do. This lady (she later introduced herself as Janet Scott. Call me Jenny, she said) bade me enter when I mentioned pigeons and gesturing towards a sturdily built stairway that led upwards. She allowed me to precede her up through a succession of rooms, all circular in shape, and all diminishing in size, as we progressed to the highest storey where I met her husband, John, who was busily engaged in putting the finishing touches to a very sturdy looking pigeon basket. As I entered that room, John beamed a smile at me, warm, welcoming and faintly inquiring. The smile broadened into a great grin when Janet explained that I was a fancier who had dropped in on passing. A huge hand clasped mine in friendly greeting, and John's personality suffused a sort of atmosphere that fairly broadcast good humour and bonhomie. We fell at once into pigeon talk that ranged far and wide in topic and theory. I cannot remember when I ever met a man so entertaining in all my travels, and I have encompassed the world twice in my 40-yrs and met many, many men of every nationality, colour and creed! The hours slipped away all too quickly and it was with a start that I realised that if I did not make haste I would be late for my dinner engagement. Having supped well on the excellent home-made cakes and ale that would bring tears of joy to the eyes of any connoisseur, I would gladly have dismissed the slightly artificial atmosphere that seems to rule over so many social evenings, but a sense of duty, based as much on allegiance to the 'Gazette' as to the fanciers to whom I had promised my questionable company, bade me make my goodbyes to that happy couple in whose company I had spent such a happy afternoon. Throughout our hours of conversation, the pigeons had crooned and roared in diverse mood, and even as I make my farewell I could hear the deep contented note of one of those great birds - which, though I had gazed on them through the dowelled interior of the mill, I had not handled them. As mine host fetched me my overcoat, from the peg behind the door, I admired again the extremely neat basket he had been making at the entry. Without further ado, John reached across his little work bench and brought forth another basket, finished and polished ready for use. "Take it", he boomed, and thrust it into my hand with a gesture of dismissal that waved away the words I tried to say as I would have enquired the cost. "I make them to keep me busy, and the willows are free for any man who cares to take them form the woods", he added. I was pleased to have it, my own basket (I only had one then) was getting rather shabby and the new one was a beauty and would contain some eight birds in comfort. It was minutes later that we descended to the ground floor again and the glowing warmth that had issued all that afternoon from the healthily burning log fire set in his stone hearth, seemed suddenly far away and in another world. The bitter freezing blast that met us outside made me dash for the lesser cold of the car. The engine started at the touch of the button, and with a last wave at the two figures, still clearly visible at the doorway of their strange but comfortable home, I let in the clutch and hurried away into the black depths of that December night. It took me only 15 minutes to arrive at the brightly lighted door of the village hall, where were gathered the twenty fanciers and their wives and families. The dinner progressed in the usual fashion, as dinners do, and when the plates were cleared away and speeches made by the club's President, Secretary and Treasurer, I was called upon to make the presentation. I like this little chore. It adds enormously to the pleasure of the evening when one can meet and exchange a few words with the members whose success it is that makes these events possible. As was expected of me, I said a few words which, though echoed by the prize givers almost everywhere, I sincerely meant. I enjoy these little do's, you know. It suddenly occurred to me that it was strange that John and Janet Scott were not present. I remarked on it to that assemblage. I explained that I had met them that afternoon, and that I found them to be such congenial company, and it began to dawn on me, as I spoke, that there was a hush that was odd (and into which my words dropped as if they were stones falling into a bottomless void). I sat down to a silence that was almost deathly in its intensity, and it was not until a guffaw of laughter broke from one of those present that anyone stirred at all. He who laughed, roared at the top of his voice, and so contagious was his humour that smiles began to crease the faces of those who sat around him, "Good old Bilco", he bellowed. "I've read your tales in the 'Gazette' and I enjoys 'em, but beggared if I ever heard one like that", he continued. As he burst afresh into further laughter, accompanied by his pointing finger at the faces of those, still serious around him, everyone there erupted into a roar of mirth. Relief, too, was apparent on some of their countenances. That laughter continued for quite a few minutes, and the clubs' Secretary bawled into my ear that he never expected to hear me tell them their own local 'Ghost' tale, one that had been heard told by the locals for many, many years. Well, I drove past that old mill again the following day. There were only a few blackened timbers, stark and gaunt against the lowering sky, to show that once there had been a fine, strongly built edifice there, once the home of a fancier family named Scott - the local woodsman, a family who had perished on Christmas Eve some 50-yrs before, burnt to death as they tried to rescue their pigeons from the all consuming flames. I had the details related to me by the fancier who had first brought me to that part of Kent, and who provided me with a comfortable bed that December 23rd night when the frosts of winter crackled round the eaves and nipped the toes. All this happened many years ago now, and seems sometimes like a dream, but there is something that makes it hard for me to believe I imagined it. My basket! It serves me excellently, has done for ages, but you know, even after all the knocking about that it gets in the course of a season, it seems new again when I take it out to look at it, or brush it up after Christmas. If I did imagine it, where did I get the basket from? I'm damned if I can remember!

No hard feelings my friend, just niggled because there were typing/spelling errors in it - which I deplore, I always try to get it right - and I did think that the least you could do was to say who wrote it, even if it was written 43 years ago! ATB. Cheers, Bill.

THE GREY GHOST OF ROME "Old Nick" they called him - Nicholas Cox was his rightful name - and a kinder hearted character would have been hard to find anywhere. He was approaching his fiftieth birthday and the race of his life when the chain of events that make up this tale commenced. For months the talk throughout the Fancy had been the Rome race, no-one had thoughts for anything else it seemed - and though the members that participated were few, the interest in the sport was tremendous.<BR><BR> Names that were legend in their own time were entering the race, and others with an eye perhaps to the fame and fortune that must fall to the winner, were thinking hard and long that their 'old lags' might do worse than have a go at it - after all, as quite a few must have thought - what was there to lose but an old stager whose fast racing days were over? Nick Cox was not one of the latter school however, his champion "Greywings" was a winner right down the line from 60 miles to nearly 600, and as a 4-yr-old he had spent only one night out in his life and that only as a result of the weather that had prevailed on the day of his longest race (which he had won comfortably). So it came about that on the fateful day "Greywings" was despatched with the pitifully few other contestants for the longest event ever staged in the history of British pigeon racing.<BR><BR> Old Nick went home from the basketing and sat down in his favourite armchair and cried. All the remorse of a lifetime was evident in his tears as he quietly broke his heart, for he had sent his beloved bird on the hardest task ever demanded - and he knew that only the greatest hearted pigeons ever born would fight their tormented way over the Swiss Alps and the southern plains of France, before coming to the great water barrier that would test them all to the upmost, and Nick was not a cruel man. For 40 years he had kept pigeons, and enjoyed the love of every bird he ever owned - but of them all he had loved none more than "Greywings" the barless Blue cock he had bred down from the long line of champions and who was the culmination off all his experience.<BR><BR> Finally the great day of liberation dawned. News didn't travel so quickly in 1913 but it finally percolated to the quiet corner of England where Nick waited with nerves keyed to an unbearable tension. A thousand miles away to the south "Greywings" was aloft, and to Nick that meant that he would come home - and home he came - but not as his owner envisaged or ever hoped.<BR><BR> A week passed by, and all over England the pigeon men waited with fast beating hearts to hear if Rome could be flown. Silence was their answer. Another week came and went, and hope began to fade a little as still no news was heard of the gallant few pitted against such overwhelming odds. Nick grew quieter as the days passed, and spoke less to those who knew him. They for their part knew the torment the old man suffered in his heart, and left him be. Sometimes a neighbour started a half-hearted "Any news?" - but always the slow shake of Nick's greying head was all the answer they had in return. Then, one sunny afternoon the postman called at the lovely old cottage where Nick lived, and waving a postcard over his head he demanded the "Furrin stamp" that adorned the little white slip of pasteboard. nick took the proffered card with trembling hand, and in his heart he knew that the news it contained referred to his bird long before he lowered his eyes to read the brief message scrawled across the card.<BR><BR> The writing was in a foreign language, but for all that Nick could see the numbers that spelled out the identity of "Greywings" - and his heart chilled with the sudden fear as he made out the word 'Mortis' and although he was not a learned man he knew enough to tell him that his great pigeon was dead. Tears ran down his weathered cheeks as he turned away, and with stumbling tread he made his way across to the rustic bench that stood alongside his neat little loft. the postman stood silent, his hands made vague pawing gestures as he sought vainly for words to comfort the old fellow, and finally he turned away with a heavy heart as - a countryman himself - he knew nothing he could say could assauge the grief the fancier felt.<BR><BR> Nick read the postcard over and over again, searching for a clue that might tell him he had made a mistake, and that hope might still linger on. The date on the card was that of the day of liberation of the race, and in his sorrow the old man tortured himself with visions of "Greywings" exploding from the basket, only to collide with the wire stretched across the thoroughfare, waiting to claw the glorious life from feathered lustre that was the racing pigeon straining for home. Finally he raised himself from the bench and wearily made his way to the cottage, where, with the trembling hand he composed a short note to the Secretary of his local club tendering his resignation. Later he wrote another, longer note, and with it a few details of his beloved birds. A fortnight later the auction took place and Nicholas Cox was a fancier no more - save in his heart - and his cottage sold to couple from the town who cooed and clucked over the fading glories of the garden tended lovingly for so long.<BR><BR> After the sale, Nick went to live with a widowed sister some fifty miles away and never again in the years remaining to him did he visit the scene of his bitterest heartbreak. He heard some months later of the joy and acclaim that was the just reward of the Lincolnshire fanciers Hudson, and the partnership of Vester & Scurr, but never again was he tempted to hold a pigeon in his hand though sometimes - on balmy summer days - he turned his eyes skyward at sight of a team of racers fleeting across the heavens, and on these occasions his spirit was heavy with remembrance.<BR><BR> It was a year and half later, on Christmas Eve to be exact, that "Greywings" came home. The day was bitterly cold and the icy east wind that blew had travelled all the way from the Arctic wastes of Siberia. The snow that lay inches deep on the ground was frozen to a crisp carpet that squeaked when walked upon, and nothing moved abroad save only those poor souls that needs must. A leaden grey hued sky brooded over the desolation of winter, and in the hedges the starved bodies of the sparrows froze to their perches, dead - but unable to fall for the talons of ice that held them. The wind moaned through the wires and round the eaves of the cottages, and blew a stream of icy flakes along in a biting cascade, always seeking but never finding a resting place. Through this, then, tired wings driving him ever onward came "Greywings" - a thousand miles of frozen landscape away from the Italian peasant who had picked him up half dead a year and a half before, and who had been incautious enough to leave his decrepit loft door open some five days ago. His gallant heart still beat, though tired to the point of utter exhaustion, and in his innermost being the love of home and master was the flame that kept him going when he had long since passed the end of his endurance.<BR><BR> Clearing the last hedge with fast failing wings, "Greywings" half folded his pinions in preparation for landing on the roof of his beloved home - only to find that the loft he had flown so many miles to find no longer existed. For a moment or two he fluttered vainly over the spot where his home had been, then with a last desperate spurt he rose to the roof of the house. For a moment or two he clawed there in a failing attempt to hold fast to the frozen surface of the tiled ridge, then - wings flagging - he sprawled and spun back down the slope of the roof, propelled by the angry clutching grasp of the icy wind. Striking the frozen guttering at the edge of the roof, he remained posed for a timeless instant in space, then - hurled over and over by the bitter gusts he was flung to the ground where he lay, spent and tired to the edge of death. Twice he moved his wings as if to fly on again, but when the wind turned him over again to the place where once his loft had stood, "Greywings" was dead. The frozen flakes built up against his thin and wasted body, and it was not until the first sibilant whisper of the southern winds of spring that he finally rested on the carpet of leaves where he was soon to be buried forever.<BR><BR> It was over thirty years later that the cottage again went up for sale, and though it stood empty for some considerable time and grew dilapidated meanwhile, a car stopped by the rustic gate one day and a tall greying man stood erect and studied the place. He was joined by a pleasant looking women, who took his hand in hers while she followed his gaze over the contours of the house and the large overgrown garden. Finally she looked up into his face and smiled, "Well?" she queried. for answer he nodded and smiled, and opening the gate the couple passed inside and toured the perimeter of the cottage. Obviously they approved of what they saw, for only a week later a firm of builders and decorators moved in and industriously proceeded to renovate the old building to some of its former glory. A little later still a furniture wagon stopped by and there was much coming and going with the carpets and furnishings. Eventually the family moved in and the garden rang to the laughter of their two children - a boy of eleven and a girl of some nine years.<BR><BR> Ian Murdoch, for such was the man's name, was a man of some talents and considerable industry, and before a year had passed he had restored the garden to its flaming splendour, and on the exact spot that Nick Cox had once maintained his loft many years before - he too built himself a loft, rather larger, more modern in design and equipped with a little office in which rested all that was required to make his racing and waiting hours comfortable.<BR><BR> In the spring of the following year, Ian settled three pairs of old birds and in no time at all the loft resounded to the thunderous cooing of the cocks and the squeaking of the youngsters. The weeks quickly slipped by, and one late spring evening Ian and his wife let the youngsters - now rather strong on the wing have their liberty for the first time. For what seemed to be ages the babies pottered about the roof, and now and again one or another would stand on its tiptoes and flail the air with its wings, testing them with nervous eagerness - and lifting themselves a yard into the limitless sky every once in a while. Suddenly, for that unfathomable reason that every fancier has experienced at some time in his life, the whole bunch of youngsters exploded into action and rocketed into the air, all six of his homebred youngsters and the dozen of the same age that he had purchased, were aloft and scattering to every point of the compass. In seconds they were a hundred feet up and spreading away, and with an agonising certainty Ian knew that short of a miracle his hopes were about to be blasted - for that year at least - when from nowhere at all a great blue cock swept round in a circle by the madly panicking babies and with slowly clapping wings he marshalled them into a untidy pack which followed him like sheep. Three times the great blue bird circled, then with his pinions spread he glided downwards in a grand sweep and settled as softly as thistledown on the top of the loft. Ian Murdoch watched with bated breath as all his eighteen youngsters followed suit, and a vast sigh of relief was wrenched from his clenched lips as the last youngster fell onto its face as it landed.<BR><BR> For a moment or two, the strange cock stood poised watching the youngsters - as if to assure himself they were all there - then with strutting step he dropped on to the trap and disappeared into the loft. As one the entire team of youngsters hastened after him, anxious to regain the known safety of their home and perches, and within seconds the last of them had gone through the bob-wires and was busily pecking up the seed that Ian had left in the hopper to welcome them in.<BR><BR> Barely half a minute passed before Ian opened the loft door to see and handle the strange pigeon, but to his astonishment the bird was not there. turning to his wife who had witnessed the entire scene he blurted almost angrily - "That damn bird's gone". She looked at him uncomprehendingly for a moment, then - "Gone? You mean it's not in the loft? Impossible!" For answer Ian opened the door wide for her to see for herself, but the stranger had unquestionably vanished. The couple searched all the perches and every nestbox, they looked under and over everything- but there was no pigeon in the loft that they did not own, and they had no Barless Blue among their own birds. Puzzled, they eventually returned to the house where they talked over the strange incident until suppertime, and later when they repaired to bed Ian was still muttering to himself about the inexplicable disappearance of the bird.<BR><BR> A couple of months later during the early summer, they were waiting the arrival of their youngsters from a training toss when Ian suddenly started from his chair and pointed heavenwards in alarm, an exclamation of horror on his lips. His wife, who had been sitting with him did not see the ominous shape of the dark winged falcon at first - then she too gave a gasp as understanding flooded her mind. Powerless to do anything about the presence of the predator - for the bird was a peregrine falcon, they stood biting their lips and hoping against hope their youngsters would not arrive until after the huge hawk had gone, but it was not to be and their alarm increased as they saw the neat little pack of young birds appear over the trees a mere couple of hundred yards away. They saw with mounting tension the peregrine turn to face their youngsters, saw his wings close into his body, and Mrs. Murdoch buried her head in her hands as the dark shape bulleted earthwards - then - again from nowhere the vast spreading wings of the Barless Blue appeared as the pigeon soared underneath the falling hawk, and he - turning in his headlong dive - struck with hooked beak and curling talons to scoop up the apparently helpless pigeon, and missed! Turning on to its back the great hawk struck again at the underside of the Blue bird, and missed again and again though it seemed to the observers far below in the garden that he must have hit the pigeon every time. Eventually the pigeon with peregrine close in pursuit disappeared from view, and the youngsters who had dropped hastily onto the the loft trapped with an unaccustomed vigour.<BR><BR> Ian Murdoch was silent for a long while that evening, and intelligent man though he was he failed to find a satisfactory solution to the Blue cock's appearance, again in a moment of dire emergency. He did not dwell too long on the matter though, and with a promptitude that was commendable he soon made the purchase of a shotgun with which to welcome the hawk should it appear again. On a number of occasions that year they had reason to bless the strange pigeon, and once Ian mentioned the matter to a friend who was a journalist, who - sensing perhaps something stranger than fiction was happening - wrote an article on the affair and published it in the county weekly paper. It was in these columns that Nicholas Cox, now in his eighties and in failing health, read the news that gladdened his heart and made him weep tears of joy. Unable to go to his old home to see for himself, the old man wrote to Ian Murdoch - telling him the story of "Greywings" and of his deep conviction that the bird had come home.<BR><BR> Surprised that a previous tenant of the cottage had also owned and raced pigeons to that location, Ian treated the letter with some reserve and just a little misgiving, unsure perhaps that the writer was genuine. The following winter though he and his wife found that truth was indeed stranger than fiction, and that the loves of the fancier and his birds is far stronger and deeper than can ever be understood by mere man.<BR><BR> The wind howled again round the eaves of the old cottage that Christmas Eve, and the snow rustled against the windows and sifted into every crack in a vain attempt to percolate everywhere. Ian Murdoch and his wife stood - arms intertwined round each others' waists - looking out at the gathering dusk when they both started, electrified at what they saw. There, standing by the loft, appeared a grey headed old man, small and bent by the years but clearly visible to each of them. He seemed to have an aura of illumination round him and appeared impervious to the biting wind and driving fine icy flakes, and stood - a smile of joy across his face, arms raised to the sky where, with great grey wings clapping slowly above his head, there appeared the unmistakeable shape of the Barless Blue - also illuminated by the same strange glow that was light and yet not. For timeless seconds the couple watched while the bird settled against the old man's chest, and clearly saw him bend his grizzled head and kiss the pigeon and clasp it to his face - tears of sheer joy running down his lined and aged countenance. For a spellbound eon they watched the image of man and bird together, then suddenly they were gone and only the wind driven snow could be seen beating against the side of the loft.<BR><BR> The Barless Blue was never seen again. Perhaps it was the obituary that appeared in the columns of the county paper later that week that gave the answer, it said quite simply that Nicholas Cox, octogenarian and once resident of their village, had passed quietly away at four o'clock in the afternoon of Christmas Eve, Requiescat in Pace.

Message for Rooster J.Cogburn . . . If you're going to lift my short stories and publish them elsewhere, you might have the courtesy to add my name as its author, clearly evident since it is listed on a page with my photo on top and the legend "Bilco's Bulletin" below it. I know it was lifted from that page, because the same typing errors as Reynolds made are also shown in the story you published". Cheers, Bilco.

With respect, there is no "l" at the end of Sticklebaut (you spell it "Sticklebault"). Henri Van Neste has an "e" at the end of his name, and the lad you call Marcel Brahuust" is I believe "Braakhuis". Old Alois Stichelbaut of Lauwe, (later Welden) was the neighbour of Honore Vandemoulebroucke for a long timr, they shared a common family, Commines, and most of the best Belgian long distance families also stem from the same roots. Matthys de Vichte, Emil Matterne, Lietaer of Rekkem, (Van Neste's cousin). Cheers, Bill.

Sorry, this was a PM to Wiley only.

Because my answer may lead to accusations of "plugging" I have sent you a PM. Cheers, Bill.

Because maybe - just maybe - our pigeons are not suffering from PiCB, but something simple but a temporarily crippling ailment called (for want of a better term) YBS ?

I have to smile. Fanciers don't change with the years. I know fanciers on this thread who use Xerek to treat YBS and they write to me saying how well the birds look after 24 hours, and how they then go on to win afterwards, BUT THEY DO NOT TELL THE FANCY. They say "Why make it harder to win, by telling the rest how to shift it?" They were doing that 30 years ago when respiratory ailments were causing mayhem, until I started writing about the problem and how to cure it. Now its YBS. I formulated XEREK in 1953 after studying Robert Stroud's books on the treatment of Pigeons/Sparrows/Canaries whilst he was serving a life sentence at Alcatraz for violent Murder. (1921/1942). The formula is a mix of FIVE different Carbonates (and No, Bi-Carb is not one of them, LOL). I made up a jar of the stuff after I had proved its worth and kept it in my "Pigeon Cupboard" all these years, until about ten years ago when Colin McCarthy of Ebbw Vale told me one night in a phone conversation that he was giving up the sport, because he had had YB Sickness three times and had to kill his YB team each time. I had never heard of YBS, and asked him what on earth he was talking about. When he told me it rang a bell, and I said "don't kill them, I'll send you something that should shift it". It did, and then he asked if I could also help his clubmates in Ebbw Vale, so I sent him enough for them too. They all recovered. Then Colin asked me to market the stuff, and I discussed it with Richard Wylie, MD of DAZER (UK). The upshot was that I asked for volunteers to trial it, and had 137 replies. I sent each a sample in the SAE they had sent to me. I had 131 replies, ALL were successful. DAZER offered to market it at £5 a sachet so they got the formula. (Five other would-be manufacturers all asked more than £5 a sachet, but I am not in the business of screwing the Fancy). That was ten years ago now, and XEREK is still killing YBS. One sachet is sufficient for 20/25 birds, it makes a gallon of liquid, fill the drinkers three days running, but it works in one/two. You can obtain it from DAZER (UK) at 16 Thorpe Meadows, Peterborough, Cambs. PE3 6GA (Tel: 01733-315-888)or from me, (Tel: 01963-34380). It is not an antibiotic, it is a chemical compound given as a dietary supplement to cancel out the yeasts and mycotoxins found on corn mixtures, that create a fungal growth in the crop, the cause of the complaint in my opinion.

Xerek - YBS gone within 6 hours.

Hundreds of them, no, thousands, blowflies, big fat buzzing blowflies, swarming all over the meat, fish, cakes in the butcher's, fish, restaurants, in your houses, kitchens and shops. What's causing them? Ahh, its all those corrupt dead bodies, stinking carcases with their maggot infested guts, up on the rooftops near those bird of prey nesting sites. Complain to the local Council, the Health & Safety Department, they'll send a man round to shift the nests, and the flyblown guts. Happens every year, time we had them stopped. Stinking things. They even tried to blame pigeon fanciers throwing culls up on the rooftops to help things along, rotters.

once again this is when we should be getting the RSPCA on our side,take all your damaged birds to them, they are as big if not bigger than the RSPB Trouble is, the RSPCA and RSPB are bed fellows, bite one they both bleed.

There is an alleged "Wildlife Petition" doing the rounds that suggests that the Conservative Government is about to scrap Laws that protect Wildlife. The "Wildlife Laws" that DEFRA are considering scrapping are BOP Protection Laws, and the "38 degrees" that are pushing this "Petition" are - I believe - the RSPB. They are asking everyone to vote AGAINST the scrapping of these Laws, so a vote for the petition is a vote for BOPs to remain protected. Anyone want BOP Protection to be kept for another 55 years??????? Just look at the damage it has done over the last half century. If the email lands in your server, dump it !

There were 32 returnees from the 329 birds entered in the 1986 Rome race, the first being Harry Kennett's (Orpington) silver hen which took 11 days. The problem was not the distance but the blind valleys that took birds to 15,000 ft before they realised that they could not go any higher, then retraced their steps (or wingbeats !) The BBC administered the race and silver medals were awarded to all returnees at the Club's 1986 Presentation that year. Not one of those 32 birds was ever sold, and only two of the medals have ever come on to the market, one being gifted to HQ RPRA the other sold at auction to raise funds for a fancier whose home/business was burned down. It raised £120 I think if memory serves me rightly.

I can take photos of the setup, but can't publish them on here because my portable 'A' Drive has been borrowed but not returned, so i can't upload the pix (I use a Sony with a floppy disc to take pix). I did ring and leave a message, but no reply. Probably best to go and buy another. Watch this space. PS. Changing the leads round won't blow the panels, it just alters the direction of current flow and will make fans work in reverse to what they are doing at the moment.

Hi Lads, I cut a nine inch diameter round hole in the loft end walls, covered it with weldmesh, then placed the car radiator fan over the outside, wired it up then put a boxed louvre over the fan. The wires inside lead to a 12v car battery which I keep charging up. I also have a 12w solar trickle charger to the battery to keep a charge running in all the daylight hours. When the fan kicks in (two fans, one each end, in series), they change the loft air in minutes. Larger solar panels would keep the battery charged as Kev suggests, but I don't have any. It certainly makes one hell of a difference to loft temperature and humidity, also smell and dust, inside the loft. The fans only cost a fiver each from the local scrappie and they work forever. If you have them running straight they blast the air out, if you run two together in series they run much slower, but still fast enough to change the air fairly rapidly.

You don't have a transfer form for IHU birds, just the ring card. Ownership of the card is ownership of the bird.

There's some evil sods about, taking the mick out of that poor woman with made up videos. All the material in that you tube "snip" was edited together by some sick bas***d from old shots.

Lay on the goose grease (Sainsbury's or Waitrose) into the neck/shoulder feathering and thickly dab salt into it. Percy etc will love it, and you'll love the result. It is what Baroness Young (Es-RSPB CEO) used to call "a noxious tasting substance") and they soon stop eating it.

Subject: DON'T BUY PEPSI IN THE NEW CAN! Don't buy Pepsi in the new can. Pepsi has a new 'patriotic' can coming out with pictures of the Empire State Building , and the Pledge of Allegiance on them. However, Pepsi left out two little words on the pledge, 'Under God.' Pepsi said they didn't want to offend anyone. In that case, we don't want to offend anyone at the Pepsi corporate office, either! So if we don't buy any Pepsi products, they will not be offended when they don't receive our money that has the words 'In God We Trust' on it. HOW FAST CAN YOU FORWARD THIS ONE?

We raced over water every week in the now defunct Salisbury Midweek, Guernsey every wednesday, four Guernseys, then NFC St Malo, BBC Rennes then Cabana Nantes with a couple of Guernseys in between the Classics or after them. Nine times over the Channel was average, and we had a good membership, 25 member limit. Lack of Secy eventually undid it. Losses were few.

Do not mention birds when writing to the Press about the RSPB, refer only to Avian Pit Bulls, or Avian Wolves. Meat eaters. Carnivores. Make the point that these birds exist only to kill and eat other birds. Let's change the public perception of this money making political society.