A hop, skip, and jump

...And across The Channel [English, in case some wondered if there were any other] we went for Erin and Elena's first visit to England, and what might as well have been mine. We went to visit a friend (via pigeons) of mine, Graeme Boyd. Graeme is Scottish, a second generation (at least) "pouter man" flying "thief" pouters, a type of pigeons used to capture other flyers birds. A game that started in Scotland with working men in the shipyards along the Clyde who were after something to do between ships, or after hours. It is a game played as well in, and possibly rooted in, Spain (where the modern derivative is regulated by the government), and Holland (probably courtesy of Spanish rule until the late 16th century).

In Scotland the traditional bird used is known as the Scotch Horseman
But birds of Spanish descent are now becoming more common and many believe them to be better "thieves."

All of these birds I had read of, some I had seen in show cages, but I had experienced none of them in "action". Graeme has a small loft full of various Spanish pouter "types" (seen here with Elena and Graeme doing evening feeding)

and though he doesn't have any other close competitors to "thieve" from, his birds are out and about.

So it was off to England to meet Graeme, see his birds, and get a taste of the English countryside and the Fens.

We bolted out of the house Friday morning with our patented, proven breakfast-on-the-train approach and after a short flight to London's Stansted airport we arrived in England at about 10:00 AM local time. Graeme met us at the airport and we had a two our drive to the village of Outwell (next to the village of Upwell) where he lives. The drive was through rolling, open countryside. Amber waves of grain stretching to the horizon with rows of poplars in between. Not precisely what one things of (or at least what my unenlightened mind thought of) when thinking of "England". I commented on the surroundings and Graeme said "Wait until you see the Fens." A "Fen" is a low lying piece of land -- swamp, marsh, bog -- many now reclaimed by draining and farmed. What we call "polders" here in The Netherlands. And indeed, this stretch of England contains many entrenched "rivers" bounded by dikes, as straight and true as our Dutch canals. The similarity, with much of that portion of England near sea level, is striking. The entire area was richly agricultural and the roots of England the global power were readily, and literally, evident.

We arrived at Graeme's house (where unfortunately his wife and children had had to leave unexpectedly) and found a large collection of toys that appeared neglected (Elena quickly rectified that apparent problem)

and an expansive backyard -- perfect for running in.


We spent Friday afternoon relaxing at Graeme's, getting acclimated, watching the pigeons fly, cooking out on the grill, and having our first taste of "summer pudding" -- bread soaked in berries and served a la Graeme with vanilla ice cream and rasberry sauce. Elena was a fan!







The next morning we were up and out to the "butterfly park" which included many other things as well. Ponds full of goldfish and turtles

and a falconry exhibit where the "Common Buzzard" (much like the Red Tailed Hawk of North America) flew so close to Elena and Erin that its wing tips brushed their noses! Then home again for more running, pigeon watching (cup of tea number 214 -- the British, or at least Graeme! do indeed like their tea and I was happy to partake of that habit. "When in Rome...), outside cooking, and crashing of one tuckered little girl who couldn't be bothered with a nap because there were duiven to catch.

Sunday morning was the piece de resistance of the entire visit. Graeme had arranged a trip to see "Milers" in action. Milers are a particularly refined type of racing/homing pigeon -- possibly unique to the British Isles and certainly near extinction. They are rooted in British pub culture and the collections of lofts to which they are raced (known as paddocks)

were commonly located adjacent to a pub.

An "old" sport, developed and perpetuated by working men in a time before TV when pocket change was tighter and entertainment a little more interactive than today, Miler racing involves flying pigeons, males only, a distance of one mile. Races are held on Sunday, traditionally the only day off work, and the birds (each fancier having 20 or less including the mates of the racing birds) are trained the remainder of the week. Presumably all interaction with the pigeons was followed by interaction in the pub -- we were no exception, but I'm getting ahead of myself.

There are two remaining "paddocks" in England, one of them racing every three weeks and one flying every Sunday. *Every* Sunday, rain, shine, wind, snow. The only time they don't fly is when fog obscures a certain set of trees from view, then it is too dangerous for these low and fast flying birds (times range around 1 minute for the mile distance) to compete. We visited the "paddock" that flys every Sunday and, unfortunately due to some directional mishaps, arrived just after the completion of Sunday's racing. Fortunately a couple of the fanciers where still there taking care of their birds and were kind enough to to show us their lofts and pigeons and tell us a little more about their hobby. Elena was, as always, a big hit and while I investigated one loft, she had a "nice man" taking out bird after bird for her to look at. As Erin said, "It's a good thing we don't have a loft or we would have come home with a box full!"

After seeing the milers we paused for a pint from the pub and to eat our sandwiches. Then it was off again for a scenic drive to Graeme's through the countryside. The English, unfortunately, believe in hedgerows so pictures from a moving car weren't possible, but the rolling hills, fields of cut hay, oats, wheat interspersed with a few castles and cathedrals were beautiful. When nearly home we stopped for dinner in a pub where we dined out on a picnic table in the shade (our weather, belying stereotypes of England was bright, sunny, warm, and dry for the four days we were there) leaving nothing to do when we returned home but fly pigeons until dark when Elena could help give them their dinner -- she wasn't going down until the birds did!

Monday morning we packed up, took a last look at some of Graeme's pigeons,
and sadly said goodbye. Elena was loathe to leave her new best friend with the big yard and pigeons but was salved by the information that we will see him again and our duiven at home needed feeding too.