This morning as I opened the gate to the spring at the end of the garden I was as usual greeted by a load of fat waddling ducks calling for their breakfast. But wait a minute… Where’s Daphne? Daphne the daring duck is missing. She has been experimenting with flying for about a week or so now and although she is so fat she can hardly walk she doesn’t do a bad job of climbing up to a great height and then jumping off into an almost controlled downwards flap followed by a crash landing. Well obviously that was good enough because a quick look over the cliff saw her about 100m below enjoying herself in the stream created by the overflowing water from the acequia. I like that word now, acequia, and if you don’t know what it is, read this. Anyway there was Daphne down below so Nicky starts trying to get her attention by calling “Daphne”, “Daphne” and rattling the food pot etc. which went a great way to attract a local farmer who stood about 100m higher on the other side of the cliff watching in amazement at what English people go through to avoid their pet ending up on somebody else’s dinner table. It worked in a fashion, as Daphne waddled, flapped and scrambled her way up to about 25m or so below us before needing a rest, and then slipping and crashing all the way back down to the bottom again. Twice in the next few hours I scrambled down into the Rambla Benito after looking at Daphne standing there in the boiling sun, staring up at the cliff, standing still on the hot ground like she was just waiting for the “ping” to say she was cooked to perfection so we could just pour over the orange sauce. But to try and get her to follow me home was impossible, she is just so fat that the climb was too much and she wasn’t going to attempt it and kept running back into the oleander bushes for a rest. I followed her a short way but in flip-flops & shorts I wasn’t really up to treading on a viper or being chased by a boar so thought better of going in too far. Plan B was called for. When Andrew finally got himself out of bed, he donned his flip-flops & shorts (15 year olds just don’t listen do they?), we grabbed the food tin and a great big stick and went on a duck hunt. Down in the valley I poked & prodded with the stick from one side of the oleander bushes until Daphne waddled out the other and then Andrew stuck the food pot under her nose to keep her occupied. Then after a few flying feathers and a rugby tackle Daphne was safely under my arm, her wings trapped down by her side and her head still in a bucket of food ready for the climb back up. Luckily I didn’t have to scramble all the way up one handed because there is a fence to our spring half way up so I just adjusted position, keeping her wings well by her side and launched her over the fence like a rugby ball then she flapped again, lost a few feathers and hit the water feet first to be greeted immediately by her friends, who to be honest hadn’t cared less and were enjoying having more room to themselves. So now what do we do? Go through this palarver every time Daphne decides to go on an excursion, or clip her wings to keep her grounded. Now where did I put the strimmer?
STOP PRESS: Just done it, secateurs and scissors, now let’s see their next trick.
