Category Archives: Animals/Wildlife

What Measures 20cm and Keeps Us Awake at Night?

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Mallorcan sunset

Sunset over the hill in our valley – tune-up time for the Scops Owl

I guess we’ve all heard stories of people who move to the countryside or a rural village, in search of peace and quiet, then do nothing but complain about the noise – whether it’s tractors, church bells or cockerels.

When we moved to our little piece of Mallorcan countryside, it was with our eyes (and ears) open. We expected agricultural equipment, sheep bells and bleating (rather comforting sounds, I think), the occasional braying from a donkey or two, and the chorus of barking that spreads around the valley when one dog is disturbed by something unfamiliar and his canine neighbours are compelled to join in.

We don’t mind the call of the peacocks that live close by, or even the fact that the nearest cockerel seems to live in a completely different time zone and thinks it’s time to wake everyone up at 3pm. There was even a quarry on the top of one side of the valley, which was operational from 8am in the morning. We were surprised how quickly we got used to the sound of stone being wrested from the ground.

Smaller than a Little Owl

But there’s one nocturnal noise that can drive us nuts – and its source is less than 20 cm high. I’m talking about the Scops Owl, which is even smaller than the Little Owl. Not that we’ve ever seen one. But boy, can we hear this little dynamo!

For the past couple of years, we’d not heard a single one, but this year they’re back in the valley again. This little creature begins his call shortly after sunset  . . . and often continues into the night. Its call sounds rather like the sonar used on a submarine (not that I’ve been on many of those – but I’ve seen the odd movie or two).  The short, deep whistle (described in Collins Bird Guide as a ‘tyuh’ sound) is repeated constantly every two or three seconds. Not only has our little feathered friend got stamina (it can go on for hours), it can also be heard up to a kilometre away.

One night, a Scops Owl sat in one of the almond trees in our field – probably the closest it had ever been to the finca. You wouldn’t believe how loud and piercing that relentless sound could be. The Boss eventually jumped out of bed, pulled on his boxers, slipped some shoes on and headed outside, where he ran around the field, waving his arms and making strange noises – yes, there was a full moon – in a bid to persuade the Scops Owl to relocate to a tree further away. Sure enough, the bird flew away and silence reigned . . . for 20 minutes.

The next day, we bought some earplugs.

Jan Edwards©2012

When Harry Met Jan

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An unexpected meeting with Sir Cliff in Mallorca (2008).
Photo by Oliver Neilson
http://www.phoenixmediamallorca.com

Er . . . not that Harry (Webb, otherwise known as Sir Cliff Richard). This particular Harry is a cute kitten who blasted into our lives briefly last night.

Kitten Alert

The Boss and I were reading on the terrace, noses buried in novels as the light rapidly decreased. I’d noticed two of our eight outdoor cats sitting on the wall nearby, taking a great interest in something in the lane. Figuring it was probably a cicada, I ignored them until the unwelcome sound of feline aggression shattered the peace.

Jetta (the mother of all our outdoor brood) had jumped from the wall and chased something into the overgrown field across the lane. Minutes later, as we were straining to see what was going on, a tiny ginger and white kitten jumped onto the wall in front of us, wide-eyed and trembling from its encounter with the black cat. Far too young to be without its mother, we suspected that it had been dumped – something that often happens in country areas here where animal-loving Brits and Germans are known to live.

I immediately named it Harry, after a certain ginger-haired prince, and we gave it some desperately needed water, food and TLC. The little thing purred contentedly when picked up, reinforcing our suspicion that he wasn’t feral. We couldn’t leave Harry outside all night: our other outdoor cats were becoming increasingly aggressive towards the little intruder, and he was too young to realise that sitting in the lane was dangerous. We bedded the wailing kitten down for the night in our guest annexe, wondering how we would resolve the situation.

Harry Goes Home

This morning we both reluctantly admitted that keeping Harry was impossible, as he clearly wouldn’t be tolerated by our other cats. We would have to find a home or a sanctuary for him and, on an island where there are so many unwanted animals, that wouldn’t be easy.

Then, I remembered having seen some kittens outside a farmhouse, during a walk a couple of weeks ago. Although Toni and Maria’s farm is a brisk 10-minute walk away for humans, was it possible that Harry was one of those kittens, and had become lost going walkabout? Mid-morning, we drove down to see the friendly Mallorcans and, to our great delight, they claimed the kitten; it had gone missing on Monday and its mother (not much more than a kitten herself) had been searching the farm for it since. When I asked Maria what they’d named the kitten (having explained why we’d called him Harry), she gave me a bemused look and replied “Moix” – Mallorcan for ‘cat’.

So wandering Harry and mum were joyfully reunited – a very touching scene – and we came home with a thank you gift of Toni’s delicious home-grown tomatoes, peppers and aubergines.

Jan Edwards ©2012

A morning cuddle for Harry from The Boss

Dealing with Donkeys

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Pedestrian Petra

First-time visitors to our finca usually gaze out over the surrounding countryside with wonder in their eyes.  And it’s not always because we live in a naturally beautiful valley. Or that, often, the only sounds piercing the silence are birdsong, buzzing cicadas and dongling sheep bells.No, it’s more a case of “I wonder what they do for excitement around here?”

Believe me, we have our moments. Life here rarely sparks an adrenalin rush, but pulse rates have been known to quicken.

New Neighbours?

Take the day when we noticed that two donkeys were grazing in the field across the lane from us.  Now I’m really fond of these gentle creatures and was stupidly thrilled to have them as neighbours. We’d often seen sheep there, but never donkeys. We hadn’t even known that the farmer – who works in the valley but lives in Manacor – owned donkeys.

“You won’t be so happy if they start braying at 3 o’clock in the morning,” warned The Boss.

Several times that afternoon, I went out to gaze at Don Camilo and Petra (yes, I’d already named them) as they stood in the shade of an almond tree, nibbling contentedly at the scrubby undergrowth.  So how, later that day, did DC and Petra come to be ambling along in the lane, like a couple of elderly women searching for snails after rain?

When The Boss and I walked down to the field entrance, it was obvious.  The typical ‘gate’ used around here – a bundle of dead branches stuffed into the opening in an old dry stone wall – had hardly been enough to contain two newborn lambs, let alone a pair of determined donkeys.

The Boss was actually a little smug about the farmer’s apparent error. Probably because this particular farmer – a charming man, by the way – had recently criticised the way our almond trees had been pruned.

Our lane doesn’t see much traffic but donkeys wandering at will are a definite hazard, so – as good country citizens – we set about rounding up the renegades and returning them to the field.

No easy feat, and one that certainly quickened all parties’ pulses.

A Job Well Done

Once they were back in, we took on the task of building an impenetrable barrier, using a larger quantity of branches and sticks. Satisfied that we’d done a decent job, we left the pair to appreciate their own side of the fence and went in search of a well-earned G&T.

The following day, we found out that the donkeys weren’t owned by the farmer whose field it was. It was only when the real owner came in search of them that we discovered they’d escaped from a field in the lower, neighbouring valley and, having walked all the way up the hill, had seized the opportunity to enter a poorly gated field for a quick snack. Where they ended up staying until the next morning . . .

Jan Edwards ©2012

Wildlife Encounters in Mallorca

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A warm welcome . . . unless you’re a rat

The first few nights in our old finca were not exactly restful. Unaccustomed to the silence of the countryside and darkness of the bedroom, I wasn’t sleeping as soundly as usual. So, when the sound of frantic scratching broke into my dream, I shot out of bed, switched on the light and began to scour the room for the source of the noise.  It appeared to be coming from within the thick old stone walls.

When you buy an old finca to do up, it’s not unusual to find that you’ve acquired a few little extras with the property: old abandoned agricultural implements, sticks of furniture that the previous owners left behind – and the odd rodent.

Yes, I knew that a rat was unlikely to burst through the wall in a cloud of plaster dust and flaking paint, to launch itself at my throat, but who thinks rationally in the middle of the night?

Rats Not Welcome

The priority jobs list was duly rearranged and all the small holes outside in the old stone walls were filled, to make sure the house was totally rodent-proof.  Before long, the nocturnal scratchings had ceased and tranquility returned.

But deprived of a warm, dark place to call home, our rats found alternative – and much cosier – accommodation, in the two small adjoining outbuildings housing our gas-powered water heaters. Because these structures have to be well-ventilated, the critters’ access can’t be blocked.

Rats take refuge in the strangest of places. One day, The Boss decided to open up the old parasol that had been left standing out on the terrace over winter. As he did so, a large furry object jumped out from within . . . using his shoulder as a launchpad to freedom.

Apparently, when the movie Ratatouille was released there was a rush to buy rats at UK pet shops at the time.  Anyone still interested? Nice fat brown one . . . going cheap?

 

Jan Edwards 2008 ©