A Long Day by Milne Mairs

[willie reynolds]

The early mist had cleared by 6 am and convoyer Albert McBride and his assistant Geordie Wilson had 129 wicker hampers lined up four deep. Almost 2000 Irish pigeons were about to leave the French town of Redon behind and face the arduous journey back to the Emerald Isle. A cluster of locals had gathered to witness the liberation, most of them being female which puzzled young Geordie somewhat. ''Why are there so many women here Albert'' he asked as the noise of the restless birds increased with each passing minute. ''Never mind that now Geordie son you'll see in a minute, get your penknife out these strings have to be cut at a quarter past six''. ''What's that old boy with the dog doing, tell him to get out of the way''. Geordie ran to the far end of the hampers gesturing to the elderly dog walker to make himself scarce. ''Hey mate would you and your poodle get back or or you'll be eatin feathers in a minute''. ''Two minutes to go'' Albert shouted as he looked at his watch, Geordie was poised at the opposite end of the row, blade in hand. On the shout of go they both moved quickly towards each other cutting the cords of each hamper with a single slice, and a cheer went up from the spectators as pigeons rose into a clear cloudless sky. When he turned to look for any birds reluctant to leave the hampers Geordie saw the job was already being done as the women were searching each one with a passion. ''What are they dolng '' he asked Albert, ''eggs son, they're looking for eggs, you never know some French man could be having an egg for his dinner tonight, layed by the winner of the King's Cup''.
''Right let's get these hampers sorted and head for home , it's going to be a long day for us and those pigeons''.

The clink of milk bottles on the front door step woke Robert, and he turned to look at the clock, 5.45am and he immediately thought of the pigeons he had sent to the race. He quietly got dressed, and five minutes later was out in his loft at the bottom of the garden, behind the row of terraced houses. Very few pigeons remained in the old bird section of the 12 x 6 structure at the end of a hard season, the channel races to the County Antrim village of Ballyveen had taken their toll ,with the mates of his four National entries the only occupants of the old bird section.

A fresh West wind had replaced the early morning stillness as the leading birds got their first sight of the open sea. Two and a half hours after liberation a flock of around 400 pigeons left the French coast and headed out over the water, causing the group to break up into smaller batches. They dropped to twenty feet above the waves to keep a steady rhythm going. Passengers on a passing ferry didn't notice three feathered stowaways as they kept out of squally showers that made visibility difficult through wet glass. Morning walkers strode along the beach at Whitsard Bay taking in the fresh air with anoraks well zipped up, as dogs splashed in shallow water retrieving various missiles thrown by their owners. The large flock of pigeons skimmed over their heads rising with the contour of the land, the hum of wings causing heads to turn and a black labrador to turn and chase.

Robert downed his trowel as the apprentice produced a blackened kettle of tea at the end of the scaffold. Taking a sandwich from his bag he checked his watch, 10.15am the birds would be well on their way by now. The drizzle had stopped but the morning remained overcast and as he sipped the hot mug he felt a shiver of anticipation, had he given them enough work ,did the Mealy Hen lay too soon, was the Pied Cock up to the task of 520 miles. The two Blue Hens had both been timed from Penzance as yearlings and were in good shape. His mind wandered as he imagined himself clocking a good bird later that day, then he thought of the hundreds of other fanciers dreaming the same dream.

By 3pm the main body of birds now down to approximately 150 had just crossed their second stretch of water the Bristol Channel ,and were flying into a fresh Westerly breeze that still carried rain showers.

Little groups were now becoming detached from the main flock, some keeping the proper course whilst others drifted off line and out of the race. Half an hour later the oil terminals of Milford Haven loomed into view as the pigeons battled on over Pembroke in South Wales. Danger, the peregrine's rapid stoop clinically removed Robert's Pied Cock from the race, as the birds were skirting around a disused slate quarry. Frightened pigeons quickly altered course and altitude in a self preserving exercise as a second falcon was about to make a killing when a Red Hen crashed into the quarry face. With hearts and wings now beating faster the birds split into three groups. All were now off line of flight and it would be half an hour before the smallest of these consisting of eighteen still frightened pigeons were back on the rails and had the Irish Sea in sight.

Day trippers on the sands of Little Haven were beginning to pack up for the day as rain began to fall, bathers dressed in a hurry trying to remove sticky sand from their toes. Nobody paid any attention to the seven pigeons that came over the cliffs behind them and headed out to sea. The other eleven had baulked at crossing and turned to follow the coast in a northerly direction, a decision they would regret a few hours later as the light began to fade.

The craic as always was good outside the foreman's hut as pay packets were opened. Robert stood in line to receive scant financial reward for a good week's work. Some of the lads were already on their way down to Shannon's Lounge Bar but as a non drinker he wouldn't be joining them. Jean had the pan on the stove as he came up the back yard, a smell made in heaven for a hungry tradesman. They had three children, the two boys of 11 and 13 had already gulped down their tea and returned to the meadow across the road, where 10 or so would be Jimmy McIlroys were chasing a well worn caser. Jennie at 8 was the apple of her daddy's eye and as he came in he slipped her some pocket money, some of which would be in the till of the village shop within the hour. As he ate the kitchen clock showed 6.15 pm almost 12 hours on the wing, there were probably pigeons into Ireland by now he thought, and maybe clocked knowing that some flew 120 miles short of his loft.

Diners in the Harbour House B & B in Courtown were enjoying excellent fayre in the large bay window that overlooked the sea, didn't notice seven tired pigeons come off the water and head northwards parallel to the thick stone sea wall. Eyes stung and wattles were pink from the salty spray of a cold Irish Sea crossing as a Blue Cheq. Cock at the rear of the group eased off the pace and pitched on the weather beaten slates of an old fisherman's cottage. He climbed a few feet to the ridge, eyes blinking slowly, wings aching as they hung ,. His six fellow travelers were by now 2 miles inland hedge hopping into a cool NW wind, the earlier rain now gone but the light was poor as the sun never penetrated the grey cloud cover.

Friday nightlife in Dublin's city centre was in its infancy as waiters and barmen worked at a comfortable pace to keep the customers satisfied. Overhead a race between six very tired participants was passing by as they flew in a line with no definite leader. Their eyes searched below for the sight of some familiar ground as the two on the seaward side of the six found the pace just too steady for them as they passed over Dublin's North Side, and became detached from the group.

Robert stood in the garden looking southwards over the village, the holly tree at his back affording him shelter from the breeze, the latest of many glances at his watch told him 8 25 pm. It was very dull overhead and his hopes of a bird on the day were now fading, with the birds in the loft now fairly quiet as they claimed their perches for the night. Occasionally swallows would quicken his heartbeat as they looked like an approaching pigeon. Not being able to stand on the one spot for too long he sometimes walked around the garden, pulling out the odd weed in a very tidy flower border. Heidi the golden labrador lay below the steps to the loft and when Robert moved she followed.

''What's that'' blurted Gerry Connor grabbing the arms of his easychair and running out the door of the kitchen,'' think it's just another bunch of crows'' voiced his father ,remaining seated. '' By God Da if those are crows one of them is the first Mealy crow I've ever seen'' shouted Gary as he was by now half way down the garden. The four birds disappeared behind a large chestnut tree at the end of the garden. '' Those are definitely racers I tell you, and they're not hanging about'', I'll go and open the trap you never know the Cheq. Cock might make it tonight''. The pigeons all knew where they were now and the only thing that was going to stop them was the fading light. Two Blues a Cheq WF and a Mealy they all clung together dropping over hedges to skim the grass of the next field.

''Are you not coming in Bob'' called Jean at the garden gate. ''Not yet, it's only a quarter past nine, I'll be a wee while yet love'' he replied. ''you never know there might be one home yet'. She hugged her bare arms to her body as the chill of the night made her shiver. ''I'll put the kettle on in half an hour when I get Jennie to bed, there will be no pigeons home tonight, sure it's nearly dark''. She turned and went back into the house. ''Any luck aul han'' Robert turned to see Jack Watson peering over the hedge. ''Nothing yet '' came the reply, ''what about yourself''. ''Not a feather, looks like an early rise in the mornin''. ''Many have you away Jack''. ''Just the Black Hen, but she has always been the second day the last two times she's been to France''. ''Wee George Butler was on the phone twenty minutes ago and he says there are no birds reported anywhere yet'' added Jack. ''Well all the best Bob, hope you're second to the Black Hen'' he joked before throwing his leg over the bar and peddling off .

Dipped headlights were in use below as three exhausted pigeons passed over the border town of Newry. Half a mile back the telephone wire leading to an isolated farmhouse swung lazily back to a still position. In the yard below a Blue Cock lay dead oozing warm crimson blood as the farm cat dropped from the byre window cill to investigate. His owner would never know the valiant effort the bird had made, and would go down as not good enough when he failed to return. As the shimmering light on the water of Lough Neagh came into view the White Flight Cock parted company with his two female companions. Taking a westerly route he would make an Omagh fancier a very happy man the next morning.

Flight D14Y Belfast International to Palma Majorca throttled back for take off at Aldergrove Airport on the Eastern shore of the Lough. The permanently lit runway lights cast the shadows of the two birds as they passed straight across and as the G forces pressed 137 holiday makers into their seats they parted company after almost sixteen hours of companionship.

The knock on the back bedroom window made Robert turn to see Jennie wave good night, she blew him a goodnight kiss before her mother drew the curtains.Ten minutes later at 10.15 pm he decided to call it a day and went into the loft to close the trap and take the clock back into the house. It was practically dark and the thought of a hot cup of tea by the fireside was very tempting. Heidi followed as he walked slowly up the garden and closed the gate, crossing the lane that ran between the gardens and the back yards. As he closed the Yard gate a last look down the garden froze him in his tracks as the shadowy image of his Smokey Blue Hen swept onto the landing board of the trap. He looked again as the hairs on the back of his neck started to rise. A dry mouth and quickening pulse came on him as he hurried back down the garden clock in hand. The bird stood motionless on the landing board wings hanging and as he opened the trap she was directly in front of the door. ''Come on wee girl'' he said quietly as he felt his eyes fill with moisture. The hen took a few steps before dropping eighteen inches to the trap floor, the forward motion of the drop caused her to stumble on to her breast. Robert controlled his instinct to catch her allowing the bird to walk to an enamel drinker at the end of the trap, where she took a long long drink holding her head back eyes closing and opening slowly. As he gently lifted her she made no attempt to avoid his shaking hands, removing the rubber he set her in box 7 where to his credit the Red Cock was covering their eggs for a fourth night. As Robert punctured the Toulet dial the hen moved around the back of the bowl walking on to the cock's tail before he gave way. He went to the corn bin for a handful of mixed seed which he placed on the nestbox floor, and as the cock started to eat the hen came off the eggs eating no more than six grains before returning to the bowl.

Old Bob sometimes calls into the club on race marking nights to see how we do things these days, and always goes over to look at the fading photo of Little Jennie as he called the hen, remembering the night all those years ago when she finished 2nd in the King's Cup.

Milne Mairs

Thought this short fictional story might suit your Christmas or New Year edition of BHW