A Bucket of Croak

29 November - a cold, breezy morning with just a threat of water descending later, so it's off down to t'allotment to grub up some more bramble roots.  This time I decided to have a go at the whacking great things down by the apple tree, loading up the wheelbarrow with spade, fork, trowel, mattock, bucket and camera I plodded the 20 yards down to the end.  First job was to shift the layer of polythene that had been left over as a weed-killer.  Yanking it out was easy and I flipped it over to plonk down further up.  I don't know what the snails thought of being so summarily moved and expsosed to the light.  Since none of them disappeared in a smoking puff of flame, I can, hopefully, say that they are not vampire snails, hibernating away the day to emerge hungry and fanged for a night of blood-sucking joy.

Or maybe they are.

Feral Snails

Then it's out with the mattock and attack the blackberry root.  A hefty swung or two and I found a piece of black plastic, embedded in the ground.  Pulling away the overgrown grass revealed a new treasure, a mini-pond.  It's one of those things that you fill with pebbles, put in a little fountain and have as a water feature.  Here it had a few lumps of mossy concrete around the edge, an upturned flowerpot and a pile of sludge in the bottom.  About the same size and shape as a large dustbin lid, it was easy to lift out and I started to clean out the stones, bricks and ooze.  My shriek was a minor affair as I had rubber gloves on.  One of the lumps of goo wriggled.

It turned out that there were half a dozen frogs lurking in the murk.  Some were tiny, one was a huge belly flopper scarecely able to move.  Collecting them in a bucket was fairly easy, keeping them in it not without its difficulties.  The smaller, fitter ones climbed up the side and perched on the rim, looking like a BASE-jumper, ready for the off, but without a parachute.  They would take a froggy gulp of air, inflate themselves like a tennis ball and bounce off into the wide world.  Fatso Fandango gave them a jaundiced eye and remained where he was.



Not being so heartless as to leave my tenants without a home, I decided to re-instate the minipond and laying to with the mattock turned up quite a few tasty titbits for my next visitor.  He buzzed in, sounding just like a hummingbird for a moment and perched on a clod of earth before picking a nice, tasty grub.  Cheeky Charlie flashed his red waistcoat at me and gave me a look as if so say, 'Well?  Stop slacking and get on with digging up my breakfast!'  He was as pleased as punch to pose for me.
He was not bothered by the flying mattock head, he had absolute confidence that I would miss him as he darted around, picking up his elevenses and buzzing off to enjoy them in peace.

Resting for a moment (again) I saw another wriggle in the clods of soil around the pond's depression.  Only about 5cm long, it moved with the slow deliberation of a chilled cold-blood. 









At first I thought it was a newt and grabbed it with the intention of dropping it in the frog bucket but its head was more pointy.  I have never seen a lizard in a garden before, occasionally at Wicken Fen and once on the white cliffs of Dover.  He was not a happy bunny to be disturbed.

Finally, the minipond was back in position, stones and an escape ramp in place and topped up with water.  The frogs were going to have a redecorated abode, complete with daffs, come the spring.  They seemed happy to be gently tipped back in and sank quickly below the surface.



 Then their noses popped up and they took in their surroundings.

One by one, they crawled out and made off for the highlife in the undergrowth.

Fatso Fandango was the last.












He made a ponderous escape, obviously wondering why he bothered in the first place and with plenty of stops to regain his breath.