Quote:
Originally Posted by Steve
Anyone ever keep Pigeons,friend of mine spent his whole life in his pigeon loft, another thing long gone.
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I fancied pigeons. I did some reading about them once - about Belgian 'eye-sign' and other marks of the finest racer. In the end - failed to build a loft. But I did write this bit a memory of a neighbour in Hartlepool:
Mr Jones' passion is his shed full of racing pigeons. The house roof is spattered and streaked with droppings, and the women on either side rush out to take in the washing when they hear him rattling the tin of pigeon corn and calling, 'Howway, howway' as the birds collect along the roof ridge after a race. He then hurries to get them into the loft and recorded on the pigeon clock as soon as he can, but sometimes they just sit in a row and stare down at him. If they dawdle like that his shouts can shift from a coaxing soft call to angry yells of, 'Howway, ya buggers!'
The pigeon loft is painted in green and white stripes to help the birds find it. We go in. Wings flap, dust and feathers float about. They're locked in this morning because he must prepare his best bird to send on the railway for a big race.
'Sit down there and I'll show you a secret, but make sure you never let on to anyone about it.' His gnarled hands reach into a pen where there's a red-chequered cock with its hen bird who's sitting on a pair of white eggs. He gently lifts the cock bird out of the cage and holds it in front of me. 'Now, young'un, look at this feller. Feel those flight muscles in his chest. See that bonny 'eye sign' – he's got Belgian blood. I sent away for him. He cost a good few bob and there's nowt to match him in this town.'
He gives the bird to me. I take hold with two hands, gently, but firmly so that he feels safe. Specks of dust dance in the shafts of light that come through the ventilation slats. In the sunbeams, his feathers flash with patches of gold and red and bronze in between white chequer marks that gleam like mother-of-pearl. I tremble with admiration and his head turns and he fixes me with a steady ruby gaze. Pupils intense black and the iris flecked with gold, the 'eye sign' of the top Belgian racers. I have a lump in my throat, from a mysterious new emotion. Mr Jones looks down at me, a twinkle in his faded blue eyes.
'Now you howld him properly for a minute. He can beat them all in today's race, but just to make sure … Watch this.'
He reaches into the next pen and takes out a blue cock and puts him in with the red cock's wife. The blue cock straightaway starts strutting up and down, cooing, chest all pouting and swelled up.
'Now, lad, howld the red'un up so he can see what's happening; keep tight howld on him mind.'
His hen's in the top cage so I have to stretch up on tiptoe, but today I feel taller and older. I know I won't drop this bird, even though he starts to struggle at the sight of his mate being displayed to by that blue cock. But he struggles harder. His smooth, strong wings are almost free. Then a panicked thought: What if his wings get loose and one gets broken, what if he can never fly again? I call out in what I think is a manly voice. 'Mr Jones, I can feel his heart pounding and he's fighting to escape!'
'That's just how I want him! Right, let's get him into the basket and off to the railway station with the others. He'll not mess about on the way home. After what he's seen, yon will go like Billio.'
(Billio might refer to Stephenson's steam-engine, 'Puffing Billy', or to Garibaldi's Genoese General Biglio, who would encourage his troops with, 'Follow me! Fight like Biglio!' No doubt the chequered cock flew fast and brave.)