Doc does the rounds in Fenland's fields of gold

Fields of red and gold: a still summer's evening in the Fens

IT'S not every day that you see a doctor driving at pace across fields during harvest time, but hey, this is the Fens.
Was it an emergency and he was taking a dramatic short-cut? All will be revealed later in the post!
Just as we get a hint of summer, it is noticeable how the days are becoming slightly shorter. But what a Fen-tastic time of year. Farmers have been putting on a sprint to gather the crops between showers as the vast fields dotted with poppies catch the eye in all their summer finery [click on the pictures and see for yourself].
We have been subject to a mixed bag, weather-wise. Today has been cool, with just the odd shower and some sunshine; yesterday, a couple of hours of sun, then thunder and heavy rain; and yet several days ago we enjoyed blue cloudless skies criss-crossed with vapour trails [contrails] and temperatures in the late 80s.
That meant opening windows in the house and hoping for a hint of breeze to keep us cool. No air conditioning for us, I'm afraid. Why fork out for an expensive piece of kit when we only suffer from the heat and humidity for a few weeks a year? That said, it's still good to get in the car and go for a blat down the lanes with the air con on full blast.

Harvest time: it has been a busy period for the farmers 

It's also wise to leave the daily dog walk until late evening when the temperature starts to drop. The pooches are more comfortable and so are you. It was on one such walk with Hector and Sweep that I saw the combine harvester, trailers and balers busy in the fields so I nipped out again later with my wife's decent camera and took a few shots. Hope you enjoy them.
While out with the camera I saw a familiar-looking car/van being driven down a track through the fields at speed ... until the driver realised he was heading straight for the combine. He slammed the vehicle into reverse, allowing the monster to go past, before continuing and then pulling up alongside me. It was the village doctor, and he casually enquired about my wife [see Friday the 13th post] in a manner which suggested we had just bumped into each other on the street, rather than amid an expanse of fields.
After giving him an update on my wife's condition, I then asked the obvious: why was he tearing about the fields in his beat-up Berlingo - the powerful BMW, along with a variety of other vehicles stayed at home on his own farm? He has an arrangement with a well-known but controversial land-owner and farmer [referred to in this blog previously as Despisely] who provides him with more than 100 bales of hay each year. The doc was simply making sure he had the right number - and that his were of the round variety [see bottom picture].
I suppose you could say our doctor was just doing his evening rounds! [Oh come on, it wasn't that bad].

PS: Please feel free to click on any adverts that may catch your eye. The Alzheimer's Society http://alzheimers.org.uk/will receive a contribution from money raised by this blog [see previous posts]. 
PPS: Follow me on Twitter - Fenman@harrysrus

I can see for miles and miles and ... the baler sets to work

Road to nowhere: one of my routes for walking the dogs

Stop the Pigeon! Dastardly Dane plays hide and seek

Muttley: still sniggering
 Wikipedia

Come out, come out wherever you are: the gun pokes out of the
hide placed close to the "whirly" decoys

Bang! Jeez, that was a gunshot, and nearby. Bang! Another. Someone's shooting, but what's the target?
No, I'm not at a film premiere, I'm in the countryside on a grey summer's day.
I can't see anyone, so I continue to walk my dogs along a public right of way - it's a straight concrete road built by wealthy farmers and it stretches at least half a mile - through fields near our house, looking for the owner of what sounds like a double-barrel shotgun.

Game, but quiet old birds: the woodpigeon decoys

Again, more shots ring out in quick succession, and this time I see a woodpigeon tumbling from the sky. Then I spot it. Fifty yards ahead, there's a hide. It is well camouflaged and is sited snugly among reeds alongside one of the many drainage ditches which crisscross the Fens.
As I get nearer, I can see a gun poking out of the Army scrim netting and pointing skywards. There are reeds and long blades of grass covering the netting, too. And a few yards away, in a field of barley beaten down by strong wind and heavy rain, a "whirly" or pigeon magnet, with two realistic decoys, flies round slowly, while on the ground, eight decoy woodpigeons, including a "flapper" stand on the ground. They all look pretty real from my position, especially the one which flaps its wings every few seconds, mimicking the actions of a real bird.
Suddenly, a figure appears from the hide. He reveals himself to be a big guy, and I get slightly twitchy as he turns to gaze at me. He's got a gun...and he knows how to use it.
But the momentary fear passes with a smile and a friendly "hello".
I respond with a "Hi, how are you?" and I strike up a conversation with the Fens' answer to Dick Dastardy who definitely wants to Stop the Pigeon! The man's accent is foreign, but his command of English is nevertheless excellent. I ask if the farmer wants him to get rid of what are undeniably pests.

"Steve and Bob allow me to use their equipment and they have permission to shoot here," he proffered.
"I am from Denmark. We can't shoot birds until November, so I take a few days' vacation and come here."
"Really? How many times have you been here?"
"This is the third time I have been shooting here. I like it. This time, I am only here for four days."
"And how many birds have you bagged so far today?"
"It's not been a good day. Only five so far."

Just then, a distinctive and very loud, static, non-lethal gas gun went off in a nearby field and at least 50 pigeons took flight and headed our way ... before circling and landing back in the same place. I like the idea of frightening the birds away rather than killing them, but do they really work? Not on this occasion.

"I was over there this morning, but I didn't see one pigeon," said my new Danish friend. He looked sorrowful."Well, I must be off now. It looks like rain. We've had a terrible summer so far.""Yes, it has been the same in Denmark. I hope it holds off. Goodbye. Have a nice day."

With that farewell, Dastardly quickly disappeared in to the hide and the dark barrels of his gun slowly emerged, again pointing threateningly skyward. Thankfully.
I continue my walk with the dogs - should have called one of them Muttley, shouldn't I? - under heavy clouds and in a stiff breeze, before I again hear shots. I quickly look round to see that he has missed a couple of birds. They suddenly change direction and swiftly retreat from our Scandinavian visitor. Good for them, I think.
The wild Fens were subject to armed Viking raiders many centuries ago. It appears the Danes are still staging raids these days. Bound to ruffle a few feathers, wouldn't you say?
Oh, stop sniggering, Muttley.

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Hip hip hooray! She's back and ready for hip hop

That's such a relief: Tramadol tablets (Ultram)
       Wikipedia

My wife is back home after the emergency hip operation following the excellent treatment she received at Hinchingbrooke Hospital. She is loaded up with pain-killers such as Tramadol and good old Paracetamol, has to inject herself each day with Clexane to prevent clotting, and takes Adcal (calcium and vitamin D) tablets, plus a weekly dose of Alendronic Acid to counter the effects of osteoporosis. Then there's her daily dose of Levothyroxine [thyroid trouble may have resulted in weakening of her bones] and you can see why she almost rattles as she hauls herself slowly - and painfully - to the toilet on her newly-acquired crutches. I suppose it's a new take on hip hop.
The village GP was immediately on the case when he learned of the accident and has set up support visits, and he even dropped in at ours to make sure everything was OK. A no-nonsense district nurse has already been in ["coffee, strong, three sugars please"] to change the dressing on the wound and, as is the case with the modern NHS, she had to fill in mountains of paperwork.

My wife is still sleeping [??] downstairs on a large sofa because the stairs are a little too much to tackle at the moment and she becomes frustrated at her helplessness.

But she is delighted that her operation scar will be very small and neat. The skin is held together by 12 clips after three cannulated screws were inserted into her broken hip by adept surgeon Mr Thornton-Bott. He certainly eased many of my wife's fears before and after the operation, and she has nothing but good things to say about the consultant and the caring hospital staff.
She's gets a little bored, because reading, sitting with the laptop [iPad broken] or watching a TV programme requires a degree of concentration which is difficult to muster when you're in a degree of pain, but things are beginning to improve. Crosswords are now being tackled, meals are being eaten and instructions about general housekeeping are being issued - in a nice way, of course.
She also looks forward to the late morning calls from her sister who lives in Sydney [they should be in the Guinness Book of Records for longest, long-distance calls] and the phone chats with her good friend from Carlow in Ireland. They met while training to be nurses three decades ago and remain the best of pals. Then there's the odd call from other friends and relatives to keep her occupied, while our immediate neighbour has also been very kind.
Mum-in-law was completely confused and befuddled by the whole episode, and somewhat distressed about Jane's situation, and she happily returned to the care home for a few weeks while Jane gets back on her feet [no pun intended, but we need a bit of a break].

"I'm not here forever, am I?" she asked when I dropped her off. 

"It's just a short holiday, isn't it?"

I gave her plenty of reassurances, as did the staff, and she seemed more than happy with the answers, before dishing out kisses to me, a lovely carer and a delighted old chap on crutches.
We have no qualms about leaving mum-n-law there for a short period. Staff at The Firs in Little Downham near Ely are pleasant and seem well trained, and they are certainly very capable and understanding when it comes to dealing with people who suffer from Alzheimer's disease.
All the animals are fine, too, although Sweep is a little puzzled because he can't get too close to my wife for fear of catching her hip or leg, but Hector is so laidback about the the goings on in his house - yes, Hector's House. He's a silly old Hector.
The goats remain playful, the hens are as inquisitive as ever, and the bantams are getting noticeably bigger as they settle in to their new environment.
Must dash. Chores to be done. Off to prepare lunch.
Life's certainly not boring in this part of the Fens...

Why Friday the 13th turned into one long nightmare

Pain: X-ray image of a hip, with top of femur broken
 Wikipedia

One for sorrow: barbed wire that did for the magpie
 Wikipedia

Friday the 13th. Who is really bothered? Just a superstition, eh? A date for avoiding black cats, something for the horror movie-makers to get their teeth into, nothing more.
Well, as I write this post on Saturday, July 14 at 2.30 in the morning, I am tempted to disagree. That's because my wife is now in post-op care following an emergency operation to repair a broken hip. I am waiting to find out how she is, if the operation went OK. It's an anxious time.
Yesterday started out well, as we joked about 13 being an unlucky number and Friday supposedly being an unlucky day. Staying in bed instead of risking all that the 13th could throw at us wasn't really an option, though. We have work to do, animals to care for and a mother-in-law who needs attention so the day unfolded without too much thought about the date. That is until I took the dogs for a walk.
Then I came across a Magpie in distress. It had landed on a barbed wire fence and the wire had gone right through one of its feet. When I approached to try to help, it tried to fly off, but was unable to because it was basically trapped by the wire. I don't know how long it had been there but it looked tired yet, unusually for a Magpie, it was silent. I backed away and it stopped flapping its wings madly, so I took the dogs straight back home and immediately called the RSPCA who promised to send out one of their officers.
They were true to their word. Two hours later, I received a call from the well-meaning officer who said the bird had died. The bird's body was on the ground, it's foot still on the barbed wire.

"I'm very sorry, sir. There was nothing I could do," he assured me. "It was dead when I arrived. These things happen, I'm afraid. But thank you so much for telling us. You did the right thing."

I'll admit that I felt physically sick, but I can't commend the RSPCA highly enough for their response and their care. What a brilliant charity. donations.rspca.org.uk/247
So the day wasn't going too well after all, and I'll admit that the dreaded date did cross my mind. As I was mulling over these dark thoughts, I heard a crash and a cry from outside the back door. As I rushed out I could see my wife trying to climb to her feet, in terrible pain. She had stepped on to wet decking and slipped without being able to break her fall and landed on her hip. She is only a slip of a lass, weighing way under nine stone, but the impact was such that she fractured her bone. She was in so much pain.
I managed to get her on to a chair, not knowing at that stage that she had a fracture. But it soon became apparent that she needed medical help so we called the hospital and they suggested we take her to accident and emergency [A&E]. My wife wanted to change, but that proved extremely difficult and we couldn't leave mum-in-law at home on her own, either. Indeed, she took some cajoling to get ready to go out with us. I gave the animals their tea early and locked them all away for an early night before addressing the problem of trying to get my wife into my car.
The pain was such than it was nigh on impossible, so we called the hospital who suggested we ring emergency services. I duly dialled 999 and was given assurances that help was on its way. More than  an hour passed, without any help arriving and I called 999 again, only to be told the case was not considered life-threatening. However, he changed his attitude when I informed him about the excruciating hip and leg pain and I was then told it would now be treated as an emergency and an ambulance would be on its way. I asked how long that would be, he couldn't say. In  desperation I told him we would make our own way so he "stood down" the said ambulance.
By this time, my brave lady had somehow managed to get both legs onto the rear seat and seemed more concerned about the neighbours hearing her distress than her own plight.
I drove very slowly for 20 miles across the bumpy Fen roads as my wife tried gamely to stop crying out in pain [see Road Rage post] while my mum-in-law kept scratching her head and asking repeatedly where we were going and why was her daughter in so much pain, despite being given an answer on each occasion.
Fortunately, the staff were absolutely brilliant as soon as we arrived at Hinchingbrooke Hospital, and after a difficult exit from the car, my wife was whisked away to A&E. Several hours later, after numerous tests and then X-rays, she was told by impressive surgeon Paul Thornton-Bott - it helps to have a classy name if you're good - she had broken her hip and needed an emergency operation within 12 hours. Speed was of the essence to give the healing process a fighting chance. She needed her fracture pinning rather than have a hip replacement because she is too young to go down the latter route.
I waited with my wife until she was about to go in to the operating theatre and I have since brought a distressed mum-in-law back home. We made a little detour to an all-night supermarket on the outskirts of Huntingdon to get a few essentials in case my wife is hospitalised for a few days, but mum-in-law has now been fed, has had a couple of drinks of tea and has toddled off to bed. She will quickly forget what happened and will soon drift off to sleep in the land of nowhere particular, a place frequently visited by suffers of Alzheimer's. http://alzheimers.org.uk
The dogs, who were fed before we left, went beserk when we returned but they, too, have settled down to sleep so I am going to make that call to find out how my other half is faring. Fingers crossed. Touch wood [not in the American way, you understand].
Superstitious? Me?

UPDATE: My wife was admitted to her hospital ward at 3am and the operation went well. She requested a spinal injection rather than general anaesthetic and was sipping tea not so long ago. More news soon. I'll keep you posted ... whoever you are.

Crispy ducks? No, bantams in a box

Deal or no deal: just open
the box, will you?

The young ones: plucky Mabel is cornered

The new arrivals: Mabel (centre) and the girls settle in to
their new home earlier in the week
Photo: Paul Fry

The wife's babies have arrived ... in an empty Walkers box. Crispy ducks? Nope, the Indian Runner ducks will be here in a few weeks' time. Chicken flavour? Well, this week four lovely little Pekin batams with feathered trousers made their entrance in Fenland.
The first night was a bit of a disaster because the light-coloured silver partridge, aka Mabel, decided she was able - the boy's a poet if he did know it - to wriggle her way through the netting enclosing the new chicken run.
I saw the wire as a way of keeping curious foxes out rather than keeping the youngsters in, but Mabel decided otherwise. With the help of a friend - cheers Paul - we were able to resolve the problem by putting up netting with smaller gaps, which makes the Great Escape [cue theme music] much more difficult. However, sparky Mabel is a rebel and I fully expect her to organise an escape committee in the near future.
The bantams have now been at their new home for just over three days and are beginning to settle in to their new environment.