“Lovely to see you, how are you John?”
“Superb thanks, I snagged some Grey Seal rough sex and a Pomarine Skua gorging on placentas on HD video on the way over this morning.”
Admittedly not the sort of conversation you have every day with your mother-in-law, but it’s all part of life’s rich tapestry.
The plan today was simple – sneak over to the east pre-rush hour for a visit to Donna Nook to catch-up with the long-staying Pom Skua, then head back north along the coast to pick up my in-laws and bring them across to Dempsey Towers for a doubtless virtuoso performance by Mrs D with the Southport Orchestra this weekend.
I successfully managed to skirt the M62 commuter chaos at Manchester and Leeds despite zero visibility spray, but the wheels fell off as I headed south through Lincolnshire to be confronted by a closed A16 and after prospecting for alternative routes through a number of rural communities (you’ve all seen Villages of the Damned like these on countless Hammer horrors from the 60s and 70s – quaint cottages, tempting pubs and always, always, ALWAYS something very nasty in the cellar), the tarmac took me back into the drizzly maw of Grimsby just in time for RUSH HOUR.
Before I knew it, I was crawling along with Harry the Haddock, Cap’n Birdseye and all the other denizens of the legendary fishing port.
And it was raining. And I’d managed to spill an entire beaker of hot coffee into my lap as I stop-started up the road at a snail’s pace. And it was raining.
I hoped the Pom was worth it.
Luckily it was – the moans, bleats and haunting wails of Donna Nook’s Grey Seals (489 bulls, 1629 cows and 1554 pups at least so far this season seal fans) drifted on the wind over the saturated Lincolnshire flatlands as I squelched onto the coast, stinking of stale coffee and traffic jams.
The adult winter Pom was busy preening the gore of countless seal placentas off its feathers.
Even allowing for the trashed, moulting state of its plumage and gammy leg, it still ruled Donna Nook, patrolling the marsh on the look-out for another easy meal, while the RAF’s helicopters dropped flares during manoeuvres, and Pied Wags, Skylarks, Turnstones, Rock Pipit and Twite buzzed past.
Brent Geese and Shelduck waddled about on the gloomy creeks.
The Pom was an absolute beast – it pitched down right in front of me to scoff an abandoned placenta just a few feet away.
I shot a spot of rubbish video in frank appraisal of its questionable table manners, which you can watch here and for those with weaker stomachs, footage of it preening in the grey morning half-light here.
And for something a bit more top shelf, I pointed the P900 at some overly amorous Grey Seals – anyone know how to overdub some Marvin Gaye onto that?
It was as if “From Here to Eternity” was filmed in Lincolnshire.
Parental guidance necessary without doubt, but I suppose today’s life lesson was that while it will always be rush hour somewhere, viscera munching Poms are few and far between, so justify some extra effort.