Have a gander at some geese

When I was a child I was frightened of swans. Perfectly sensible you might think, as they glower beneath their black brows, beaks so sharp and dangerous. But it wasn’t really that. I was much more worried about my father telling me, in all seriousness, that a swan’s wings were so strong “they could break a man’s leg!” Pretty worrying stuff when you’re four years old, clutching a mouldy loaf and six feet from a hungry swan.

It took around 40 years more for me to consider this rationally. After all, a swan’s wings aren’t metal. The bones in there are essentially air-filled, because anything else wouldn’t fly. And fly they do, whizzing about the place, with very few cases of maimed people in their wake.

It is possible that the Government hushes up the vast numbers of swan-related injuries flooding into emergency rooms up and down the country. But I give that the same credence as America blowing up the World Trade Centre to blacken Islam’s name. I think, on balance, swans are relatively harmless.

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It is because of this childhood fear though that I understand the sheer terror caused by my large flock of geese. Visitors love to admire the cows, talk to the pigs, look for hens’ eggs and coo over lambs, but when I suggest we might summon up my cloud of squawking white feathers and give them a bit of attention, no dice. Back to the house for tea. Yet geese are great.

At this time of year, my geese are in love. Dewy-eyed pairs sidle off together, to look for a quiet spot to chat and preen and talk about setting up house. Every now and then, the green-eyed monster pops up and males squawk and screech and peck feathers out of each other, but it never amounts to much. Geese haven’t got teeth, you see. Neither have swans. All they have to protect themselves is attitude – plus a bit of serrated gum.

The most you are ever likely to suffer is a peck.

Soon, well before most creatures think is sensible, goose pairs settle down to breeding. Mrs Goose lays an egg now and then, worrying and fussing, covering her clutch with feathers pecked from her own breast.

I help her along with huts filled with invitingly crunchy straw. Some will agree with me that this is good stuff, others fling it out in contempt and pluck more feathers. Meanwhile, her faithful consort hovers about, waiting for his real starring role. For he is Ivanhoe, defending his ladylove to the death. When she starts to sit it is a gander’s finest hour. He will face up to rats, crows, other ganders, foxes - and me.

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Let me give you a tip. Should a gander approach in rage, head out, wings flapping, feet going like paddles, reach down and take hold of him behind his head. Then you can turn him round and send him flapping the other way. He’ll be so wound up he really won’t notice. You can see his wife sighing and fluffing up her nest. “Honestly!” she mutters.

When the eggs hatch all is sweetness and light. Other geese come to admire and both parents fuss over their yellow balls of fluff, twittering and putting giant feet down with the utmost care. Sadly, they can’t count, and many’s the gosling lost to crows on the way to the pond.

This year I’m determined to brave parental panic and scoop everyone up for a week or two in the barn. It’s either that or mount a crow aimed Gatling gun outside the patio doors. Once the goslings are 10 days old, most danger is past. Mr Fox never gives up of course, and some people are religious about putting their geese away.

I rely on the sheer size of my flock, but every now and then I come unstuck when an old bird goes. I don’t much mind that. The fox gets them before I have to knock them on the head.

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Which brings me to the hard bit. Killing geese is never easy, either emotionally or practically. I go and pick up my chosen victim, who knows and trusts me. I am fully aware that this is betrayal. I take hold of the bird’s legs and catch the ends of the wings up too. Then I lower the head down, while my husband places a thin metal bar across the neck. I stand on the bar and pull. Within seconds, the bird is dead.

Then the dreadful bit. The plucking. If you want a goose for Christmas, may I suggest killing it at Michaelmas, when its feathers are changing? Then freeze it. If you don’t, expect hours of struggle.

I always swear that this time I will save the down and make wonderful pillows, but once I’ve plucked that bird I never want to look at a goose feather again. I do eat my geese though. Yum.

And you should eat them too. Geese are lovely birds, easy to keep and a joy to watch. They pose every which way, like supermodels. Those of us over three feet tall should never feel afraid. Instead we should rejoice in them, let them muddy our ponds, mow our lawns and shout at our neighbours.

Thinking of keeping hens? Be brave. Get geese instead.

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