France – if it’s not one thing, it’s another

According to Nice Matin today a flock of sheep has been attacked by a pack of wolves on its way back down to winter pastures.

http://www.nicematin.com/grasse/une-meute-de-loups-attaque-un-troupeau-de-brebis-a-caussols-13-betes-tuees.1043130.html

The interesting part is the comments section.   On the one hand there are those who blame the écolos for insisting that wolves be protected and on the other those who blame the shepherd for leaving his flock overnight and having to be told about the attack by third parties.  Then there are those who think it was not a pack of wolves but wild dogs.  The shepherd can claim compensation only if the guilty parties were wolves, so will of course swear they were even if the attackers were a bunch of pink poodles.  Then there are comments about how the state of the corpses will prove whether it was wolves or not, along with the interesting detail that you can tell the difference between wolves and wild dogs by the way they drink. All you need to do is follow the pack to water.  I’m not sure they’ll hang around waiting for someone to follow them.

There are wolves in the area, mainly in the Mercantour, not on the Caussols plateau as far as I know. They wandered over from Italy, where apparently sheep are kept for their milk and are much better protected, rather than for their meat.  This looks set to be another of these disputes that runs and runs but it is noticeable that all attacks are on flocks without a shepherd.  Hire more shepherds – could help lower the unemployment total.

Yet another modern GF

Ode to a sparkler


O slender wand, what pleasure looms
As Dad ignites your bulbous head!

That burst of light and hiss that comes
With flying sparks so quickly dead.

We practice chants and magic spells –
Abracadabra. Let’s play swords!

‘Til ‘one of us’, my sister tells,
Is writing all the rudest words.

And then, you’re gone. It’s dark once more.
Just wiry junk left on the floor.

An effigy

Who’ll sit atop your bonfire this eve?
The current trend would you believe
Is someone famous, an effigy
A simple guy is, oh so passé

Celebrities and politicians
Royalty or sports officials
Dead or alive, it matters not
Light the fire, with them on top

But who to choose I hear you ask
Its really not an onerous task
A kiddie fiddler ought to do
Jimmy Saville or one of the other two

Henry’s best work

Henry Moore is famous for his sculptures of deformed ladies; so famous in fact that a London council can sell one for a mint of money during these cash-strapped times. http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/entertainment-arts-20197610

But I prefer his sheep, having frequently studied them myself from my windows in the Derbyshire Dales. No, not his sculpted versions but his drawings which grace the pages of a book. I recommend it.

France needs Astérix and Obélix

It is now the hunting season in France and it is to be hoped that the hunters will manage to reduce the estimated  two million wild boar population.

http://www.lefigaro.fr/environnement/2012/11/02/01029-20121102ARTFIG00419-la-gaule-2-millions-de-sangliers.php

Attempts to keep the animals away from crops and towns by agrainage – that is providing food for them in the forests – have resulted in a healthy, well fed population.  It is estimated that this population can increase by over 60% each year, since measures were introduced to protect females with young. How you can tell male from female quickly enough to shoot the right sort, I don’t know.  Damage to crops already costs about 50million euros annually, and these have to be paid by hunters, and it is reckoned that 40,000 traffic accidents involve wild boars.  75% of the population is concentrated in relatively few areas – I have never seen any on the Promenade des Anglais or the Croisette.  In fact I have never seen any except hanging outside butchers shops.

Since French hunters managed to eliminate the last European brown bears in the Pyrenees just a few years ago, I’m sure they can make an effort with the wild boars. It’s a pity that the wolf population near the Italian border can’t be introduced to some of them.  That would keep the wolves off local sheep and reduce the boar numbers naturally.

 –

The Dark Side, RIP

Not only is the Dark Side the main reason why I post my rants on The Chariot, but now the DT wants money from me to view their grammatically inaccurate and increasingly liberal unfocussed ramblings online.

So, after more than half a century, it’s bye bye DT.    When you pay Boadicea and Bearsy several shedloads of money to run your site as well as this site is then, maybe, just maybe, I’ll put up the occasional post or two.

OZ

Another modern GF – a November pome

My teacher says Guy was a terrorist – and
The Government practised rendition back then.
Is it true that this is a protestantfest?
No. (And please don’t breathe the smoke, dear.)

My mate and his dad made this really cool Guy,
To burn at the stake on November the fifth.
So can we have one of our own next year?
No. (And please don’t breathe the smoke, dear.)

The Perfect Ten

It was the little chap’s birthday a few days ago. This is only a selection of his passing abilities. Witness a cavalcade of precision passing with the perfect weight on the pass to the best placed team-mate. Correct decision making and supreme execution. This is what you call a football brain. I could have easily uploaded montages of dribbling expertise or unbelievable Maradona training skills (nonchalant keepie-uppie with a golf ball anybody?) but I thought I’d underplay the football hand. I await a series of responses by rugbyistas that show off the “skills” of their number tens. Catching a ball and kicking it over a bar is quite clever, I suppose.

November – Fantasticks

Fantasticks

by Nicholas Breton

(c1554-1626)

The Second in a series  from a long forgotten book.   November just to cheer you.

Breton’s words chronicle the change of seasons

November

It is now November, and according to the old Proverbe, Let the Thresher take his flayle, and the ship no more sayle: for the high winds and the rough seas will try the ribs of the Shippe, and the hearts of the Sailers.  Now come the Countrey people all wet to the Market, and the toyling Carriers are pittifully moyled.  The young Herne and the Shoulerd are now fat for the great Feast, & the Woodcocke begins to make toward the Cockeshoot.  The Warriners now begin to plie their harvest, and the Butcher, after a good bargaine drinks a health to the Grasier.  The Cooke and the Comfitmaker make ready for Christmas, & the Minstrels in the Countrey beat their boyes for false fingring.  Schollers before breakfast have a cold stomacke to their bookes, and a Master without Art is fit for an A.B.C.  A red herring and a cup of Sacke, make warre in a weake stomacke, and the poore mans fast is better than the Gluttons surfet.  Trenchers and dishes are now necessary servants, and a locke to the Cupboord keepes a bit for a neede.  Now beginnes the Goshauke to weede the wood of the Phesant, and the Mallard loves not to heare the belles of the Faulcon: the Winds now are cold, and the Ayre chill, and the poore die through want of Charitie.  Butter and Cheese beginne to rayse their prices, and Kitchen stuffe is a commoditie, that every man is not acquainted with.  In summe, with a conceit of the chilling cold of it, I thus conclude in it:  I hold it the discomfort of Nature, and Reason patience.

Farewell.