John Darkin: Under siege in the great outdoors

COMMENT

We hadn't lived in the countryside long before we witnessed our first discordant note.

The attacks began about an hour after daybreak. We heard them first - terrifying screeches coming from the sky above the garden. A dozen white-backed magpies were mobbing a lone harrier hawk, a creature twice their size who was quartering the ground in search of food. But it had strayed into enemy territory and had now to take urgent evasive action.

The lone bird climbed and dived, wheeling to avoid the screaming magpies that were fiercely determined to ward off the unwanted visitor. The gang got close to the harrier, shouting abuse in its ear. But the target refused to panic; it knew that with concentration and a little acceleration, it would escape.

So it is with the magpies that nest in the tops of nearby macrocarpa trees. With musical calls, their lookouts warn of intruders. Soon a flight of paradise ducks appears. Flying dead-straight in V formation and at speed, the ducks are heading for a lake over the hill. This time, though, they are flying too high to be engaged in combat by the magpies.

Later on, there is more drama, this time on the ground. A battalion of 20 wild turkeys have marched to the outer fence of the chicken enclosure, scaled it and are surrounding the hen house where the remains of a hot mash breakfast lie invitingly close through the wire.

We recognise the senior turkey. We have named him Milosevic on account of his pushy, bullying nature. He weighs about 10kg and stands tall and arrogant, strutting up and down like a military commander. His wattles vibrate with the effort of gobbling instructions to the ranks. He has a plan to break into the chickens' home that may involve some ethnic cleansing.

We must act at once if the chickens are to be safely let out for their daily exercise and their eggs collected. Bravely, we wave our arms at the giant intruders and shout words they probably don't understand.

The turkeys turn to us and glare, emitting threatening gobbles before the defiant Milosevic, with a final squawk, retreats with his raiding party to the fence. He jumps over first, followed by some anxious shouts of "don't leave me behind" from the smaller birds. They regroup on a high point in the next paddock. The leader seems to be telling his warriors exactly how they will play it the next time.

Later, having packed away the garden tools and made a cuppa, we take a short nap on the veranda. We are soon rudely awoken by the raucous scream of a ferocious kingfisher. It is attacking Albert, our black cat. Surely it doesn't eat cats?

Like a cool saxophone player, Albert was sauntering across the open lawn, not quite describing a straight line when, from a nearby rhododendron tree, the kingfisher swooped at lightning speed and stabbed him on the ear with its deadly mandibles.

Albert, not wishing to be eaten and staying cool, deflected his head sufficiently to absorb the blow, miaowed some catty expletive, and kept walking.

Shaking, and being soft on cats, we pampered Albert with an extra snack before slumping exhausted, back on to the veranda chairs to reflect on the joys and wonders of country living.

At that moment, a tiny, inquisitive piwakawaka introduces itself. It has seen everything and, having a lively interest in the affairs of humans, perches itself less than a metre from our chairs. With a flick of its cocked, fanned tail, it speaks.

"All this nature is getting you down, isn't it?" it says.

"You're town people really, I can tell. You flinch at every unfamiliar country noise. Our animal behaviour reminds you of the worst of city life, doesn't it? Dog eat dog, and so on.

"You can't hack the lifestyle up these country roads. I've seen it all before. Have you thought of moving?"

"No, no, we love it here," we cry, feeling self-conscious talking to a bird. "The noises of nature are wonderful, so different."

"You must be mad," the piwakawaka says scornfully. "You should be mixing with your own kind, not with us wildlife. Why don't you move to Auckland?"

"We've tried that before," we sigh. "There is too much wild life in Auckland already. We couldn't cope with that again and, besides, we love the countryside, and the nature.

"This is our sanctuary, our paradise, and the views are stunning. It's only 35km to town - 35 minutes' easy driving, no sweat, and we're fresh arriving at work and relaxed by the time we get home.

"We're even willing to donate 5c a litre petrol tax to Auckland's roading charity, just providing we're not made to live there.

"Anyway, Auckland already has too many people cluttering up the place, making extra pollution, and carving up tiny back sections to make a buck. Not to mention troubling the poor mayor. He always seems beside himself with worry. Best we stay here."

"Please yourself," replies our new friend with a shrug, "I thought you might feel sort of misplaced. I was only trying to help."

According to a new study by Montreal University, the main reason that birds flock together is to avoid being eaten. What excuses do Aucklanders have?

* John Darkin is a Gisborne writer.