I’ve always loved ducks. Clutching bags of left over bread and walking to find a flock of ducks with Mum and Dad is one of my earliest childhood memories. In my twenties I lived close to Sutton Park. When I was stressed or worried, I’d stand alone feeding the ducks there. I suppose as an adult it was some kind of quiet meditation (or maybe I just needed an outlet for my feeder tendencies).
This weekend, for the first time in ages we had no plans. No birthday parties, no shopping to do, no pressing play dates at the park. So we went to find some quacks just a short walk from home.
Since having chickens at home, I’ve learned that bread is actually not very good for birds (there go all those happy childhood bread throwing memories). Anyway, we took a slightly bizarre selection of grapes cut in half and seeds, which according to the RSPB is what all the cool chicks are eating these days.
George and Harriet went to find the perfect spot.
H had a word with the swan and let her know that lunch would be along shortly.
And Daddy doled out the food.
We watched them come and go, we talked about how you can tell who’s a girl duck and who’s a drake (get me, with my technical duck lingo) by the colour of their feathers.
Wandering back home, we nearly got stuck in the mud, which George loved. The one who does the washing didn’t love it quite as much..
We practised quacking for most of the journey home before I ducked out of that game. (Sorry.)
How’s your weekend? Any ducks in your life?!