Et in tempore inepta sumus.
And we are in the silly season.
Probably appalling Latin.
I’ve just been trawling my favourite place: the new posts section at the very bottom of the Blogger’s control panel, the Dashboard, where the unsuspecting, be they minnows or whales, are about to be pounced upon, immobilised and ruthlessly commented upon.
I scan every entry: some are clearly obscene, some just lonely heart diaries, some needlework records and some ranting cybersoapboxes. I am practised, these days, at finding the titles which bear promise.
And the post entitled ‘BFBC2 Field Manual – Hedgehog Defense’ had it all.
Because I could not think of any better cause for a blog than defending hedgehogs. And to think someone actually went to the trouble of writing a field manual, in order to ensure that our little spiny comrades live to cross another road another day.
How does one go about defending a hedgehog? Lord knows. I looked up ‘hedgehog predators in Wikipedia (which, by the way, is vastly superior to Britannica) and while it waxed lyrical about reproduction, lifespan and even the Domesticated Hedgehog, there was but one scant sentence concerning anyone who dared mount an assault on a hedgehog.
“Hedgehog bones have been found in the pellets of the European Eagle Owls,” it ventured.
Brave European Eagle Owls, say I. First, to joust with the little prey’s razor-sharp spears: but also, unbelievably, to risk one of the aforementioned spears journeying through their digestion and even- horrors – emerging the other end.
Ouch.
Clearly, hedgehogs need defending almost as much as your average Samurai Warrior. And a cursory glance at this site showed that defence of the small hobbling garden variety hedgehog was the furthest thing from the minds of the bloggers in question.
The hedgehog is a formation. I know it best as the shape taken by soldiers with pikes used to take, to make themselves invincible, but according to lambdaphalanx.com the practice of clustering together in the round for all-round defence is alive and well and saved many a skin in the Second world war.
Twittering classes have been aflutter all day, what with the London riots, and one began to be accustomed to hearing only grim reports of looting, disorder and its aftermath. It was a moment of supreme release, then, when English Heritage tweeted chirpily:”Congrats to English Heritage for reopening Hetty Peglers Tump Long Barrow near Uley”.
Pardon?
Well, jolly well done, whoever’s long barrow it is and whatever adjective you choose to define it. The reopening of a barrow may sound sinister but in the light of today’s events the reopening of anything is occasion for a social media slap on the back.
Back in the 17th century, Hester Pegler owned the tract of land on which a 5,000 year old burial mound is sited. A tump is a small burial hill or mound.
It has not fared well over the years: ever since the Romans people have been raiding what is, by all accounts, rather a spectacular formation, a central passage with two pairs of rooms opening off it.
It has been beset by bungling attempts at archaeology: up to 20 skeletons have gone missing, it seems, and apart from a couple of skulls which turned up at Guy’s Hospital in London no-one can quite put their finger on what happen to the rest.
You couldn’t make it up. Apparently, Hetty Pegler’s Tump Long Barrow is now open once more.
Sillysillysilly: and in conclusion, pertaining to none of the above, I learnt today from the Telegraph that a British swan sanctuary is availing itself of the most exquisite and effective torture for intruders.
Abbostbury Swannery, husbanding swans for the past six centuries, has been having considerable problems with foxes. They have a lagoon to keep them away from the swans, and put up fences in the water.
Why? Because the foxes would swim into the lake, weave their way around the defences, and have their wicked russet-whiskered way with the royal birds.
That was, until a local farmer passed on a wise old tip.
Play them Radio Four, said the farmer, referring to our talk-magazine station here in the UK. Radio Four is so boring the foxes will not go near it.
Accordingly, the Swanherds (yes, really) did. And it worked. The swans quite like the pedestrian pace of the Today Programme and the slightly awkward style of the all-night world service. But foxes are a different matter.
They hear the voices and they turn tail. The Farmer, notes the Telegraph, found out by accident when he left Radio Four on all night in the chicken shed and, during that night, lost not one feather on a single chicken’s head.
And we are in the silly season.
Et in tempore inepta sumus.
Kate Shrewsday 
that R4 story is the sort of silly season story that’s really worth knowing. I shall have to tell my chicken owning friends. 🙂
It does lead one to ask, as one Radio 4 junkie to another: what do we have in common with chickens?
You’re a modern day Beatrix Potter, Kate Shrewsday. I loved this post.
There’s a complement! Glad you enjoyed it Cindy. I spent about five minutes hankering after the Cornishware at yours this morning….
I love trivia like this. Great post.
Thanks Tilly….
A dose of the Ministry of Silly walks and any other silliness in this vein is perfect to lighten the mood, Kate.
What an inspired way to keep foxes at bay – perhaps something similar should be tried on the rioters – a looping broadcast of ‘Achy, Breaky Heart’ would surely see them running like lemmings for the Cliffs of Dover (on seconds thought, it might clear the cities altogether)
You’re absolutely right, BB. And who needs water cannons when you’ve got Cliff Richard?
I wasn’t sure if the British ministry was taking up ballet or whether they had joined the German army…
😀 A bit of both, Denise…
I have always wanted to be a paleontologist and find human and dinosaur bones. But as you revealed about the eagle poop, dinosaur poop is like finding gold so they can study diets and determine what other type of plants and animals were contemporaries because they were meals. However, I would rather be in the digging and skeleton assembly division rather that the poop division.
I’m right with you there, Carl. Although I would imagine after a few million years, it might have lost some of its pungent charm.
Aha! I shall find such a station here and see if it deters the marauding deer. A new word for me. Tump. As you know, I like new words and shall play about with my real dictionaries, the ones I just can’t seem to part with, to see what they have to say. Thanks, Kate.
Ooooh, I wonder if Tump is in your dictionaries? My old battered oxford has it, but yours are American…I’m on tenterhooks…
Alas, woe is me, my old dictionaries, American to the core, do not have Tump. Though old to me, the are probably not old enough to harken back to early days here, but, no worries, I have a new word to take with me. Tump.
Best write it in, Penny 😉
Et in tempore inepta sumus.
With all manner of silliness meandering about, shooting quills and kicking in store windows. If only we could harness that energy and enthusiasm for good, rather than having it frittered and twittered away on mayhem and destruction.
Long live the hedgehog. And the swans who outfox the foxes.
Walk this way . . .
I’m practising my silly walk as we speak, Nancy 😀 It just goes to prove the funny stuff’s still out there….
OMG . . . I have just read a synopsis of a book that is right up your alley:
http://www.amazon.com/At-Home-Short-History-Private/dp/0767919386/ref=pd_sim_b_12
While walking through his own home, a former Church of England rectory built in the 19th century, Bryson reconstructs the fascinating history of the household, room by room. With waggish humor and a knack for unearthing the extraordinary stories behind the seemingly commonplace, he examines how everyday items–things like ice, cookbooks, glass windows, and salt and pepper–transformed the way people lived, and how houses evolved around these new commodities.
“Houses are really quite odd things,” Bryson writes, and, luckily for us, he is a writer who thrives on oddities. He gracefully draws connections between an eclectic array of events that have affected home life, covering everything from the relationship between cholera outbreaks and modern landscaping, to toxic makeup, highly flammable hoopskirts, and other unexpected hazards of fashion. Fans of Bryson’s travel writing will find plenty to love here; his keen eye for detail and delightfully wry wit emerge in the most unlikely places, making At Home an engrossing journey through history, without ever leaving the house.
Nancy, it really does sound like home from home. Thank you! I’m off to investigate…
Hilarious about the swans and foxes! And I knew we couldn’t go wrong with the Ministry of Silly Walks photo at the top.
Cleese was a genius, wasn’t he, Patti….
Thank heaven for the silly season. it adds perspective to the horrors of life, it adds a smile to the faces and minds of those battling too much reality and pressure
Long live the silly season!
Amen to that, Sidey!
LOL! Brilliant post, Kate 😀 Farmers here have major issues with jackals – wonder if the same thing would apply? BTW, thanks for the brush-up on my long-forgotten high-school Latin!
It’s very creaky indeed, Naomi 😀 I think a talk radio jackal experiment is in order.
Ministry of Silly Walks. One of my all-time favorite skits, so I had to stop and read. Love the Latin. I slogged through 4 years of it in high school. Hated every minute of it, but it certainly has served me well.
Pied Type, thanks for coming over. Your blog is riveting: and it’s been quite prophetic too. The whole media world is quoting Corporations Are People now…
Monty Python: quite simply, no-one will ever match them. I confess to knowing great screeds of their scripts by heart…