There’s been a lot of shagging going on this season. And much of it has been happening in my garden. The guinea fowl, it must be said are going at it with tremendous zeal. Although I’ve never quite seen how it starts or ends – though I can guess at the latter – the middle bit is nothing short of hilarious.
Take one female guinea fowl who hurtles around the garden with a somewhat startled look in her eye which seems to be saying, “Got to run, got to get him off my tail feathers. Oooh larks, he’s gaining on me - legs go faster!” Hot on her heels is the male with a maniacal glint in his eye. It’s one women the world over recognise. The fowl tear across the lawn, bound over the wall, hurtle up the driveway, flap over the back wall, chase through the yard, belt around the pool and whizz over the lawn again. Woe betide any other guinea fowl, dove or squirrel that gets in the way. Sometimes she gets crafty, and weaves her way, at speed, between the legs of the patio table and chairs. This usually results in him banging his head at least twice. If she’s really sneaky, she’ll duck under the sun lounger, leaving him having to adjust angles on the run. Should he catch up with her, he’ll do his best to viciously (or is it amorously?) remove a few feathers from her back. It is a demented and manic business in the extreme.
Watching all this a couple of days, biting our fingers because the baby guineas were right in the path of hot passion, we ended up doubled over with laughter.
She, we learned, is clearly more in charge of things than he is. First of all, she managed, without fail, to avoid the babies pootling around on the patio. And she managed to throw in an extra devious move. She flapped over the pool. He, running at full tilt took notice too late and nose dived straight into the water with a resounding splat. Guinea fowl, it must be said, are not waterbirds. He, inelegant at the best of times, paddled and flapped, stranded and stunned for a moment, trying to figure out what to do. Guineas, you must understand, do not do the take off thing lightly – either from land or water. It is usual for them to survey, with quizzical looks, the object which they wish to reach – wall or roof or bird bath – for quite a while before doing an impression of jump jet which looks more like a cargo-carrying Hercules. And so Casanova did just the same and landed, very wetly, on the patio. She, meanwhile, had carried on running and as she came by for the second pass, she gave him a resounding peck as if to say, “C’mon, whaddayawaitin’for, you panting no-good soggy git?!” He was about to give chase once more when he was distracted by our uncontrollable laughter. For a moment he looked nonplussed before giving himself a very damp shake. He took off after his lady love, but when it came time to pass by the pool again – and we were still doubled up laughing – he came to an abrupt halt.
He looked at us – a mixture of bemusement and sheepishness on his face. She shot past, gave him another swift peck and kept going, only to realise, moments later, that he wasn’t hot on her tail. He was still staring at us, his head cocked as if to say, “Aw, c’mon guys, it wasn’t that funny, why’re ya still laughing?”. We had, it seemed, dampened his ardour with the ever successful well-timed laugh at the male, um, ego. She squawked and he turned away and scuttled behind a bush. Whether the deed was ever done I have no idea, but if ever a fellow had a cold shower to cool his passion, our bird was certainly the one! Time will reveal if the afternoon’s entertainment results in this…
I should add, by way of conclusion, that the fellow who starts the chase is seldom the one who gets the pleasure. He's usually too worn out after the hot-blooded pursuit, and it's another more sneaky bird who steps in at the last minute to claim the lady, while the first chap is left panting and gasping on the lawn. Who said all was fair in love and war, eh?
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