Chateau Midden Chimney Pigeon

 First posted April 2009

About five years ago I heard something scratting around in the air-vent just above my cooker.  

I  heard the same thing today and something has to be done …

Let me explain.  Chateau Midden was built in the 1920s and was originally fitted with a coal-fired kitchen range in its own alcove with a chimney doglegging up to the gable end.  Over time the range has been replaced by an electric cooker, the alcove tiled over (or rather under) with an air-vent to allow ventilation of the chimney and kitchen.  There is a nice big void above the tiles which the chimney opens in to.

The aforementioned scratting went on for a couple of days.  Lots of bits of soot fell through the air-vent.  Our Scottish mate Burney was stayed over and couldn’t stand the idea of a living thing being trapped and slowly dying.  I was worried that it might be a rat.  Even though I was still in my dressing gown I agreed that something should be done (Fester retreated to the office and computer).

The cooker and work surfaces were cleared, the door into the hall firmly shut, the back door propped wide open and the air vent removed to expose a hole, about the size of a saucer, up into the void. 

Burney peered up into the void.

“Aah kin see sumthin … it’s a rat!”

I was out the back door like a rocket, making a similar shrieking, until …

“It’s no, it’s no, it’s a pigeon.”

“Then why did you say it was a rat.”

“’Cause I could only see its eyes and a grey body.  We need tae get something tae grab it with.”

I handed him the tongs I use to turn bacon with.  He gave me a very old fashioned look and muttered something I chose not to understand.  Then I heard my next-neighbours out in their garden.  So I went out, explained the situation and asked if we might borrow their barbeque tongs.  Sadly they had been put away for the winter, right in the back of the shed where they were totally inaccessible.

Burney put on a pair of Marigold gloves and perched on the cooker.  I tossed some breadcrumbs up into the void and we waited.  A little like Eskimos around an ice-hole but the other way up. 

Suddenly his hands shot up into the hole, there was a lot of scrabbling and a silky, scratchy noise as the feathers scraped the edge of the tiles, the bird was out and Burney ran out into the garden and threw it into the air.  It shot off like a missile trailing soot and feathers to the cheers of Dick’n’Vic next door.

When I’d calmed down and got dressed I ‘phoned Will Fixit who does all those odd jobs I say Fester would do if he was a real man (like plaster, put down flooring and general repairs) and asked him to sort out some sort of bird proof cover for the chimney.

“How long have you lived in that house Brenda?”

“Seventeen years.”

“How many pigeons have you had down your chimney?”

“One.”

“Not much of a problem then.  Doesn’t seem worth the hassle.”

So no cover was put on and today I heard the scratting again, but this time there was no Burney about.  I cleared everything away from the cooker and unscrewed the air-vent.  Down it came with soot, a few feathers and half a small white eggshell.  Peering down through the hole was a big fat woodpigeon. 

The littlest cat, driven wild with curiosity by the scratting leapt up onto the work-surface.   

I had visions of her leaping up into the void – the hole is just big enough.   

How the heck would I get her out if she did?    

Let alone the pigeon.  

So she was summarily locked in the living room where she mewed piteously.

This time Fester donned the Marigolds and stood by.  I left the kitchen and when I came back in he had the pigeon by the tail.  I exited and stayed out until I heard the rush to the backdoor and the clapping of wings.  She’d lost a considerable number of tail feathers but was flying ok.

Will Fixit got another call.

“Remember about five years ago we spoke about putting something on top of the chimney to stop birds falling down?”

“Yes.”

“And you said it was only one pigeon in seventeen years so it wasn’t worth the bother.”

“Yes.”

“Well now it’s two pigeons in twenty-two years.  The average has gone up to one pigeon every eleven years.  I’m not sure I can take another one.”

“I’ll ring my roofer.”