The Battle of Bristol

It was an ambush. Late afternoon, stillness in the air. Last of the day's sun toasting the back of my neck as I admired a long day's toil.

Something was afoot. A rustle here, a squawk there. I wasn't sat far from the table of food. Then, like a scene from Black Hawk Down, the raid began.

I don't know if you've ever stood in a confined space next to half a kilo of killer pigeon but it's enough to put the wind up the most scarred SAS soldier I can tell you. They move the air with the same power and sound as I imagine an apache helicopter to. Deep, meaty beats that sent the branches of the buddleia haywire. Three of them, well all you can do is dive for cover.

Disturbed by my startled movements they retreated, only to take up posts along the walls and the roofs. After a stand off, peppered with near-kamakaze efforts to nab the nuts and seeds, it all boiled down to a well executed pincer movement that had me scuppered.

It wasn't long before the food was gone and I was left dejected and beaten.

I sat on the edge of the raised bed contemplating the point of giving aid to the birds when it all went to the pockets of the big and powerful. And then, quietly and reassuringly from across the garden came this little healer.

Not so much the cavalry, more Florence Nightingale.