,
If it’s not bone-chilling drizzle and torrential downpours
that cascade unwelcome buckets of H20 upon my long-anticipated holiday, then
it’s the droves of pigeons that scout me out and zoom in for the kill. I could not re-count how many hours I’ve spent
dodging squalling hordes of flapping wings of prey, only to end up cowering and
crouching under a random table, praying that my circling tormenters give up and
find another place to play.
But no such luck, for I’m their hapless victim, easily
targeted from miles away.
Perhaps my feather tarred frenemies are as enamoured of
architectural masterpieces in medieval town squares as I am, history buffs
appreciative of centuries old works of art, and it’s just happenstance that we
find ourselves congregating in the same old spaces. Not likely, and their motives are
questionable at least. Perhaps it’s the
intoxicating aroma of a mélange of brews and spices that entice them to the
table, ravenous to inhale whatever crudité is on offer on any given day.
With palates ranging from garbage to gourmet, these
squawking trashcans are far from picky.
Anything is up for grabs and if it even remotely resembles an edible
crumble, no time is wasted on scrutinizing and within seconds flat it is
gobbled down splat. No matter how
repulsive the odour and grime, why take a chance on dinner disappearing, and
try your luck on hopefully yummy grub by ingesting a few snails swimming in a
gravy of slime. Muck with a whole load
of yuck!
These birds with guts of sludge are far from shy, a skilfully
organized swarm of thieves. If one of
the bunch eagle eyes a meal, it’s a sure-fire guarantee that an army of
feathers instantaneously dives in for the steal.
So, there I stood, in Krakow’s cobblestone lined square,
decked out in my inclement weather armour, on the lookout for hovering flocks
of prey. Dismal and grey, the heavens
were rumbling and drops the size of marbles splattered mercilessly on the
rocks. My sneakers were soaked,
streaming tributaries with every drenched step. A few degrees short of sleet, the incessant
rain was an unwelcome tempest of twister and typhoon, a drain on my psyche as I
lamented on having bailed on a beach holiday in tropical St. Tropez.
To make matters worse, there was nowhere to hide, as the instant
a bashful ray peeked out from behind the mist, the horde descended and a flood
of chaos set on in.
Two-legged bandits, beaks crammed full of rubbish, sprinting
on towards me.
Pigeons. Or was that Pink Sneakers? On. The.
Run.
Next post:
In three/four weeks, the weekend of July 6th/13th or thereabouts. Stay tuned!
 |
| Picture perfect after the rain |
 |
| Sightseeing before the rain |
 |
| Meandering along the cobblestones |
 |
| My favourite place |
 |
| Yikes! What happened? |
 |
| A musical melody for sunshine |
 |
| Yes, I will accept this rose! |
 |
| Bubbles after the rain |
 |
| Catching bubbles |
 |
| Here come the pigeons... |
 |
| On the lookout for some yummy grub |
 |
| Who's afraid of those pesky pigeons? Not me! |
 |
| Gearing up for the RUN! |
0
comments
