Blunt beaks

Today, I was stupid enough to try and feed a Kookaburra on the veranda of our A-Frame hoilday house in Denmark with some mixed seed in my palm, and it nearly took my finger off in confusion about which bit to sample. Undaunted, I sliced chunks of spicy peperoni up and watched the birds bang them against the railings to soften their prey before swallowing. Maybe they thought it was still alive?
Feed at risk to your person. Later we hired dodgy bikes from an unflappable, lanky bushwalking type who dropped us 21k’sup Scotsdale Road at an Alpaca Farm that was run by a bossy teddy-bear wielding terrier named Fergus. Kim knelt on straw amongst tiny soft grey bunnies, patting away whilst the Guinea Pigs cowered in fear in the corner. Goats and Kangaroos thrust themselves over and under wire to gobble mysterious pellets given to us in lolly bags by the owners. We rode into wineries along the way and became instant talking points, sampling mainly crisp green Rieslings or Pinot’s playfully described as having barnyard or forest floor flavours. Pretty soon, riding undulating hills on crap, rusty bikes became a chore and we staggered past a Steiner School back into Denmark in the teeth of a freshening southeasterly with lists of wine to try in future. We played German Whist later in the evening, and it was astonishly close, and I won’t reveal who won.

Crap bikes. Where’s that Shogun Mach 3 from home when I really need it.