A mixture of mallards, coots, shelducks and moorhens were milling about at the water’s edge; some standing in the shallows, some lightly afloat, others toddling about on dry land. Also two bloody great mute swans, possibly dangerous, swelling, hissing, bridling, and generally threatening anyone silly enough to presume that a handful of bread was enough to earn their gratitude and trust. Beside these graceful thugs, the practical little coots, treading purposefully on clown-sized feet, had the greater perspective, and more wit.
My grandson, Oscar, and I sat down on one of the four benches provided by the parish council. The freshwater lake stretched away before us: cloudless blue sky above. The unseasonable warmth was stoking the water fowl into a frenzy of courtship, nest building and squabbles. Clouds of midges were out, too, as though we were in high summer already.
The other three benches were occupied by elderly day trippers on a coach tour of coast and villages from one of the big Torquay hotels.
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