Given that we are not currently buried under 6 feet of snow (alas) and there’s even been the occasional break in the clouds recently, I’ve been trying to make sure that we get outside for at least some part of every day.
So many of my own childhood memories take place outside, even in the winter; blustery walks along the cliffs; sausages roasted over a driftwood bonfire on the beach, sharing warmth and supplies with the few other families who’d clambered their way down. I can’t quite recreate those exact sights and sounds, or at least I can try but I’m pretty sure the park wardens might just have something to say on the subject, so we work with what we’ve got.
And what we have, is ducks. It’s a classic for a reason, there’s just something so soothing about plopping little mouthfuls of bread into the water and watching the ducks scrabble and chase for each bite.
Our favourite park has a little bridge where the stream joins the main river that is just perfect for Kitty; she can feed the ducks without anyone feathered coming near enough to worry her, and because with the river in flood, only the ducks can slip under the rail she can choose whether or not she’s going to feed the Canada geese and swans that hover expectantly outside.
She always seems to find a Mummy duck (“the brown one”), a Daddy duck (“they’re the green ones; they’re boys”), and a Kitty duck, the lucky beneficiary of as much of the bread as she can chuck in its direction.
I can’t wait until Spring when she’ll have hoards of little fluffy ducklings to choose from.