It is obvious, even from a distance, when a person has a bad back. From the way he or she walks. Wing lameness also sticks out like a sore thumb. But you won’t see it if you are in the loft! Send that bird to the race and it’s one more for the predators. Form and fitness are also noticeable when the birds are in the air. In individuals as well as in the flock. Now, I ask you, can you seriously afford to miss these signs? I don’t think you can. Which is why any new loft of mine will operate the deep litter system, as of old. And I will move the existing litter to the new premises to avoid having to start it up all over again. It is at least 12 years old, working brilliantly, and is staying that way. When visitors to the loft ask what your floor dressing is made up of then you know you have a proper deep litter system on the go!

The weekend saw another fine young bird race with just about 100% returns and everyone doing well, but I woke up on the Sunday to the beginnings of the so-called young bird sickness, which is now fully developed as I write. And is currently being dealt with. A right nuisance it is, and I wonder, why now? Is it anything to do with the fact that I made some management changes ten days prior to the race. To a system that I have been religiously adhering to for these last five, sickness- free, years or was it simply picked up in the basket last week and would have been picked up anyway, system changes or not?

We were discussing how revolutionary flying paired-up young birds was in it’s time, here in the North East. Much as flying them on the darkness system was. And how equally dire the warnings were then as to the future racing prospects of birds treated this way. Nothing much changes. There are always doom and gloom merchants about in any walk of life. What, we wondered, would be next on the scene? Whatever it is it won’t be simple. There is an old maxim in science which states that "if at first glance a problem seems simple, further examination will show that it is either not simple or it has been done before!" We shall see.

I was stopped at race marking by a fellow club member wanting to tell me about his recent heart attack. Suffered whilst at his loft. Lying on the trolley in casualty he had E.C.G. electrodes all over his chest and was surrounded by monitors showing his heart-rate, pulse, blood pressure and respiration. All with flashing screens and all beeping like mad. The doctors were giving injections and drawing off blood when a nurse walked around the trolley and said to him "you keep pigeons don’t you?" "I do", says he. "Those are some machines you’ve got there, if they can tell you that as well!" "No" said the nurse. "I can see the pigeon muck on your shoes. We’ll have to take them off!"

The following incident happened in the days before the advent of electronic timing systems. A fancier, who shall be nameless, was moaning on about always being beaten when timing in. By the same clubmate. And about how just plain lucky this same clubmate was. An older, well-respected fancier sitting nearby, heard all this and summoned them to his table. Asking them to sit opposite each other he fished around in his waistcoat pockets and produced a pencil stub. Which he broke in half. On each half of the pencil he put on a race rubber. Fishing in his pockets some more he got out two timing-in thimbles. In front of both fanciers he placed a piece of pencil with a rubber on and a thimble. Bottom half facing up, top half facing down. As you would lay them out on race days.

By now the whole club was watching. "Right" he said "when I clap my hands I want you both to take the rubber off the pencil and put it into the thimble. Quick as you can. And we’ll see who’s the fastest".You could have heard a pin drop. He clapped. They both swept into action. The successful fancier completed the task in one swift fluid movement. The one who had been moaning about being unlucky knocked the whole lot onto the floor. "Second again I see" said the old man. And without a another word went back to his drink. Point made!

The influence of the many continental pigeons imported into the North-East, how they overtook the old breeds at sprinting and, to some extent, at distance racing, has, on the face of it, been quite remarkable. There have been some well documented "rags to riches" success stories. I wonder though, was their spread and apparent domination due to the fact that those who obtained them raced them really hard, instead of putting them straight into their stock lofts, and got good results? Or did they simply pair them to their existing best pigeons, calling the resultant crosses by their imported strain name and not their own. Whether they had outperformed their original birds or not. And now the obvious question. Was that out of respect for their origins? Because they had won more races? Or to get more money for them when selling them on? Hardly a difficult question!

There was a time, not all that long ago, when a good fancier friend of mine was seriously ill. And I mean seriously ill. With a form of cancer. The local pigeon men were magnificent in their support of him. And never allowed him to believe anything other than he was going to get well. When it was clearly in some doubt that he would. They behaved absolutely normally towards him. And showed him no sympathy whatsoever when they visited. I believe this did him the world of good. He was in a side ward very close to where I worked and, as I was popping in twice a day to see him, I got to know the nursing staff quite well.

The little Irish nurse stopped me one day and asked what he did for a living. I told her and asked why she wanted to know. "Well" says she "he’s got some funny friends." Naturally as I was a friend too, I wanted to know , how funny? What had happened was this. Four local fanciers, unshaven and roughly dressed, had turned up, straight from work, one afternoon. Found the patient, who’d recently undergone a bone marrow transplant and previously had chemotherapy, in no fit state to talk to them. He was either sedated or asleep. So, according to the nurse, they got out a pack of cards and had a game. Dealing them out on his stomach, while they were waiting for him to wake up!

As I said no sympathy was asked for. And certainly none was given. Long after he was discharged I met the Professor in charge of the ward he’d been in. I have known this man since his student days. We exchanged pleasantries and he enquired kindly after my friend. This was too good an opportunity to miss. I waited until all the boys were in the pub that night and told the, by now completely recovered patient, the tale. His face lit up "what did he say about me then" he asked? "Not a lot" I replied. "Just, is the little b*****d dead yet?" And beat a hasty retreat! We all love him and it’s just great to see him back in the best of health.

As a postscript, when his illness was first diagnosed he sought me out. Privately. Me being in the trade, so to speak. And asked me, man to man, what his chances of survival really were. I told him, that at his age, his sex and with his occupation, his chances of recovery were about 80%. Maybe more. He must have remembered this. When he was clear of the cancer he again came to see me. Reminded me of what I’d said. Then he asked me. Point blank. Had I been lying about his chances? Of course I had.

ROD ADAMS.

My neighbour kept competition carriage horses in the allotment that was in front of, behind and to one side of me. He also kept Saanen goats. All were quality animals and a shining example of what could be achieved by a very small, but well run amateur set-up. That is if the will is there. He had won the All England Carriage Trials in the past. And The Royal Windsor Horse Show, where the Duke of Edinburgh also took part. Not much grass grew on his allotment and it was hardly possible to exercise the horses there, space being at a premium. All training was done on the roads. At local shows. With a few weddings thrown in for good measure!

He repaired, painted, and modified his own horse-boxes, carriages and caravan and saw to all the harnesses etc. The training being done after his days work and I very much doubted if he had eaten beforehand, Then he went out and competed successfully against the best in the UK. Who had infinitely better facilities and much more money. You want to know what I think? I think it's a good job he didn't keep racing pigeons. With that kind of dedication he would have troubled the best of fanciers.

Miners and pigeons went together in my early days. And good days they were too. At that time I looked after pigeons belonging to a little old coal miner. The Friday night before the Bourges race a message was sent to my house to make sure that I was at the loft the next day, as he had been injured by a fall of stone. I went straight around to see him. Only his nose showed above the blankets. In a feeble voice he explained to me that the injury was pretty serious. Leaving me with the impression that it could well be terminal.

There were no day birds. I was at the loft at dawn the next morning. And saw him. A little old man. Bent. Hobbling slowly and painfully towards the loft. I helped him into the cabin. Seated him next to the stove. Poured him a mug of tea and got a blood- curdling account of the accident. And how lucky he was to be alive. Even though he could be crippled for life.

I was seated on the doorstep of the cabin when a pigeon broke off a batch of three and trapped first time. My "crippled" old friend trampled all over me and got to the loft in three quick strides, I didn't have a chance to move out of the way! He clocked the pigeon in. Then shouted for his sticks. And could I please help him? Bourges can do funny things to a man! It did to me. That morning was the start of my lifelong love affair with the race.

Big allotment sites full of pigeon lofts are something to see on race days. 32 or more lofts. Over 1000 birds away. All racing into an area of say 400 square yards. On a fast day it is sheer chaos One minute there is nothing in the sky then pigeons are everywhere. No pigeons are allowed to fly out on race days. Every loft has it's own complement of cut-down Fantails, which have a rough life on Saturdays! You have a pretty good idea of who has won the race long before the clocks are opened! This week was no exception.

Selby young bird race. The first pigeon came on it's own from the north-west. Soon to be followed by two or three others from a similar direction as the wind was fresh and from the east. Then came the cavalry charge as the main body of birds arrived. Lofts on the east side of the allotments had some spectacular finishes. The birds hanging in the wind and dropping near vertically. Those on the west side had a much more difficult job getting their birds down. Some pigeon men seem to have trouble with the difference between could have won and should have won. Especially when describing races they didn't win. Bad trapping is usually blamed. Never themselves

A transporter toss. In order to see how well my youngsters had recovered. A perfect day. Sunshine with a light tail wind. They poured in, as they should on a day like that, from the North. I first spotted the main body of birds way out to the east. Very high, almost over the sea, and saw quite clearly a bunch pull off them and head my way. Losing height all the while. Soon afterwards thirty or so swept over the loft, circled once and in. Despite having had pigeons all my life I still think it's one of the best sights in the world, seeing youngsters slash out of a clear sky and dive headlong into their loft. Race or no race.

Whilst waiting for the transporter I spoke to the grandson of one of the established fanciers in the town when I was just starting off in the sport. Bourges then, was nearly always won on the second day. You could gamble on this man having four or five birds in the clock before dinnertime. Big blues and mealies. With legs as thick as your finger. When their loft was moved a few gardens away they stubbornly sat amongst the cabbages for days. Rather than go to the new site.

That era has gone. Bourges, at my distance of 570 miles, is a day race now. Seven, maybe eight times out of ten. Times have changed. And the top fanciers have changed with them. The birds are better. The food is better. Disease control is better. The knowledge levels better. The club had over 50 members in the old days. They were good men for certain. And hard to beat. Not so professional as today's "greats" perhaps. But less commercial. For sure!

Individual resistance to disease appears to vary tremendously within a loft of pigeons. Some being badly affected. Some less so. And some not at all. Of course a lot depends on what the disease is and how virulent a strain is involved, but it seems to me it makes flock treatment a last resort. Much has been written lately in the national press about "superbugs." drug resistance in bacteria and the alleged over-prescription of antibiotics. I feel it is something the fancy should take on board.

It doesn't follow that because one pigeon may have a high cocci count that all birds in the loft are in the same boat and need treating. That may well be the case, but unless every bird is checked how do you know? And just what use are some preventative treatments? Taking an Aspirin every day may well help to prevent a heart attack but it will not stop a headache coming. Not many of us are veterinarians and we need to keep our pigeons healthy. Striking the correct balance between use and abuse of the "medicines" available to us is the key to successful disease-free husbandry.

A Veterinary tale.

This old lady rings up her Vet. At his surgery. She has a problem sleeping because of her neighbour's dog. A bitch which is in heat and running loose all night. The noise of the local dogs fighting to mate with her on the old lady's front lawn is keeping her awake. Can he suggest anything which might deter them? Turning a hosepipe on them was his response. Next day she rang the surgery again. It hadn't worked. Could he suggest anything else. Pepper dust and plenty of it was the Vet's response. And he turned his mind to more pressing matters than those of an old lady who couldn't sleep because of the noise made by copulating dogs! Midnight. Next day. She rang him at home. After ringing for some time the telephone was answered by the Vet's wife. And then the Vet. himself came on the line. The dogs were still at it. She was now desperate. What else could she do stop them mating? "Tell you what" says the Vet., "have you got a long extension lead on your telephone"? "Yes" says the old lady, "well then, take the phone out into your front garden. Tap the dog on top on the shoulder. Then tell it you have a phone call for it". "Will that stop it from mating" says the old girl somewhat dubiously? "Absolutely" says the Vet. "it stopped me!" ROD ADAMS.