Frog-on-the-Tyne.
Today I met a
woman in a pub car park to discuss going on toad patrol in the coming months.
Yes, you read
that sentence right: anyone driving through the country lanes near where I live
this Spring may just see me standing around in a high-vis jacket, looking for
toads in distress. I was coerced into this by my wife, who’d responded to an
advert looking for volunteers to help assist the toads’ journey across a busy
road to a pond on the other side, and felt it was a good cause to be involved
with; it’s also an excuse to get out and do something, which is always good if
you’re naturally reticent like me; the fact it’s for a excellent cause makes it
all better, though forgive me if I burst into We All Stand Together while I’m
doing it.
The woman took us
on a little wander to where the toads usually cross and explained the whys and
wherefores of a usual patrol. The organization started in 2001 with a fair few
volunteers, which - like the toad numbers - have dwindled with time. Such is
the nature of nature. All we need to do, should we decide to join in, is to
rescue the frogs as they start to cross in an awkward place and escort them to
the other side, making a note of their sex as we do it. I daren’t ask during
the meeting how you sex a toad, because it sounded too appropriate, but I’m
presuming it’s fairly easy. I guess I’ll find out shortly. Either way, I’m not
going to make a big deal out of it; It’s nice to help if I can.