Posthumously Post Pigeon Pie

Somebody once asked me if I was a pigeon-fancier, and, as you can imagine, I defended my dignity and showed him just how gentlemen deal with insults.

It was getting dark when I regained consciousness and got up from the floor.

Anyway, it turns out that pigeons, or doves, or whatever you want to call them are quite a popular past-time, and not only among men with flat caps and indecipherable accents among the northern reaches of England.

There is apparently something called a dovecote, which was quite common many years ago and still is, it would seem, although I can’t imagine why.

When my wife and I stumbled across one in the quaint village of Albuixech recently we were quite unable to work out what it was. We asked a local chap, and I believe that he did actually mumble something about pigeons, although I tend to disregard the mumblings of people who hang about roundabouts hoping to be asked obvious questions.

Anyway, that’s what it was, and quite an impressive construction it is too, although I can see no good reason for spending my hard-earned taxes on such a thing.

Interestingly, I neither saw nor heard any pigeon even remotely close to this bulbous, bulging blob of a behemoth, which can be found next to the cultural centre of the aforementioned village, should you be inclined to waste a few moments of your precious time.