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Life goes on for villagers in eye of flu storm Gethin Chamberlain in Cellardyke, Fife 7 April 2006, The Scotsman SHE had seen all the dire warnings of bird flu on the television, but still Pat Hughes could not contemplate confining her six Black Rock hens to their quarters: a wooden hen-hut at the side of the field by her house. "I'd rather ring their necks than have them indoors," she said, suggesting that would be less cruel. "Nobody wants to have avian flu, but I don't think the risk to my hens is any greater than it is to pheasants or seagulls," she added. Mrs Hughes shuts her hens in at night to protect them from the local fox, who has so far proved more effective than bird flu in keeping their numbers in check, but yesterday the birds still had the run of the gardens around the house in Colinsburgh, about seven miles from Anstruther. It wasn't the flu-riddled swan that bothered Mrs Hughes most; it was the army of reporters and television crews which had now descended on Anstruther and Cellardyke and the surrounding area, spreading their bad news across the globe. "I'm disappointed in the interest in it all, because it means people might not come to Anstruther," she said. By 9am, the narrow streets of Cellardyke were jammed with media cars, satellite trucks and reporters. It took another couple of hours before the helicopters turned up, but by midday there were two buzzing overhead. The swan which has altered Mrs Hughes's and her neighbours' lives was found on the cobbled slipway in the empty harbour last week: brown, mangled, its body torn open. No-one seems quite sure when it appeared; Wednesday appears to be the most popular theory. It was Tina Briscoe who first thought to do anything about it. She was walking past the harbour to her home a few yards away down a narrow wynd when she caught sight of the heap of feathers by the water's edge. "It was a mangled swan, a bit past its sell-by date," she said. "I thought I ought to do something about it." Mrs Briscoe, rang the police. They were polite, but not desperately interested. They told her to call the RSPB. She called the RSPB, but they told her if it was a dead swan she should call DEFRA. She told her colleague, Dan Young, who lives at the other end of the harbour, about 100 yards away, with his wife and two daughters. He phoned DEFRA. It was not until about midday the next day that the bird was collected. No-one recalls seeing anyone arrive, but later in the day it was gone. Nobody in Cellardyke seemed too bothered that they were at the centre of Britain's biggest public health alert since foot-and-mouth. Standing in the doorway of her house in a row of whitewashed buildings facing the harbour, Aileen Bracken sipped coffee and fielded questions. Her daughters - Eve, five, Rosa, four, and Annie, one - played on the beach every day, she said. She did not seem concerned, though they would not be playing today. It would, she said, just be nice to be given some advice of whether it was safe or not. A few miles further up the road, another man was also wondering when he would get a bit of advice on what he should do, but for Duncan Peddie, the question was altogether more pressing. As the owner of the largest poultry farm in the surveillance zone, he wanted to know what the future held for his 32,000 laying hens, the 20,000 eggs they produced every day, and the 12,000 young birds he is raising. He was puzzled why he had not been kept informed: "I got a phone call this morning from them just checking how many birds I had, but they didn't give us any instructions what to do." Mr Peddie's family have run the farm for 43 years. "We have no worries for our own health, but plenty of worries for the health of the business," he said. "The main threat is if people who buy eggs will stop, even though there is no risk." ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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