Bar ducks

We arrived early in Bar. I headed for the port exit, fending off of an indecent number of taxi drivers descending on passengers like weird CGI. I followed my trusty and eminently sensible routine of plotting my route out as soon as I arrive somewhere new and headed for the train station. Bar was upmarket although a little dull. Its setting, however, cradled by mountains, is spectacular. And the sun was up; 23-25ºC, well before 9am, which had me reaching for lotions and long sleeves.

I concentrated on ‘ambling’ and dealing with the hefty weight on my back, before turning away from town and onto the road to the bus and rail stations where I encountered ‘phantom fowl’. Ditches parallel to the footpath were marked both by their vegetation and the noisy cries of angry ducks. Being something of an ornithologist, I was keen to see these beasts, which were proving splendidly adept at making themselves heard but not seen.

I’d been duped, however. The lack of movement, a certain repetition in the calls and the whiff of looping tapes led my nimble brain to suspect I was hearing duck deterrent rather than quacking chat. I felt foolish for having tried to flush one or two of these fake birds from the foliage through well-placed kicks, and the odd stone or two. I put my head down and carried on towards the station.

Link - Muscovy Duck