Country life
On the trail of the toad
Leanda de Lisle
About 6,000 adult toads live amongst the poplars by our ornamental lakes. How happy they would be to learn that the team of ecologists who study their every move have lost their grants and are trailing sadly back to their desks in Leicester.
For years our toads have had their stom- achs flushed out so the boffins from De Montfort University could find out what they have been eating. They have been kept trapped in circles of chicken wire to discov- er whether they thrive best in the rookery or the bogland. They were cornered into eating radio transmitters so that students could follow them around at night.
As a final insult, the ecologists wrote up some humiliating toad obituaries. Many toads die on the main road because they believe that its flat surface makes it the ideal place to spot a passing mate; others starve to death because of something called the 'Fairy Queen Syndrome': Titania-like, adult toads fall in love with the first clod of earth they see. So they will insist on living in a field of rape being squirted by unpleas- ant chemicals, when a few yards away they could live a life of bucolic bliss in a beauti- ful meadow. You could say they are hope- less romantics. Alternatively, you might be forced to agree that they are stupid as well as ugly.
Either way I would think the toads would rather the ecologists went off and minded some other creatures' business. Still, I am rather sorry to see the back of all those men in green cagouls. It was fun to try to work out what the bits of equipment they left around the place were for: the yoghurt pots buried in the ground and the tents of mosquito netting hidden amongst the trees (both, it transpired, designed to catch toad food).
Furthermore, I enjoyed the drama of the toad men's discoveries. 'How are the toads then?' I would ask when I bumped into these people on the drive. Very slowly and seriously they would tell me.
A couple of years ago we had a tragedy. One million toad metamorphs were sup- posed to emerge from the murky depths of our lakes, but only ten appeared. Ten can you imagine? I spent ages worrying about the metamorph holocaust. Was it disease? Had they been eaten? I foolishly let someone stock the bigger lake with roach so I could arrange a day's fishing as a fund-raising effort for a local charity. Could these fish have scoffed our meta- morphs? My mother always said, 'Good deeds are punished instantly.' However, the man who had stocked the lake swore his fish were innocent of any crime. Perhaps the lakes needed cleaning out? It would be a horrendously expensive project, so I spent days investigating how we might do it on the cheap. I could apply for money from the county council's landscape grant schemes or the Countryside Commission's stewardship programmes.
Unfortunately, taking public money means widening public access and I didn't fancy seeing our toads outnumbered by ramblers. There are various local environ- mental groups happy to volunteer their labour cheaply for a worthy cause. I did wonder whether there was a risk we might lose one of these helpful souls in the suck- ing mud at the bottom of the lake. Howev- er, in the end, all my worries came to nought. Our toad metamorphs reappeared last year as mysteriously as they had disap- peared the year before.
I suppose my thoughts will be less domi- nated by toads in future. Without the ecol- ogists I will be less aware of their ups and downs, but obscurity should at least bring a little dignity back into the Leicestershire toad life.
`These royal divorces are always messy.'
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