Life in semi-rural Israel can be a real pleasure, especially if, like me, you appreciate nature and enjoy being in relatively close contact with the animal kingdom.
When my wife and I chose to live in Zichron Yaakov it was because it offered all we were looking for; a relatively small community, but with nearly all the everyday facilities one could possibly need, good schools for our girls, close proximity to the beautiful beaches north of Caesaria, and a green outlook with the Carmel hills rolling down around us. It's a pretty idyllic spot.
To make matters even better, we found a house that looks directly onto the Rothschild nature reserve of Ramat HaNadiv, on the edge of a steep ravine covered in olive trees and scrubland on the opposite side. And, on our side, a variety of plants and trees, most of which I've been unable to put a name to. Directly opposite the house on the other side of the ravine – about 100 metres as the crow flies – is a huge cage which is run by the park rangers as an R&R retreat for injured birds of prey. Eagles, buzzards, vultures, owls and hawks are all restored to good health by the expert ornithologists who gradually train them to return to the wild, training runs that frequently cross over our heads and send the green parrot population heading for cover for fear of ending up on an eagle's dinner table.
Crickets whirr loudly through the evening and into the night, competing with jackals that roam the reserve and get a bit of a howl on when the female of the species 'puts out' that she's ready to be 'covered', as they say in the horse breeding business.
Our only domestic pet is our faithful dog Mocca, a mongrel we chose from the animal rescue centre at Hadera just over two years ago and who has become a much loved member of the Alster family. Being the only one that doesn’t answer back, who is always happy to see me, and costs a relatively small amount to keep, it would be fair to say that there are times when he goes close to being at the top of my family favourites list, if only for a brief while.
The girls walk Mocca morning and afternoon, and I take him out for a stroll at night, where he struts around the neighbourhood as if he owns the place, exchanging pleasantries with the other hounds on the block. He's never got into a fight and all the dogs, both male and female seem to like him – I suspect he might be gay, but I don't love him any less for it!
His evening ritual is to pad around slowly, sniffing here and occasionally woofing there, and then, as we return to within sight of the gate at the bottom of the steps up to my house, he always sprints the last 30 metres, rather as I used to do at the end of cross-country running at school as we were being counted in, and I wanted to impress with my physical fitness and stamina. The fact that I'd walked most of the previous five miles is neither here nor there!
Anyway, a few nights ago Mocca headed around the corner of our street towards an open area of scrubland, whereupon I found him rooted to the spot, furiously sniffing the air as his tail curled alarmingly between his legs. I asked him if there was a problem, but he refused to explain. Then, with a feeble whine, he turned around and scooted back in the direction of the house at high speed. 'Stupid dog'.
I peered curiously into the darkness. Despite my lack of foresight in not packing night vision goggles for the 10 minute stroll, it didn't take the instinct of James Bond or David Attenborough to sense pretty quickly that there was something out there. Then an audible rustling noise made by 'something of substance' emanated from the bushes. Had I happened upon a young couple 'pitching-the-woo' as they said in days gone by, or was a terrorist about to leap out and 'make my day' by making me a 'martyr'? Before I had time to hatch a 'cunning plan' all was revealed. It was big, it was hairy, and it definitely wasn't kosher! A white tusked, bigger-than-I-had-ever-suspected wild boar started trotting slowly, but most definitely towards me.
'Surely it must be frightened of humans', I thought briefly. But then, as it continued its progress in my direction, I soon formed the opinion that maybe I was more frightened of it, than it was of me, and that discretion was definitely the better part of valour. First rule of warfare – never turn your back on the enemy. 'Oh sod that' I thought, as I shouted out 'Ohhhhh shit!', turned on my heels, and ran at a pace that I swear would give Usain Bolt something to think about. I'd gone at least 50 metres when I glanced behind and noticed that 'old pigface' had ground to a halt, probably offended by my turn of phrase.
He stared at me, and I stared back at him. My faithful, fearless hound was already hidden behind bushes half-way along the street. It was nearly midnight and there wasn't a soul about. The crickets whirred in the silence. From the eagles' cage I could hear a squawking noise that almost drowned out the beating of my heart – but not quite. The boar – I'm talking about the one with the tusks, not me, - looked me up and down for a few moments and then appeared to decide I just wasn't worth the effort, turned its piggy tail and headed back into the night, from whence it came.
Well! What a palaver! A quiet evening stroll had turned into a spot of man versus beast short-course athletics. Mocca, looking somewhat embarrassed at his lack of canine backbone, eventually came ambling over to see if I was OK.
'You big puff', I told him, and he jumped up to show me how happy he was that all's well that ends well. 30 metres from the gate, his dawdle suddenly turned into the customary sprint and he shot around the corner, up the stairs and onto the lawn, impressing no-one - particularly not me.
Good old Mocca.
When my wife and I chose to live in Zichron Yaakov it was because it offered all we were looking for; a relatively small community, but with nearly all the everyday facilities one could possibly need, good schools for our girls, close proximity to the beautiful beaches north of Caesaria, and a green outlook with the Carmel hills rolling down around us. It's a pretty idyllic spot.
To make matters even better, we found a house that looks directly onto the Rothschild nature reserve of Ramat HaNadiv, on the edge of a steep ravine covered in olive trees and scrubland on the opposite side. And, on our side, a variety of plants and trees, most of which I've been unable to put a name to. Directly opposite the house on the other side of the ravine – about 100 metres as the crow flies – is a huge cage which is run by the park rangers as an R&R retreat for injured birds of prey. Eagles, buzzards, vultures, owls and hawks are all restored to good health by the expert ornithologists who gradually train them to return to the wild, training runs that frequently cross over our heads and send the green parrot population heading for cover for fear of ending up on an eagle's dinner table.
Crickets whirr loudly through the evening and into the night, competing with jackals that roam the reserve and get a bit of a howl on when the female of the species 'puts out' that she's ready to be 'covered', as they say in the horse breeding business.
Our only domestic pet is our faithful dog Mocca, a mongrel we chose from the animal rescue centre at Hadera just over two years ago and who has become a much loved member of the Alster family. Being the only one that doesn’t answer back, who is always happy to see me, and costs a relatively small amount to keep, it would be fair to say that there are times when he goes close to being at the top of my family favourites list, if only for a brief while.
The girls walk Mocca morning and afternoon, and I take him out for a stroll at night, where he struts around the neighbourhood as if he owns the place, exchanging pleasantries with the other hounds on the block. He's never got into a fight and all the dogs, both male and female seem to like him – I suspect he might be gay, but I don't love him any less for it!
His evening ritual is to pad around slowly, sniffing here and occasionally woofing there, and then, as we return to within sight of the gate at the bottom of the steps up to my house, he always sprints the last 30 metres, rather as I used to do at the end of cross-country running at school as we were being counted in, and I wanted to impress with my physical fitness and stamina. The fact that I'd walked most of the previous five miles is neither here nor there!
Anyway, a few nights ago Mocca headed around the corner of our street towards an open area of scrubland, whereupon I found him rooted to the spot, furiously sniffing the air as his tail curled alarmingly between his legs. I asked him if there was a problem, but he refused to explain. Then, with a feeble whine, he turned around and scooted back in the direction of the house at high speed. 'Stupid dog'.
I peered curiously into the darkness. Despite my lack of foresight in not packing night vision goggles for the 10 minute stroll, it didn't take the instinct of James Bond or David Attenborough to sense pretty quickly that there was something out there. Then an audible rustling noise made by 'something of substance' emanated from the bushes. Had I happened upon a young couple 'pitching-the-woo' as they said in days gone by, or was a terrorist about to leap out and 'make my day' by making me a 'martyr'? Before I had time to hatch a 'cunning plan' all was revealed. It was big, it was hairy, and it definitely wasn't kosher! A white tusked, bigger-than-I-had-ever-suspected wild boar started trotting slowly, but most definitely towards me.
'Surely it must be frightened of humans', I thought briefly. But then, as it continued its progress in my direction, I soon formed the opinion that maybe I was more frightened of it, than it was of me, and that discretion was definitely the better part of valour. First rule of warfare – never turn your back on the enemy. 'Oh sod that' I thought, as I shouted out 'Ohhhhh shit!', turned on my heels, and ran at a pace that I swear would give Usain Bolt something to think about. I'd gone at least 50 metres when I glanced behind and noticed that 'old pigface' had ground to a halt, probably offended by my turn of phrase.
He stared at me, and I stared back at him. My faithful, fearless hound was already hidden behind bushes half-way along the street. It was nearly midnight and there wasn't a soul about. The crickets whirred in the silence. From the eagles' cage I could hear a squawking noise that almost drowned out the beating of my heart – but not quite. The boar – I'm talking about the one with the tusks, not me, - looked me up and down for a few moments and then appeared to decide I just wasn't worth the effort, turned its piggy tail and headed back into the night, from whence it came.
Well! What a palaver! A quiet evening stroll had turned into a spot of man versus beast short-course athletics. Mocca, looking somewhat embarrassed at his lack of canine backbone, eventually came ambling over to see if I was OK.
'You big puff', I told him, and he jumped up to show me how happy he was that all's well that ends well. 30 metres from the gate, his dawdle suddenly turned into the customary sprint and he shot around the corner, up the stairs and onto the lawn, impressing no-one - particularly not me.
Good old Mocca.
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