Hibaldstow villagers divided over peacocks
Wild peafowl - a term which encompasses both peacocks and peahens - can live between 20 and 25 years."They're lovely in their own environment. But the village isn't the right environment for them," Mr Farrow added."They're alright, but we've got far too many. We started off with a couple, and now there's about 30. You want to be here in a morning at 4am, and late at night."Other residents said the birds often peck at flowers in gardens and attack dark-coloured cars due to mistaking their reflections for other birds.
Mr Darling, who moved to the village seven years ago, said: "They almost take over the place, but I wouldn't get rid of them at all. They're stunning creatures."Patricia Tipler, from Brigg, said she often visits the village and loves seeing the peacocks."I think they're lovely," she said."I'm a big fan. They're a bit noisy, but they're beautiful."
Sussanne Chambers, from Peacocks UK - one of the biggest peacock farms in the country, said the birds would "settle where they feel safe and comfortable".She said: "Peacocks don't tend to fly very far. "There are numerous towns and villages around the UK that have peacock populations, which are welcomed by some - and despised by others."We do offer a peacock removal service and, in a situation like this, my recommendation would be to reduce the numbers rather than to remove the peacocks altogether."Hibaldstow Parish Council chairman Brian Brooks said peafowl have been resident in the village for over 60 years, originating from just one peacock and one peahen.He said the parish council regularly received complaints from residents about the peafowl, "eating flowers in gardens or on graves and making soil baths in vegetable plots".But added: "They are feral birds and, like all other birds, ducks, pigeons etc, [the parish council] does not have any powers or duty over them."
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The Guardian
an hour ago
- The Guardian
America's new wave of hunger is here. A Maine food bank is tackling it head on
One Sunday in June, it's 20 minutes before opening time at the No Greater Love food pantry in Belfast, Maine, two hours north of Portland. A line of cars stretches down the block and curls around the corner. I lean into a car window and ask the driver if he will speak with me. 'Nah,' he says, 'I'd rather not.' 'How about you?' I ask his passenger. The younger, skinny man recoils, shrinking into the far corner of the car. 'I'm good,' he mutters, hiding his face. Maine is the most food insecure state in New England. One in seven people here are often hungry, including 50,000 children. Nationwide, 53 million people – 15% of all Americans – are food insecure, meaning they lack reliable access to a sufficient quantity of affordable, nutritious food. But asking for help still makes people burn with shame. Mary Guindon gets it. Today, Guindon is 63, a grandmother, church secretary and the diplomatic assistant director of the food pantry, a woman who is somehow always busy and never flustered. Decades ago, she was a single mother working full time. Some nights, she didn't have enough food to make dinner for her kids. Finally, friends persuaded her to visit a pantry. 'Standing in that line and swallowing my pride was probably one of the worst moments of my life,' she says. Behind the two men who will not talk, I find a patron who will: another woman named Mary. This Mary, 75, leans crookedly on a walker. She smiles, a small woman with bright eyes and short, white hair. I'm reminded of a chickadee. 'I'm house cleaning,' she says, referring to her car, filled to the brim with stuff she is reorganizing. A former housekeeper, Mary lives alone in a trailer. Food prices soared 25% from 2020 to 2024. 'Chocolate chips and baking things doubled,' she says, her eyes wide. 'Bread, meat – all the basics.' You can stretch social security only so far. Mary now buys only essentials. That means losing her favorite activity. 'I just love to cook and give it away,' she says. She parked here, outside the rundown Veterans of Foreign Wars (VFW) hall that houses the pantry, before 8.00am – more than two and a half hours early. This is how she spends every other Sunday morning, when No Greater Love is open for a scant 90 minutes. Months ago, Mary learned the importance of getting a good place in line to get fresh vegetables and fruits before they run out. Behind her, Donna, 71, also waits. She grew up on a farm in Maine. She leans toward me and gives a conspiratorial smile. 'I used to give chewing gum to the pig,' she says. 'But one day the pig was gone. I knew where it went.' She, too, lives alone on a fixed income. 'I give people rides to make a little extra money,' she says – her own personal Uber service. She won't charge the two neighbors she has brought with her today, though. Like Mary, Donna is also hoping for good fresh produce. Today, they will be disappointed. No Greater Love's volunteers began noticing it in January: a slow but steady increase in need. The line of cars, barely visible through a dirty window in the pantry's small kitchen, stretches a little longer every time: a new family here, another elderly patron there, finally accepting that as costs climb, they can no longer keep hunger at bay by themselves. Food pantries, non-profits, and school feeding programs distributed almost 6bn meals' worth of free food in every state in the nation last year. When Congress's historic cuts to Snap (Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program) and Medicaid take effect, that need will almost triple. Somehow, food pantries like the scrappy, all-volunteer-run No Greater Love, will need to come up with enough food. That line outside the VFW hall? It will snake down three blocks and take up who knows how many hours of waiting time. If, after 12 years of serving people like Mary and Donna, No Greater Love is able to keep its doors open at all. Tanya McGray moves cases of canned food, her hands flying in practiced motions. Nearby, Mary Guindon packs cardboard boxes two rows high on a metal dolly, piling them with corn, beans, peanut butter and elbow noodles. They try to fill each box with several meals' worth of food. They are overstocking them with canned goods today, making up for a surprise shortage of fresh produce. 'Make another row,' McGray barks. 'You sure?' Guindon says. 'Last I counted, we had 18.' She's referring to the 18 families in line outside. Before long, there will be more. As quiet and languid as it is outside, the pine-paneled hall hums with energy inside. There is a lot to do before 10.30am – before McGray, the pantry's director, can allow the first patrons in. Guindon grabs three more banana boxes. The white, yellow and blue Chiquita boxes are ubiquitous in the emergency food system, the standard luggage of the servers and the served, the charitable and the hungry. Often, these two groups are the same. I offer to help, feeling useless holding my digital recorder rather than flexing a muscle for these women. McGray is 52, 11 years younger than Guindon. Working alongside them is McGray's mother, Candy, her gray hair tied in a ponytail. She is 74, a not uncommon age for volunteers in Maine's food pantries. In fact, it's not an uncommon age for the volunteers who keep the entire nation's fragile emergency food network afloat. At least in Maine, some 75% of the state's 250 pantries are run solely by volunteers. Her long, brown hair swinging as she works, McGray waves me off. Her loud, cigarette-tainted voice is as rough as sandpaper. 'We're a well-oiled machine,' she says. 'But thanks.' There is an air of tense anticipation in this small room, lined with metal shelves crammed with canned corn, low-fat milk and soup. Like a crew setting the stage before the curtain rises, they must be completely ready when the doors open. They have less than 30 minutes. Behind them is a handful of refrigerators and freezers. One refrigerator has been broken for months. Some freezers are full of food; this week, it is leg of lamb that Guindon paid Good Shepherd, Maine's only food bank, $1.82 a case for. 'It's what we can afford,' Guindon says. The meat is coming up on its expiration date in a month. What she doesn't say is how hard something like leg of lamb can be for many patrons to cook. Some don't know how. Some only have microwaves. Others have no kitchens. McGray wears a fist-sized tattoo on her left shoulder. Her large, brown eyes, ringed with gray shadows, are framed with schoolgirl bangs. She is the third generation of her family to serve in food pantries. Forty-five years ago, her grandfather distributed government food in a Belfast parking lot. Her aunt, Cindy Ludden, has run the Jackson, Maine, food pantry for 34 years. Ludden is mentoring the fourth generation: her eight-year-old granddaughter, Scout, wants to direct a food pantry when she grows up. McGray began helping out at No Greater Love when her church founded it years ago. 'It was just something I did,' she shrugs. But when the church decided it needed to reclaim the space for other programs, McGray says, 'Then it became something I fought for.' 'I'm always fighting for the underdog,' she says. 'I do it everywhere I go. Not intentionally, it just happens.' By day, McGray drives a public school minivan for unhoused kids. By night, she is a foster mom. In April, she had an infant at home. Guindon, shorter and with a soft, round face, gray hair and glasses, fundraises and orders food. At the end of their shift, the two women, along with other volunteers, will deliver food to those who can't come in: people with physical disabilities. Those without cars. Veterans with PTSD who can't be around people. Without McGray, Guindon and a tall, rangy 57-year-old volunteer named Kenna Dufresne, No Greater Love wouldn't function. Outside this storage room, Dufresne sprints from one end of the long VFW hall to another, hefting heavy boxes into a staging area. From there, she will help move them to the 25ft-long conveyor belt that runs down the center of the hall. 'Do you work out?' I yell. She flashes a wide grin. 'This is my gym,' she yells back. If it is her gym, she is diligent about training several times a week. To keep the pantry stocked, volunteers collect unsold food from Hannaford grocery stores up to an hour away. (Last year, Hannaford donated 14m lb of food in Maine alone.) Every two weeks, Dufresne drives from store to store, slinging thousands of pounds of food a year into the pantry's van. She has been on pickup duty for nine years, ever since McGray plucked her from the pantry's patrons and put her to work. She loves it. 'It's a family,' she says. 'Even our patrons.' As rewarding as it is, the work is also physically strenuous, emotionally exhausting and logistically complex. Every political, economic and cultural problem in America shows up at a food pantry. Funding is tight. The cost of living is rising. Hunger is growing. Stigma remains enormous. Volunteers are essential, but in rural areas like this one, it can feel impossible to recruit younger helpers. Years ago, No Greater Love was open every week. 'We had to cut back to twice a month because I couldn't get volunteers,' McGray says. And that was before March, when an email arrived and everything got even harder. On 13 March, Guindon opened her computer to an email from Good Shepherd. The food bank distributes government and donated food to Maine's 600 anti-hunger organizations, including its 250 pantries. What Guindon read alarmed her. The Trump administration planned to cut more than $1bn from the federal emergency food assistance program. Almost overnight, No Greater Love would lose half to two-thirds of the food they receive, for free, from the federal government. The USDA would also end another program that helps sustain small farmers while providing local produce to food pantries. In Maine, pantries would lose up to 600,000lb of produce. No Greater Love had $5,000 in the bank. When I first visited in April, a few weeks after Good Shepherd's bombshell email, No Greater Love's menu had already shrunk. 'We used to be able to provide seven or eight meals a week,' Tanya McGray says. Now, they were down to three or four. In April, they had received 1,100lb less food than they had in March. On 22 June, they are down another 700lbs. There has not been any free meat in weeks. Luckily, the pantry still has extra donated food to offer. Guindon and I survey today's choices. Her teenage grandsons, Bentley and Liam, hover nearby. In April, these boxes were bursting with carrots, lettuce, apples, bread, almonds and crackers. Today, eight bruised apples barely cover the bottom of a box. In another, I cringe at an oozing nectarine. The day before, high winds had knocked out power to the local Hannaford. They lost much of their produce. This is the result. But then some gorgeous kale catches my eye. I spot magenta rhubarb longer than my arm. Local farms provided them. They will be a happy surprise for those at the front of the line. Bentley taps Guindon on the shoulder and points to his watch. 'Two minutes,' he says, glancing at the door. The boys preside over bags of bread and desserts. Before food began dwindling, patrons could take what they wanted from the heaping boxes I had seen in April. Now, Bentley and Liam hand it out to avoid hoarding. The doors finally open. The volunteers' quiet hum swells into a hubbub of conversation as patrons enter. I catch Mary's eye as she drops a $5 bill into a donation jar on the kitchen counter. That $5 is meaningful. No Greater Love's bank account has shrunk to $3,500, all of it allocated to rent, electricity, gas, vehicle maintenance and maybe some extra food, like the inexpensive leg of lamb. Guindon has already started on the next grant applications. The future of this food pantry and thousands like it now rests on their ability to raise private funds. For now, McGray and Guindon will put one foot in front of the other. They will send another box down the conveyor belt. They will welcome another new patron in the door. They will spend one more day fulfilling three generations' worth of persistence in the face of hunger. The doors are still open. So far.
The Sun
2 hours ago
- The Sun
I transformed my dark and gloomy kitchen for just £150 using B&Q bargains with NO experience
A SAVVY woman has revealed that she saved herself thousands of pounds by transforming her kitchen all by herself. Natalie Stainthorpe, a dental nurse from Middlesbrough, estimated that it would cost her £3,000 to rip out her dark and dingy kitchen and start from scratch. 4 4 After moving into her new home, the 34-year-old was desperate to add some light to the dark and gloomy kitchen without it costing a fortune. The kitchen had barely any natural light as an extension had been built and the dark wood furnishings didn't help either. Armed with TikTok tutorials and a dream, she set out to transform the space without breaking the bank – and managed to come in a whole £100 under her original £250 budget. 'I just couldn't stand how dark and gloomy it felt – I wanted a fresh, light space where I'd actually enjoy cooking and spending time with my family,' she told What's The Jam. 'The kitchen before was in good condition, but needed a little bit of TLC and I had a vision for the room. 'We did a rough estimate of how much it would cost to completely replace the kitchen from a family friend and we were looking at quite a lot of money - around £2,000 to £3,000 - which was money we didn't have. 'I decided that I was going to do a budget-friendly makeover instead.' She decided not to get new units and opted for a few tins of paint and rolls of vinyl. Natalie roped in her partner and sister to help freshen up the cupboards, wrap the worktops and breathe new life into the handles. She bagged cupboard paint for under £15 a tin, snapped up bargain vinyl from B&Q and picked up all her decorating bits from B&M to keep costs down. The makeover took around a month, squeezed in between shifts and weekends, but the results speak for themselves – the once gloomy kitchen now bright, airy and looking brand new. Natalie said: 'Our original budget was £250 – I didn't want to spend more than that, so to come so far under budget was amazing. 'It was quite a dark room – dark floors, worktops and cupboards and I really wanted to lighten the space up as because of the extension on the back we don't get that much natural light. 'We found the vinyl easy on the straight parts of the worktops, around the sink was a bit fiddly, we watched a few tutorials on YouTube on how to do it around the sink to try and minimise any mistakes. 'My partner Chris actually did most of the sink area as I ran out of patience with it. We repurposed the handles that were already on the units as to replace 14 handles in matte black was quite expensive. 'We gave them a light sand and then we sprayed them with Rust-Oleum black matte spray paint and then sealed with a matte sealant spray. 'We got all our painting supplies from B&M to keep the costs down and budget-friendly – they sell such an amazing range of painting and decorating tools to help with projects like this. 4 'I spent some time researching how to vinyl worktops watching videos on YouTube and TikTok. 'I also got lots of tips from my friend who has done lots of vinyling to change up her rental home.' Natalie, who documented her journey on TikTok, says the whole project took around three to four weeks to complete as she picked it up on days off and weekends. She said: 'It definitely wasn't a quick transformation but that was fine with us, we loved seeing it slowly come together. 'The hardest part for me was probably the vinyling, simply because it took more brain power than the rest, and a lot of patience - something I'm known to not have a lot of. 'We didn't encounter any mistakes, we just took our time with the project - apart from when I spilt paint on my hob. 'If I was to start this project again, I wouldn't change anything – I love how we took our time and worked together to get our final look in here. Rome wasn't built in a day and sometimes time and money restrict a quick transformation. 'I'm all for realistic budget makeovers and those take time. 'The difference it's made is amazing, it's now light and airy, it's really brightened up the room, I'm still obsessed with it now two months down the line.' 'We've had such an amazing reaction to our makeover, my friends and family said it looks like a brand new kitchen and it's had such a good response both on my Instagram and TikTok. 'My advice would be to take your time, it's okay if you don't get a transformation like this done in a day like you can sometimes see on social media. 'My second piece of advice to make sure the longevity of your makeover is prep, prep, prep. 'Spend time prepping your units and surfaces for painting, you'll thank yourself later. 'It just goes to show, you don't always need a big budget – sometimes a bit of patience and a few clever tricks can completely change your home.'
BBC News
3 hours ago
- BBC News
Bradford City of Culture baton finishes district-wide journey
A celebratory baton designed by pupils at a Bradford school is on the final day of a four-week tour of the artwork, commissioned to commemorate the City of Culture year, was created by students at Carlton Bolling and has visited each of the district's 30 electoral journey, which began in the Keighley and Ilkley area, ends in Clayton on Thursday, and has seen hundreds of pairs of hands carry the piece since the start of Boyle, head of art at the school which came up with the design, said: "It's been named the Baton of Cohesion because the whole point of the event is to try and link all the wards together with a single event during the City of Culture year." Mr Boyle said about 20 pupils had been involved with coming up with the distinctive design which ended up resembling the Olympic torch."We've made 10 all together. Of the first four there's one left that's been taped together and is making its way around."But we've made another six in the last week-and-a-half with the idea that hopefully that will get them to the end," he each ward the baton was carried by someone from the local area, with nominations coming via Bradford Council concluding in a celebratory Boyle said: "The Baton of Cohesion has given some students the opportunity to see other parts of Bradford."And I know that seems strange; why aren't they going to other parts of Bradford? "But for some students that is a challenge." Thursday's final handover at Clayton Village will be followed by a special family fun day at Odsal Stadium on Thursday, 31 will happen to the remaining batons is still Boyle said: "I know we've got one for our school. And there are six (in total)."It could be that they're distributed to different organisations in Bradford to hold on to on a permanent basis... depending on how many are left, of course."
