Autumn in Rural Kent: Operation Mousetrap Begins Again

Autumn has started creeping towards us again.

For those of us who have chosen to live out in the sticks, the signs have already begun appearing long before somebody on the television has stood beneath a tree turning copper and gold and announced that summer has officially ended.

The evenings have begun drawing in. The spiders have suddenly achieved the dimensions of small household pets. Leaves have started appearing everywhere except, apparently, on the trees. Garden furniture has needed putting away, hedges have required one final assault and there has always been something outside that ought to have been painted before six months of rain have made the decision for us.

And then there have been the mice.

Country mice have spent the summer perfectly content in fields, hedgerows, sheds and barns, presumably enjoying the rural lifestyle.

But September has arrived.

And, at roughly this point every year, they appear to have held an annual property conference.

Why spend winter underneath a hedge when, just a few yards away, somebody has provided a perfectly serviceable house with insulation, central heating, cupboards and — if they’ve struck lucky — somebody who has dropped biscuit crumbs?

I’ve lived rurally long enough for mice not to have been an entirely unexpected development. They were here before us and will probably still be here when somebody has eventually turned our house into a collection of executive homes called something ridiculous like Mouse Meadow.

My partner, however, has taken a rather different view.

So has our daughter, Sophie.

Their position has been straightforward: no mouse, mice, vole, shrew or anything else possessing whiskers and an inability to contribute towards the council tax has been permitted to spend winter indoors.

Thus, what our son Jack has christened Operation Mousetrap has commenced.

Apparently, this has required equipment.

Lots of equipment.

Boxes have arrived containing traps of various shapes and sizes. Some have looked traditional. Others have appeared sufficiently sophisticated to have been developed by the Ministry of Defence.

Then the great strategic question has arisen.

What bait should have been put in a mousetrap?

“Cheese,” Sophie has announced.

“Why cheese?”

“Because mice eat cheese.”

“How do you know?”

“They just do.”

This has apparently settled the scientific discussion.

The evidence has appeared principally to consist of several decades of cartoons in which mice have demonstrated an overwhelming preference for enormous triangular pieces of Swiss cheese.

Unfortunately, real mice haven’t watched the same cartoons.

The modern consensus has been rather less exciting. Given a choice, mice have tended to prefer things such as seeds, grains, nuts and other energy-rich foods. They’ll certainly eat cheese, but the ancient image of a mouse prepared to cross continents for a lump of Cheddar has owed rather more to popular culture than mouse haute cuisine.

I’ve presented this information to the household.

It hasn’t been well received.

“Rubbish.”

“But—”

“Mice like cheese.”

There have been moments in a long relationship when I’ve had to decide whether being right has actually been worth anything.

This hasn’t been one of them.

I’ve retreated.

Operation Mousetrap has commenced.

Now, you might have imagined that perhaps two traps would have appeared in the loft.

Maybe another has been placed behind the washing machine, one beneath the kitchen cupboards and perhaps a couple have been tucked discreetly away elsewhere if intelligence has suggested particularly heavy enemy activity.

There have been 27.

Twenty-seven mousetraps have been scattered around the house and loft.

Our home has now acquired greater defensive capability than several small nations.

The loft has been heavily fortified, the kitchen has gained forward positions, cupboards have become potential ambush sites and simply walking around certain parts of the house has required the sort of concentration normally associated with crossing an unmarked minefield.

I’ve suggested this might have been excessive.

My opinion has been noted and immediately disregarded.

I’ve also made the mistake of arguing that, because we’ve chosen to live in the countryside, occasionally encountering wildlife has rather come with the territory.

Owls have called outside. Bats have flown over the garden. Foxes have wandered around as though they’ve owned the place. Hedgehogs have turned up occasionally. And mice have occupied an important place in that little food chain.

The household has remained unmoved.

A mouse, I’ve been informed, has been different.

Why?

“Because they’ve come inside.”

It has been difficult to argue with that.

Then, a few days ago, I’ve been sitting at my desk working on something for Shepway Vox when the peace has suddenly been shattered.

Sophie has come charging in.

“WE’VE GOT ONE!”

Her excitement has suggested she has personally captured an international fugitive.

There has indeed been a mouse.

A very small, very dead mouse.

I’ve suggested that we give the unfortunate creature a decent burial somewhere at the bottom of the garden.

Sophie has looked at me as if I’ve proposed a state funeral.

“It’s going in the bin.”

A short discussion has followed.

The bin has won.

Or at least everyone has thought it has.

Later that evening, when nobody has been looking, I’ve retrieved the little fellow and buried him beneath a tree.

Yes, I know.

Soft old fool.

But there we are.

And I’ll confess something else.

On two occasions since, I’ve gone into the loft and deliberately sprung several of the traps.

My family has become convinced that we’ve acquired a remarkably intelligent mouse capable of stealing bait without being caught.

I haven’t corrected them.

Of course, mice inside houses have caused genuine problems. They’ve chewed things, contaminated food and shown an alarming disregard for electrical wiring. Nobody sensible has suggested they should have been given the spare bedroom and added to the electoral register.

But living in the sticks has taught me one unavoidable truth.

Nature has always found a way in.

Spiders have got in. Flies have got in. Birds have occasionally got in. Once, memorably, something has got into one of our sheds that I still haven’t positively identified and have had no great desire to meet again.

That has been country life.

So, as autumn has approached and Britain’s field mice have begun studying the rural property pages for somewhere warm to spend Christmas, I’ve found myself rather hoping we might spare them a thought.

We’ve been able to seal the gaps, put food into proper containers and make the house considerably less attractive to them in the first place.

And if all else has failed, perhaps we should have considered a cat.

At least then the mouse would have had a sporting chance.

Meanwhile, Operation Mousetrap has continued.

Twenty-seven traps have remained deployed.

My partner and Sophie have remained confident.

Jack has been keeping score.

And somewhere out there, I suspect, one extremely confused mouse has been wondering why the cheese has kept disappearing and all the traps have mysteriously gone off before he has got there.

Long may he remain baffled.

The Shepway Vox Team

A Natural Dissentor Of Operation Mousetrap