It’s interesting how certain memories from the past linger in one’s mind. Brian Aldred’s pigeon shed was far from a pretty sight. It was constructed from spare pieces of off-cuts of wood that he had collected over the weeks and months from Lindfords, the wood merchants in Cannock. The shed leaned more like a tired old man against a pub wall. It resembled a patchwork quilt made from scavenged timber—bits of old doors, some warped planks, and even a slice of corrugated iron from who knows where. You could easily guess what was inside, as the whole structure exuded the rich, earthy, and slightly dusty smell of pigeon. It wasn’t just a shed, it was Brian’s sanctuary.
Inside, it was dimly lit. Small wire mesh windows let in strips of weak sunlight. The air was thick with the cooing and wing-flapping. Shelves lined the walls. Each shelf held a breeding pair. They were all on their perches, eyeing you. Brian would talk to them. Sweet-talk them. He’d croon about race day. He’d tell them how good they were. Forrest Avenue was not unique. Every other garden seemed to have a similar, slightly off-kilter structure. A shed that had seen better days. A proud little pigeon loft. The Walsall Road end of Cannock was a collection of these back-garden empires. Each man, with his flock, was waiting for glory. Or a mild chuckle from one of his younger brothers when they came home late. It was serious business. For the men, that is. Wives usually just wanted the laundry line clear of droppings.
The pigeon man.. One of his sheds was at the back of our garden and we used to hear him swearing all the time. It was fascinating watching the birds circle and come back.. I never saw him I only heard him. Im not sure if its the same guy or a relation but i remember those pigeons..Our cat liked the pigeons too but don’t worry she never got to them.
By Robert James Keene 2025