Spring is bursting into flower all around us, bringing back memories of some of the hassles that arrive with it. Last year we had to deal with half a dozen carob rats who tried to move in with us, mopped up several big black spiders who use our bedroom ceiling as some kind of meeting place, fished God knows how many green tree frogs out of the swimming-pool and cleaned up after the fruit bats who, thankfully, tend to venture further afield when the soft fruits come into season. Once they had pushed off we were left in relative peace, glad to have the place to ourselves again.

This was when the wild pigeons moved in. They were undoubtedly attractive birds, with their cherry-red legs and iridescent neck patches, but they tend to make the most horrendous mess on your (or rather our) balcony, and never stop burbling and muttering as they trample about overhead sounding for all the world as if they are wearing hobnailed boots. I named one Pidge and the other Post (OK, work that one out for yourselves).

They took over the Scops owls’ nest box and began bringing loads of twigs to stuff in it. They showed no fear of us, despite being repeatedly shooed away. Indeed, they became ever bolder by the hour – even wandering inside the house if we had the temerity to leave the windows open. There was no doubt about it. They had to go.

I went up to the village, rather hoping someone with pigeons would be amenable to having a couple more and come down to get them. All I got was a lot of dire warnings on how difficult they were to get rid of and that they were prolific breeders. By the time they had bred a few times, we would be knee-deep in pigeon pooh and wouldn’t be able to sit on our balcony any more. There were only two options open to us, they said. Shoot them or poison them.

Neither option appealed greatly to us. Then Harry came up with the insane idea of feeding them grain soaked in whisky. This would make them drunk, they would fall off the perch and we’d easily be able to catch them and transport them far away to sleep it off. Of course, this would depend on the blasted things not being homing pigeons, but we thought it was worth a try. It didn’t work anyway. We ended up with two very irate pigeons with hangovers, who dropped even more nasty stuff on us from a great height.

We had removed the owl box and, by now, they were bringing in piles of twigs trying to build themselves a nest on top of a false ceiling of trellis. Predictably, it all fell through the gaps in the wooden slats and landed on the floor. It took the dimwits ages to realise this wasn’t going to work, and even then they appeared determined not to give up. Despite the house being pretty well surrounded by trees suitable for nest-building, they chose to lay a couple of eggs in a large earthenware pot that houses a beautiful, scented, climbing stephanotis on the balcony. Now we really felt like the bad guys - there were potential offspring involved.

We found a large cardboard box, stuffed it with the twigs they had left lying around, carefully placed the eggs on top and put it on the sprawling outcrop of rock in the garden, hoping a feral cat wouldn’t come wandering by. Meanwhile we purchased a can of horrible, gooey pigeon deterrent and smeared it on the balcony rails.

Well, the eggs didn’t hatch and they sure as hell didn’t like their feet being sticky. They hung around for a bit then, after a few reproachful looks at us, they headed forlornly off in the direction of the village, where I assume they became some other poor blighter’s problem.

Sheila Hawkins is a well-known local author with five books published in Cyprus. All have been illustrated by artist Harry Hawkins. A permanent exhibition of his work is on display at their studio in Neo Khorio, where visitors are welcomed daily.

For more information telephone 26321123 or visit the website www.hawkinscyprus.com