Turns out slugs can’t swim. I’ve just been out with my trusty phone switched to torch mode and a handy recycled takeaway container to see why so many of the plants in my (very) raised beds are failing to thrive. Well you’d fail to thrive too if about a billion slimey little greyish things – and a few whacking great black or orange ones – were chewing away at your skin.
Now if it had been day time and I’d been hunting under pots the slugs would get tipped into the hen run for the delectation of the egg layers, but that doesn’t work after midnight when the hens are tucked up asleep for the night dreaming of whatever it is hens dream of. Those sleepy chirrings and cluckings always sound as if they are dreaming.
Anyway, they aren’t around to gorge on slugs. So I tipped the slugs into the water bowl anyway – a nice deep old washing up bowl. Most seem to have stayed exactly where I dropped them though a few made it out. From experience I know that quite a few of these survivors will decide the safe place to spend the night is under the bowl so tomorrow morning I’ll dump live and dead slugs onto the spot where the ark is being moved to, and the hens will breakfast royally