Noisy French frogs have nothing on my randy croakers

With France beset by debates over raucous wildlife, Will Gore is horrified by the goings on in his garden pond

‘Build it and they will come’ goes the saying, and by God haven’t they just (Getty/iStock)

Rural French folk are getting jumpy, following the news this week that gendarmes are seeking to collar the noisy residents of an elderly lady’s pond in Savoie.

The old bill, apparently ducking more serious issues, had wished to apprehend some very croaky frogs, whose deep, belchy bellowing had been making it hard for a disgruntled neighbour to sleep. The owner of the amphibians’ abode, 92-year-old Colette Ferry, told a regional radio station that she was shocked by what had happened, adding that the police might find it hard to make any arrests, given the frogs’ tendency to hop.

It might all sound like jolly froggy japes, or perhaps a cheeky attempt by the local constabulary to rustle up a cheap and cheerful supper, but there is no doubt that amphibious antics can quickly spiral out of control.

My tiny lockdown pond was the great triumph of our Covid confinement, providing a home for some friendly frogs within mere months of its installation. Since the summer of 2020, we have watched the little blighters lazing in their pool, occasionally splashing beneath its surface, and spawning as winter moves towards spring. There is other wildlife in there too, from snails and water boatmen to newts and any number of water plants, but it’s the frogs that are the pond’s greatest asset.

This year, the first gunky, spunky splurge of frog spawn appeared towards the end of February, which came as a relief since we had seen no signs of activity from our wild pets since the end of last summer. Another jellied dollop was sighted by the kids a couple of days later. We thought that would probably be it.

Like a scene from a 1970s B-movie, dimly-lit figures wriggled and jiggled over one another, vying for action and advantage, hollering with excitement

But shortly afterwards, as we sat watching telly one evening, I heard a strange sound. At first, I thought it was something on the TV programme, then wondered if it was a problem with an electric appliance. My third guess was that one of the children was bouncing on their bed above us. But as I tiptoed about the room, like some sort of mystified detective in an am-dram adaptation of a Poirot novel, I realised that the noise was at its loudest by the window.

Sure enough, it was our very own frog chorus, ribbiting away as if their lives depended on it, no doubt thrilled by the bracing chill in the air and the thought of impending spring. Or more to the point, by the prospect of a massive orgy.

For when I drew back the curtains to see if I could catch a glimpse of our watery pals, what I eventually managed to make out in the darkness was something quite horrifying. Like a scene from a 1970s B-movie, dimly-lit figures wriggled and jiggled over one another, vying for action and advantage, hollering with excitement. At one stage, the whole pond seemed to be a pulsating mass and I could not begin to understand how it could hold so much amphibious life.

I shut the curtains, suddenly feeling prurient, but couldn’t shut out the climactic croaking that shivered its way through the window. I hadn’t been so disturbed by carnal cries since the first year of university, when a pair of randy biochemists woke our entire student accommodation block with their enthusiastic rutting reveille.

Of course, I have no one to blame but myself, given that I created the watery habitat in the first place. “Build it and they will come” goes the saying, and by God haven’t they just. On the plus side, since the merriment of February and March, we haven’t been bothered again by our croaky neighbours, and it is only to be hoped that their French cousins will pipe down too, before they are fished out of Mme Ferry’s pond and make their way onto the menu at a nearby bar-tabac.

Then again, one of the most delicious meals I’ve ever had was frogs’ legs served with artichoke velouté in a swanky restaurant in Dublin of all places. So, if we ever reach the point of despair at the froggo din, I’ll know just what to do...