We were somewhere around Barstow, on the edge of the desert, when the
drugs began to take hold. I remember Gib Bogle
saying something like:

The family had a small beach cottage (a bach in NZ parlance) at a remote
location. No electricity, but with a wood-burning stove. There was a time when
it wasn't visited for a couple of years. On entering the place we were struck
by the great number of dead blowflies littering all the window sills. Looking
in the stove fire-box we found it was stuffed with the dessicated remains of
birds, just bones and feathers. There must have been about 50. They'd come
down the chimney (a steel tube), presumably thinking it was a good place for a
nest, and been unable to get up again. The chimney cap had rusted and fallen
off. The whole place was a bird (and fly) trap.

A couple of years ago I was just about to fire up the oil burner when I
heard a scritching noise from the flue. I took off the bottom inspection
panel and there was a jackdaw a bit the worse for wear, but glad to be
free.