A small wildlife park that shaped weekends, school trips and quiet birthdays is about to fall silent. After **17 years** of hand-feeding goats, damp picnic benches and muddy wellies, the owners say the gates will soon close for good. The question is no longer if, but how a community says goodbye.
The first thing I noticed was the sound. Not the peacocks or the chatter around the café hatch, but *a hush that felt like Sunday morning*. Keepers moved with a careful rhythm, eyes soft, hands steady, as if tucking in a house they loved. A child pressed their face to the glass and waved at a tortoise that didn’t wave back. Something had changed.
What a final season really looks like
On a raw, bright morning, the turnout felt both ordinary and not. The car park was the same patchwork of family saloons and muddy vans, the paths the same braid of prams and school shoes. People bought bags of feed and walked a little slower, like they were memorising where the puddles live.
A dad told me his daughter learned to say “otter” here, years ago, small fingers tight in his jacket. He pointed toward the bridge where she dropped a biscuit and squealed when a nosy duck stole it. Attendance is down by around a fifth on quiet days, he guessed, and the café card machine had that weary beep you only hear near closing time.
Costs went the other way. Heating reptile houses, sourcing feed, double-checking enclosure standards, paying for specialist vets, renewing insurance at rates that make your eyes water. A wildlife park doesn’t scale like a coffee chain. Margins are thin, winters are long, and a wet holiday week can tilt a season. The owners faced a choice between limping on or leaving with dignity.
What happens next — and how you can genuinely help
If you’re nearby, the most useful gesture is simple: visit on the **last open weekend** if there is one, buy something small, and thank a keeper. Online, share updates from the park’s own channels, not rumour-heavy groups. If they publish a wishlist, stick to it. Heat lamps and hay bales beat random boxes of carrots every time.
Some mistakes come from kindness. Turning up with “rescued” animals creates headaches and paperwork. Offers to adopt exotics at home usually can’t be accepted. Let’s be honest: nobody really does that every day. Transporting animals is specialist work. Grief also plays weird tricks; people argue about closure like it’s a referendum. Breathe, donate if you can, and write a message that a tired staffer can read after a 12-hour shift.
Staff say the priority is **homes for every animal** with licensed, inspected facilities. One keeper put it like this:
“We started as a place for families to meet nature up close. We’re ending with the same promise: the animals go first.”
- Rehoming partners are lined up for species that need specialist care, with supervised moves.
- Public updates will be posted once each transfer is confirmed, not before.
- Donations help cover transport crates, vet checks and microchip paperwork.
- Unused pre-booked tickets may be refunded or converted to the transfer fund.
A goodbye that lingers
We’ve all had that moment when a familiar place suddenly feels like a photograph. You step between the aviary and the picnic lawn and realise you’re walking through a story you won’t get to finish. The smallness of it is what hits hardest. This was never a grand zoo with a brass band. It was a clatter of wellies, a keeper who remembered your kid’s name, a goat that nibbled a sleeve and made you laugh when you didn’t expect to.
Loss sits in the oddest corners. The chalkboard in the café still lists the soup of the day. The gift shop smells of cinnamon and sawdust. The handwashing station is plastered with stickers that toddlers peeled and tried to re-stick. And yet there’s a steadiness in the goodbye. Animals are being matched, paperwork is moving, the path home for each creature is becoming a map instead of a wish.
Maybe that’s the heart of it. Places like this don’t vanish; they change address in people’s heads. If you visited once, you carry a sunny Tuesday here for the rest of your life. If you worked here, the muscle memory of early feeds will live in your bones. You can share a photo, tell a story, buy a final bag of pellets. It won’t fix everything. It might mend a corner.
| Key points | Details | Interest for reader |
|---|---|---|
| Closure after 17 years | Owners cite rising costs, thin margins, and seasonal instability | Explains why a beloved place can’t keep going in today’s economy |
| Animal-first exit plan | Licensed rehoming partners, vet checks, staged transfers and updates | Reassurance that welfare is prioritised and how to follow progress |
| How to help meaningfully | Visit once more, donate to transfer fund, share official updates, follow wishlist | Clear steps to turn sadness into practical support |
FAQ :
- Why is the wildlife park closing?Rising energy bills, feed and veterinary costs, insurance, and the stop-start recovery in visitor numbers made the business unsustainable over the long haul.
- What will happen to the animals?They’re being matched with licensed zoos, sanctuaries and specialist centres. Moves are scheduled in stages, with vet oversight, species-specific transport and public updates once each placement is confirmed.
- Can I get a refund for unused tickets or memberships?Most parks offer a choice: a pro‑rata refund or converting the balance into a donation for rehoming and transport costs. Check the park’s official notice for the exact process and deadlines.
- Can I adopt or take an animal home?Private adoptions of exotic or regulated species aren’t possible. You can still “adopt” symbolically to support transfer costs, or donate items from the published wishlist.
- Is there any chance it could be saved?It would require new funding, long-term operating support and regulatory approvals. If a credible rescue bid appears, the owners will say so. Until then, the focus is on a safe, orderly goodbye.
You were never a grand zoo, but you were our Sunday ritual. My son learned to say “otter” by the bridge, and a duck stole his biscuit — we still laugh about it. Knowing the animals go first helps, but Im still gutted. I’ll swing by on the last weekend, buy a bag of pellets, and thank the keepers properly. Farewell, muddy wellies and peacocks. You made ordinary days feel special. Thank you, truly. 😢