Tag Archives: hens

Sealing the deal, the old-fashioned way (YUK!)

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I bought a galvanised hen drinker from a dear old Wiltshire man a couple of days ago.  He’d found a stash of them in the back of his dreadful old shed, and thought he’d make an honest penny by flogging them.  I needed a new one ever since Tallboy (enormous, ancient polo pony) trod on ours by mistake.  I’ll never know what a very large horse was doing in the hen run, and he was so old and sweet that I didn’t make an issue of it.  But from then on the hens have refreshed themselves out of a saucepan, which gives the hen run that ‘tinkers backyard’ look.

So when I saw an advert on a dog-eared postcard in the Post Office which said “Hen Drinkers ten quid”, written in wobbly pencil, the moment seemed right to restock.  I knew the address, one of those cottages which look very picturesque from the outside as long as you don’t have to go inside.  All thatch, and tiny windows, and rising damp.  He came shambling out, and we went and admired his line of hen drinkers and they were very nice.  In fact mine seems new.  Somebody in his family at some stage obviously had an obsessive hen drinker habit, and just couldn’t go past a farming shop without laying another one in.

So all was fine and dandy.  I produced a ten pound note and picked up the hen drinker and – here is the point of this blog, stick with me – he spat copiously on his hand and offered it to shake. Yuuuuuuuuuk!!!  Complete, utter gross-out!!!

What on earth do you do?  What would YOU do?  Here is this sweet elderly chap with his hen drinkers, pleased at a sale and wanting to seal the deal in the traditional way.  And there was his leathery palm covered in spit being shoved in my direction.

Well I’ll tell you what I did.  I shut my eyes and shook on it.  Our hands met with a squelch, and I walked away with a happy smile while he waved at me over his picturesquely rotting fence.  Then the second I was out of his sight, I wiped my hand on grass until it nearly came off.  Then I rushed home and soaked it in Dettol.

And the funny thing is that while I was walking away, my hand covered in slime, I was thinking:  “well at least I can write about this in my blog!”  Sure enough, it’s been very therapeutic, so thank you for that.  And the hens just love their new drinker.  So on that positive and wholesome note:  HAPPY EASTER!!!

An impulse!

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I was standing in the queue at the village Post Office yesterday when an old lady (also in the queue) said without any warning at all “anybody want a nice little cockerel?”  She was one of those old ladies wearing as many layers as an onion, with a strange bobble hat sitting on top of her head.  We get a lot of them around here.

Without thinking I asked what her nice little cockerel was like, and then I was doomed.  She marked me down instantly as a mug and within seconds had established that he was free to a good home, lovely little chap (much emphasis on ‘little’) just right for my bantams (how did she know I had bantams?) and I’d be hearing from her.  Short of instant emigration, there was no way I could back out of it now.

Long term readers of this blog will know that I am not short of cockerels, the reverse.   We already have Boris (King Henry VIII in bantam form), Wenceslas (laid-back party animal) and Moomin (small, fat and slightly strange).  That’s enough, it really is.  But of course I’d done it now.

Sure enough, this morning there was an unexplained box in the porch when I opened the door.  Loosely tied with bailer twine and containing something very boisterous.  Forewarned is forearmed – I took the box to an empty pen and cautiously opened it.  A multicoloured typhoon exploded out and started doing laps of the pen, hysterically yelling as he ran.  I waited until the cockerel (for indeed it was he) had paused, exhausted, and took stock of him.  He isn’t little.  He’s big.  He’s a breed known as Scots Grey and nothing like a bantam.  His feathers are mottled black, white and grey and he has a huge bright red comb and a flag-like stripy black/white tail.  He doesn’t like people one bit.

And yet, and yet (this is the strange thing) I think he’s fab!  He’s a glorious cuckoo colour.  He’s a really interesting breed and (this is really important) the hens are all making like true Beliebers at a Justin Bieber concert.  They are lined up against the wire of his little pen simply aching for him.  In a while, when things have settled down, I’ll choose about six of the biggest and feistiest bantams and take the whole thing on a stage.

I’ll keep you informed.  I really, really didn’t need him but hey!  what is life if you can’t sometimes be impulsive in the Post Office queue?

Indie. A pirate.

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Apart from Flat Whippets, I haven’t written about Indie for a while and this is an oversight because he is quite something.  For a whippet he is most unusual, as he is afraid of nothing and he is never cold.  But then there is his alter ego – the Black Moth, a pirate.  And for a pirate he is completely typical, swashbuckling around the place looking for treasure to pillage.  Yesterday’s booty, for example, was the whistle out of the Aga kettle:  he seized it from the kitchen worktop and sailed off into the garden with it where he presumably made it walk the plank, because it was never seen again.  Now the kettle has no whistle, and keeps boiling dry.

He is growing into a very beautiful whippet, shining black with white extremities.  The overall effect is of a dog wearing immaculate evening dress, including white gloves all round.  Training goes in leaps and bounds:  he is intelligent and knows what is wanted, but the question is whether he will bend his proud spirit to do what is required.  Pirates are like that – they don’t do mindless obedience.

We’re coming to an agreement that hens and sheep are off limits when it comes to piratical activity.  Geese, on the other hand, he sees as fair game.  When the Black Moth sees geese heaving over the horizon, he puts his vessel on war footing, loads his cannons and he’s away.  You can practically see the cutlass between his teeth and his gold earring glinting as he prepares to board the enemy.  The geese are well up for it, every one of them a scurvy varmint.  Then we have the grand naval battle, with Porous (gander) firing all cannons at the Black Moth, who leaps, laughing, out of the way and then swings in out of the sun on the rigging, his cutlass dripping with the blood of the unwashed.  Anyway, it’s very noisy and usually ends with the Black Moth insolently chewing up a cast-off feather just out of reach of the hysterical geese.

Indoors, he tends to put off his piracy (apart things like the kettle whistle, just to keep his hand in) and is a delightful chap to have around the place.  He is polite, clean in his habits and excellent company.  He confers style on a chair just by lounging on it.  The Labradors regard him with mixed emotions: they are very fond of mild mannered Indie, but when he hoists the skull and crossbones, they retreat to their baskets and don’t venture out until the Black Moth has hung up his cutlass for the day.

The Orchard Field

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I’m spending a lot of time in the Orchard Field at the moment, poulticing Slip’s foot.  It’s not a field we use very often, as the other fields have better access to the road, the stables, the stream etc.  The plus point about the Orchard Field is that it has no mud, because it’s been empty over the winter, so is the perfect place for a horse with a hole in his hoof to convalesce.

Slip’s had a foot abscess, poor chap.  It was undeniably painful and not helped by the thigh-deep liquid mud in the gateways of the main fields, but he’s made the most of it because he is a flower.  Harry, who’s tough as granite, would have risen above the whole thing long ago.  Slip, on the other hand, still lifts a trembling limb in the air and hobbles theatrically about on three wobbly chestnut legs every time I visit.  It’s a different story when I’m watching him quietly from afar, he hardly limps at all when he forgets about himself.

Anyway, back to the Orchard Field.  It’s lovely.  Because I’m around so much, the predators are keeping their distance and I’m letting the hens out of their muddy hellhole of a henrun to strut and amble in the grass.  They are thrilled, and they all have bright red combs to show that they are laying eggs which they cleverly secrete where I will never find them.  Until, that is, the day that I’m strimming around the base of an apple tree and hit a long-abandoned nest and the air fills with stinking gloop.

The geese are well chuffed too, because they now have access to the big tub of water I’m keeping filled for the horses.  The geese leap in with glad cries and swim about, looking like enormous grey and white bathroom ducks.  It’s not a habit I encourage because it grosses the horses out to have geese swimming in their drinking water (which I can understand) so I’m constantly having to empty and refill the thing.

Most of all it’s the wildlife that I’m enjoying so much.  Because the field is so little used, it’s got a busy population of the sort of people who like a bit of privacy.  This morning there was a covey of partridges picking their way under the wall, and there are several magnificent pheasants that seem to regard the field as their own personal fiefdom.  I often hear and see buzzards flying overhead, and I can understand this because the field itself is a carpet of small furry squeaky things.  It’s all go in the Orchard Field, and because I spend a long time standing motionless under Slip’s furry stomach fiddling about with the poultice, the local population forget I’m there and I become part of what’s going on.  It’s great.

Snow! (aargh!)

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I was feeding the animals at an early hour yesterday when it suddenly got (even) colder and (even) darker and started to sleet.  This was bad enough, but then it began to snow, great white blankets of the stuff.  The hen said ‘blow this for a lark’ and went straight back to bed.  The geese seemed unaffected, their orange rubber legs must contain some sort of antifreeze, and they trundled around the orchard as usual looking for apples beneath the snow.  The sheep seemed quite pleased, it reminded them of their ancestral roots in the Shetland Islands.  And the dogs did the goofy Labrador thing, and jumped about with snow on their noses being cheerful.

But I thought “OH NO! NOT ALREADY!!”  I’ve never got used to winter.  I know that it’s the time when the earth can rest, and we can rush about in bobble hats throwing snowballs and singing cheerful songs, but I just hate being cold.  My experience of winter is that the fields turn into mud, and the water troughs freeze, and my fingers want to fall off.  I love spring/summer/autumn but you can keep winter.  For two joyful years we lived in Australia, and there they just missed it out completely.  In Melbourne we went from autumn to spring in one easy movement, and it felt great.

I rushed indoors and lit a woodburning stove and put on my seasonal Nordic jumper, the one with knitted stags in it, and tried to get into the winter vibe.  But then the sun came out, surprisingly warm, and melted all the snow.  The hens re-emerged, the geese chased the hens, the Labradors had more jolly fun jumping in puddles and I felt too hot in my Nordic jumper.

We’ve been reprieved for the moment.  But only for the moment.  Winter is on its way alright, and I’ve got my annual desire to emigrate back to Oz which only wears off in March.

Chutney (with help)

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I’ve been making plum chutney.  I’m not a naturally gifted cook but I back myself with chutney – for some reason it turns out nicely, as does Christmas pudding and (surprisingly) cup cakes.  Anything else I cook tends to be singed or strangely liquid.  I find chutney satisfying at every step of the process, so I happily headed out into the orchard to begin gathering the raw materials.

The geese rule the orchard and were most accommodating when I approached the apple trees.  This has not been a great year for apples and they had eaten all the windfalls.  So they encouraged me up my ladder and then waited below, devouring any apples that I dropped by mistake.  On a primeval level I was playing the part of a chimpanzee swinging through the rainforest canopy picking fruit, while the geese were the forest hogs, hanging around in the leaf litter and gobbling my discards.

Then I went into the garden where the plum trees live.  There are even fewer plums than apples this year and also (every cloud has a silver lining) hardly any wasps.  I suppose it’s been so cold and wet that they have spent the summer indoors.  But any wasps that are still around make a bee-line (wasp-line?) for the plums and gorge themselves.  Then they fall off and lie in a plum-soaked stupor underneath the plum tree, which is where Duffy the peacock comes into the picture.  To me, wasps look bristly, leggy and poisonous, but to Duffy they look like a nourishing snack and he just snaps them up.  So I carefully picked some plums, the wasps lay around in attitudes beneath me, and Duffy made a pig of himself.

Next up were the tomatoes in the greenhouse, and here the hens came into their own.  They love coming into the greenhouse, because it’s full of interesting piles of sacks where they can lay an illicit egg in comfort, and interesting trays of seedlings which they can scratch up.  I don’t love them coming into the greenhouse for all the above reasons.  So I collected tomatoes, keeping the door shut, and took them back to the house.  When I next went up past the greenhouse, there was Curly watching me expressionlessly through the glass, waiting to be let out.  Yes, she had been in there and yes, she had scratched in the tray of winter lettuce seedlings that will now never make us nice and healthy in the coming months.  And I just know that one day, a few weeks hence, I will pick up a sack and a rotten egg will fall out and smash on the floor and fill the atmosphere with horror for days.

Still, for the record, the plum chutney is now made and looks most promising.

Rain (again)

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Rain.  It’s always at the forefront of my mind at the moment.  I’m sure I can remember a time when green, trembling Spring developed into glorious warm Summer followed by mellow golden Autumn then by crisp icy Winter but all we seem to get in this particular corner of England is grey soggy sameness.  Whatever the time of year it’s damp, mild-ish, grey/white skies, heavy dew and usually drizzle.

This morning for instance I struggled into wellies, coat, hat to go and do the round of feeding and checking animals.  A horse came past and a friendly voice hailed me, and when I looked up all I could see was a cone of Gortex riding along.  Could have been anybody – all identifying features of both horse and rider were swathed in waterproofs.  It’s like living in a grey-tiled bathroom with the shower constantly dribbling cold-ish water down on us.

The English, bless them, rise to the occasion.  We still plan fetes, garden parties, shows and ploughing matches and either trudge about in them underneath serious hats and umbrellas saying things like “I’m sure they said it was going to improve by teatime”, or if they get cancelled “do you remember five years ago?  It was lovely then”.  But really, by the law of averages, we deserve just a little let up soon.

We have a sort of stream running through the property.  I say ‘sort of’ because it’s a winterbourne – only flows in the winter months.  In between it’s just a grassy ditch in which lambs like to hide and then jump out to surprise their mothers.  Not this year though: it’s run steadily since April.  In a way it’s nice, because as time goes by it looks more and more stream-like and I start to wonder when the first minnows and crayfish will arrive.  But it’s not spring-fed, it’s just a drainage ditch and it’ll never really be a proper stream.  It’s a shame for this year’s lambs.  Without a ditch to play tigers in they were at a loose end until I brought a bale of straw into the field for them.  Then they played king of the castle instead, until the bale gave up the unequal struggle and exploded, and their mothers boringly ate it.

The horse field is mud, and the sheep field is dripping grass, and the hens are on strike because their dust baths aren’t dusty.  The geese love it, and spaddle about in the puddles sneering at all the less aquatic animals.  The dogs are continually getting muddy up to their armpits and coming indoors and shaking messily over everything.  Cat gets wet and zips rapidly upstairs and onto somebody’s bed where he cleans himself thoroughly and transfers the debris to the duvet cover.  And my wellies leak.  Please come back, sun, you are so badly missed!

My village book launch

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I’ve been thinking a lot about my book launch recently (quick plug: Tales from a Stone Cottage – collected Country Living columns plus extra funny bits due out any minute).  A glitzy London book launch, with right-on literary figures uttering bon mots and anybody currently escaping from a jihad hiding beneath the table, isn’t really my thing.  And it would be nearly impossible to tempt any of the villagers who have been such a rich and continuing source of inspiration up to London (“Lunnon?  I went there once to the Royal Show, to see tractors.  That underground railway thing was awful, made me feel like the poor old cattle, bouncing up and down in the cattle lorry.  Never again.”)

So I decided to have a small local book launch, a thank you to the village for encouragement, instruction and (it has to be said) entertainment.  We’ll have it in Anna’s Post Office, and we’ll eat home-made cakes and drink tea out of friendly mugs.  If anybody would like a book (or lots of books) I’ll sign one for them (or lots), but the occasion will be a celebration, with no pressure to buy.

The book launch is already getting a life of its own.  And (this being the village) it is a sprightly and spontaneous sort of life.  Take the cakes:  several kind friends and neighbours have offered to bake cakes and Phyllis has said she’ll bring her Special Courgette cake.  Now the thing about Phyllis’ Special Courgette cake is that it tastes – weird.  And is coloured strangely green.  I wouldn’t offend Phyllis for the world, but nor do I want to offer the villagers a faintly slimy green cake.  So I’ve got to think of a way of conjuring it out of sight without Phyllis noticing.  Or feed it all to Frank, her husband, in large wedges.  He’s got an enormous appetite and seems immune to Phyllis’ cooking.

Then there are the animals.  My columns have always featured as many animals as I could get away with, and it would be nice to include them in the photos. There is a Post Office cat of huge character and majestic demeanour who should be in any photograph.  But several friends are bringing their dogs, a rich mix of everything from Labradors to scruffy terriers.  And I really don’t want the photos to feature a cat-hunt (or, knowing the cat concerned, a dog-hunt).  There will be at least one pony and certainly a hen.  I’d like to have a ferret in attendance, but Frank who is the local ferret expert, can’t be trusted not to let his ferrets go in the Post Office, and that would not be ideal.

So as you can see, I’ve got quite a bit of subtle and sensitive planning to do in the next couple of weeks.  I’ll keep you updated!

Going, going, gone!

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Well, the deed is done, the die is cast and I’ve just waved goodbye to Pavlova.  He rode triumphantly away in a massive silver car, gazing calmly out of the back of a pastel coloured cat carrier.  He will be perfect in his new job as eye candy for bored horses – he’s dazzling white, so shows up well, and spends his waking hours fussing, and parading, and doing interesting things for horses to enjoy watching.  He’ll have three lovely new wives, and his human carers are longing to welcome him in.

As anybody who has been reading this for a while will know, this hasn’t been an easy decision.  Pavlova is a fine fellow and looks like a mobile meringue, for which I treasure him.  But there is strong competition for the job as hen run stud.  Wenceslas is not up for negotiation – he’s mad as a bucket of frogs, but in the nicest way possible.  And I admire his playboy lifestyle, and the way he gets on with everybody.  Wenceslas stays.

And as for the young upstart Moomin (see previous photo of Moomin surrounded by a phalanx of admirers) – he’s got whatever it is that the girls are looking for.  They admired Pavlova and followed him about, but they really adore Moomin.  Wherever he goes, he takes a trail of the ladies with him, making admiring comments and laughing at his jokes.  And he’s still a teenager, at the spots and defensive attitude stage.  When he grows into his full plumage he will be a gorgeous sight, with his pale lavender feathers.  Next year’s chicks, if Moomin gets a look in beside Wenceslas, should be really pretty.

But the main reason I decided to move Pavlova on, of the 3 available, is that he has never really taken to human beings.  He arrived here from a more commercial enterprise, and must have suffered some childhood trauma.  Ever since he moved in, he has regarded me (or anybody else who enters the run, it’s not personal) as The Enemy.  Whereas the hens and two of the cockerels come charging over when they see me, all feathers and cheerful comments, Pavlova walks purposefully away and stands behind the hen house, peering out at me with a cold eye.

I love my hens, and I find it upsetting to have one staring at me as if I’m carrying a dripping axe and planning Coronation Chicken for supper.  I’ve been trying to make friends for a year now, and it ain’t going to work.  So away he goes to his stable yard, where nobody will be trying to be his best friend apart from his new harem.  I think it will work well for all concerned, fingers crossed!

Which shall it be?

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We’ve had a Situation in the hen run.  It’s been developing for weeks but it finally came to a head a couple of days ago.  The problem is one which everybody who hatches out some darling little fluffy chicks will know well:  50% of them (give or take) will be hens – egg layers, cluckers, dawdlers.  And 50% will be cockerels – strutters, crowers, and (if necessary) fighters.

After a few trials and tribulations, we have ended up with 3 cockerels.  Wenceslas, who is a pacifist, and obsessive dustbather.  He never shows interest in the ladies, though the fact that most of this year’s chicks look exactly like him means that midnight bedroom creeping must go on.  Then there’s Pavlova, who was brought in as a stud cockerel when the hens kept laughing at Wenceslas.  Pavlova is a white pekin, magnificent, snowy-white (except for the muddy bits) and posturing.  He’s got an understanding with Wenceslas, and stands in one corner of the hen run waving his flags and yelling while Wenceslas is deep inside his favourite dustbath far away, presumably crooning love songs to his ladies under his breath.

And then (this is the interesting bit) there is Moomin.  He is a lavender pekin, and was given as a present with little blue Mymble, another pekin.  He arrived very young and was meant to be a little girl pekin.  Only he isn’t, he’s all Boy.  He ignores Wenceslas completely but has started to hang around Pavlova making abusive and personal remarks.  Pavlova tried rising above it, but when Moomin asked him for the 16th time who he thought he was looking at, Grandad, Pavlova couldn’t bear it any longer and went for the jugular.  Moomin put aside his virtual hoodie and Converse trainers and went right back at him, hammer and tongs.

So now everybody (except Wenceslas, who is keeping a low, low profile) is upset.  The hens are upset because they don’t like fighting.  With the possible exception of Dolly who seemed to be holding the chaps’ coats while they plugged each other and cheering them on – that girl will go far.  Pavlova and Moomin are separated and upset and are yelling obscenities at each other from their respective pens.  And I like the hens to be happy, and unhappy hens don’t lay eggs.

So when a friend mentioned that the livery yard she keeps her horse at are looking for a bantam cockerel to live there with 3 new wives and provide the stabled horses with something to look at, I got my bid in quick.  But which shall it be?  The jury is out, but I’ll have to make my mind up asp …