Yesterday was one of those frustrating days, caused by what we laughingly call April’s ‘sweet Spring showers’. The day dawned glorious – sun-kissed and promising. Grass was reassuringly green, daffs were delightfully golden, birds said variations on ‘tweet!’ All was good.
Inspired, I rushed to put the chicks’ run out on the grass so they could feel the sun and eat fallen blossom (for some reason all poultry adores eating blossom, small chicks no exception). I took Slip’s rug off so he could sunbathe and top up on Vitamin D and I set off on a long walk with Darcy and Indie.
When I was at the further end of the walk, a cold wind arose. It whistled up some ominous clouds which rapidly blotted out the sun and I accelerated, because I knew what would happen next. It did happen: when I was nearly home the sky turned dark purple and it began to hail. I shot home and moved the chicks back indoors under their infra red lamp. They were surprised, but rapidly recovered. Then I whizzed out to the field and put Slip’s rug back on. He hates hail, so was galloping around the field scattering sheep and swearing under his breath. I got his rug on as quickly as possible, but he was blaming me for everything throughout, and I can’t say he was cooperative. Then I rushed home to dry Darcy and Indie who looked as if they had just emerged from a swimming pool.
Then the sun came out and everything steamed. Steamiest of the lot was Slip, who was now too hot in his rug, and blaming me all over again. So I took his rug off and, after a dither, put the chicks out again (which, I should mention here, takes 3 journeys every time – one for the run, one for the box of chicks and one for their food and water bowls). Then I encouraged the dogs outside to dry off in the sun.
And that’s when it started to rain again.
Well, that’s Spring for you, and at least the grass is growing. We’re off to the Sahara wild-camping next week which is guaranteed to produce a couple of weeks of gladsome warm weather back in the UK: it always does.