Less than fantastic Mr Fox.......

The 10yo's new chickens are growing well and are now roaming the grounds, having been evicted from their temporary prison in the walled garden. These rare breed Salmon Faverolles have joined my other birds in the main coop with access to the gardens and fields all day. I'm sad to say that the other 13 hens and 1 rooster, haven't been particularly welcoming.

I've never had such difficulty merging birds to another flock and I'm starting to believe this is because the new birds, though just 12 weeks old, have a rooster among them, though he's barely a chap yet.

I've tried all the tricks, locking them all up together for days on end, feeding them together and even giving them access to 'the bungalo', the granny annex on the side of the main coop so that they don't have to bed down with the grumpy elders. Sadly, each evening as I return home in the dark with the sproglets, there on the front door step are the newbies, huddled together for warmth. It's driving me potty. I really don't want to make a seperate compound for them but it's looking like I might have to, especially after this morning's event.

There are pros and cons to having free range chickens:

Pros.

1. Guilt free rearing
2. Eggs, of course!
3. Less food supplied by you, more grub-gardening done by them
4. Healthier for the chickens who are exercised all day
5. No one area of the garden is destroyed

Cons.

1. Poo everywhere
2. Loss of eggs as the girls lay secretly in the hedges
3. No chance of an early night in the summer months while you wait for the last straggler to pop home so you can lock for the night!
4. Exposure to predators!

Along with the posh chooks' antics, Archie has gone off the rails too.........
(I'm not sure if the well repeated origin for the word posh is true or not but I rather like the explanation: 'Port out, starboard home'. The much-repeated tale is that 'Posh' derives from the 'port out, starboard home' legend supposedly printed on tickets of passengers on P&O Ships (Peninsula and Orient) passenger vessels that travelled between UK and India in the days of the Raj. Another version has it that PO and SH were scrawled on the steamer trunks used on the voyages, by seamen when allocating cabins. http://www.phrases.org.uk/meanings/)  Anyhoo, as I was saying, along with the new birds misbehaving at bedtime, our black hen, Archie, has decided coop sleeping isn't for her either. Although it is chilly-willy out there now, (we dipped to 0° last week,) she's decided to night- roost high in the rhodendendron bush! Normally her elevated nocturnal resting place is reserved for hot summer nights, so this is unprecedented.

Animal bonkers-behaviour is considered normal here at The Larches; so each evening we duly carry the new chooks to the coop and, brandishing a torch, shout into the 20ft rhodendendron,
'Archie, get into bed!' This results in Archie flouncing down from her branch, black as the night, chirping her hen swear words before storming into the coop.

I must admit, when you've had a full day, the dark and the damp penetrating your bones and the children are tired, you do begin to wonder; should we just leave them out, teach them a lesson, hope they get cold enough to seek the warmth of the other hens tomorrow night?

I'm glad we didn't do that last night. This morning I got up at the usual time, 6:30am, and pottered to the sproglet bedrooms to commence defcon 5 of waking them, (a process that can escallate as high as defcon 2!)  After round 1 of encouragement and bright lightbulb treatment I made my way downstairs for caffine reinforcement. On the stairs I stopped, hardly daring to breathe. There, passing below me on the gravel outside the front door, was a fine specimum of Reynard, a striking red fox.

I feared for my friends as he ran about, here and there, bold as brass, hungry. Fortunately the chickens were locked in, the electric fence switched on.

'Look out your windows, NOW!' I called to the household.

My voice must have conveyed a certain something as I heard two thuds as small people rolled out of bed to reach their windows.

There was a silence, a horrified awe as we watched him scurry here and there, exploring. He was both beautiful and terrible to us.

If foxes stole just one chicken to eat I could cope with the loss now and again, but the truth is they don't. They kill all the chickens and take just one. I can't comprehend that.

I let all eighteen chickens out later in the morning and worried as I drove to an appointment in beautiful Hay-on-Wye, the used-book capital of the Universe.

All was well today, there was no loss of life and everyone is tucked up again although my neighbour has since told me that he has lost seven chickens in the past ten days. Fingers crossed for our chums.

Over and out.

Free Range Egg Collecting... the proper way

Take a suitable receptacle, (bucket basket shape,) pull on your wellies, [Lou checks that this tricky little word hasn't been spell checked by the computer. Computer is obsessed by sex and keeps changing wellies to willies, really annoying.]

Where was I? ...Oh yes.. wear appropriate clothing. Currently my appropriate clothing comprises two pairs of sox, one pair of saggy crotch thermal long johns, one pair of tight jeans, (to keep the thermals up,) several jumpers, a light windproof coat, a wool scarf, gardening gloves and my sturdy fake fur. I will, of course, put other layers on when I actually venture outdoors to collect the eggs.

Now, it's best to try to look innocent when egg collecting. We don't need to alert the girls to the fact that you're stealing their children, so practise sauntering. Imagine it is late spring and you are admiring the flowers. Walk in a zig-zag towards the coop so as not to be too obvious.

When you arrive at the coop exclaim loudly,

'Gosh, I'll just lift up this nest box flap and peer in, purely for the purpose of checking if the coop needs cleaning.' [Remember to smile in a nice way.]

To be honest, none of this am dram stuff really works. The girls are wise to the fact that chickens only lay eggs in the nest box when they have no where else to go. When they have access to acres and acres, it's much more fun to play hidey-seeky with the fat girl, [I'm not actually that fat, it's my coat, it makes me look poofy.]

In reality the nest box is usually the last place I check.

Ideally you need to 1.find bucket, 2. dress appropriately 3. make a coffee. All this to be done before you open the hen coop in the morning. Dressed correctly and clutching coffee and basket, pop outdoors and let the girls out. Spread a little food about and make sure they have fresh clean water, rather than a block of ice!

Then sit/stand back and sip coffee. Sure they'll all start eating, drinking and rooster will be doing his thang to the ladies, (urgh!) but sooner or later one of those girls will crave a bit of egg laying.

This is the time to employ your 'innocent look' and ideally you should appear lethargic.

She'll look surreptitiously around, probably give you a stare before picking her skirts up and running like a 6yo who needs the toilet. Here at The Larches the favoured spot for off-piste laying seems to be up behind the compost heap, so said hen, (usually Archie,) darts from the coop area, towards the house, past the front door and up the drive.

As soon as she passes me I launch into commando mode, lethargy forgotten. By tip-toe running up the drive after her, I soon reach the cover of one of the cars before she turns around to check if anyone is following her.

She stops. Checks.

By this time I am slammed against Dizzy Discovery, hardly breathing for fear of being exposed and therefore evade her beady eyes.

Off she goes again and this time I am forced to run for the cover of the Monkey Puzzle tree. Bloody spiky that tree! Again, I am undetected.

Off she goes again but this time it is clear that she has reached her destination; the hollow of the tree in the hedge behind the compost. Ah ha! I will return there later to collect that egg.

All in all, very successful, except I have 20 hens and there are approximately ten nests that are used on a rota basis. I don't need to join a gym really. Clearly the girls confer during the night in order to test my resolve. Last week they lay eggs behind the huge mountain of logs in the woodshed and the saying 'I saw something nasty in the woodshed!' has never been truer. I made it to the top of the unsteady pile and spotted 6 eggs but then the pile moved and I ended up on my derriere. Apparently country folk are taught from an early age not to climb bales or wood stacks, this wasn't mentioned in St John's Wood, London.

Anyhoo, I hope this egg collecting malarkey is now as clear as day. I shall look for an equally challenging subject shortly, possibly regarding hand-rearing lambs as I understand that the sproglets have finally worn their father down.

Till next time. Over, And. Owt! 
 

The Yolk's on us....

Naughty Norah is in BIG trouble.

....I heard a noise in the wood shed and hidden behind a massive bit of wood was Naughty Norah. Under Naughty Norah there were 20 eggs! She clearly doesn't even want to brood them, she lays and goes. Naughty girl.

As I don't know how old these eggs are, I've donated them to the compost heap.

I thought we were a bit low on eggs recently.....especially as Laura used to lay two per day. I miss that lovely hen ... horrid fox.