This week we were finally able to organise the diary in order to take the 10yo's Salmon Faverolle, 14 week old, pullets and cock to the poultry auction. If you've read the blog regularly over the last 4 years you may be aware that I've had some interesting times there in the past, more relating to the clientele than the process. There was the time I bought a huge Bantam family for an extortionate amount of money and another time when I nearly scored myself a 'lovely' Welsh boyfriend!
So, emotionally prepared, I made plans for our upcoming sale. I decided that another recent hatchling would be sold too; a bantam cock, and that we would make a trio of birds by selling two of our bantam girls with him (these girls from the original bantam family I bought in 2011.)
The children were thrilled when I woke them at 5.45am on the morning of the sale...Not! We live an hour from the auction and really needed to be there and commandeer a cage by 6.30am. We were so early that the Hubby wasn't even awake and so I crept about the bedroom, putting a pant in a leg, a boob in a bra, a toe in a sock as quietly as I could, gathering up bits I needed from the nightstand. All was going well until I fumbled for one item too many and managed to drop everything in my arms onto my full coffee cup which exploded an earthy colour over Kindles, notebooks and carpet! I swore, Hubby sat up, confused. #Disaster1.
Promising to clean up later, I escaped to Task 2: ushering sproglets downstairs. This was fairly easy and so I was lulled into a false security for Task 3: Loading the birds.
The previous night I had segregated the birds we were taking to the auction so that it would be easy to box them and go. Ha! Within the first 5 minutes I had lost a hold on the young Bantam cock... (steady!) and he was free. The 10yo and I briefly tried to catch him but he was wise to us and we were forced to give up. #Disaster2. By now we were running late.
With Salmon Faverolles safely in a box, we arrived at the auction at 7am, just 30 minutes late. Bearing in mind that the sale didn't start till 10am I was sure we would be in good time to cage up. I was almost wrong. There was just one cage available in our section of birds. We quickly disgorged our cardboard box, settling our girls and boy with water and corn housed in makeshift feeders made from plastic 1 pint milk containers, (v. Blue Peter) their handles cut to make them easier to hang on the bars of the cage. Finally I could breathe.
Between 7am and 10am we fed ourselves on meat market bacon butties and tea and even had time to dash the couple of miles into the centre of the city for home supplies.
I'm pleased to say our birds sold well (though Rockefellers we are not) and it was gratifying to note that #Disaster3 never really occurred, unless you count the monsoon-like weather that ensued for the rest of the day and I don't.
The 10yo is considering investing her 'millions' in an egg incubator so that she can turn out chicks to order, now that she's had a taste of earning.... Lordy help us!
We are no further with the decorating, life has whizzed passed and we are living in upside down world where dishes, pots, pans etc are secreted in every place in the house, other than the place they ought to live - the kitchen. At least the dust has settled and I'm sure by the 15th wash-down, it will be safe enough to begin our painting.
The roosters have gone.... can't quite tell you where, for fear of exposing myself to recrimination from the sproglets. For now, let's just say they went to the poultry auction.....
The cold has finally arrived and I have been forced, on three nights, to light my paraffin heater in the green house. So far, the plants look fine and I ventilate the space well when I can. It's these chilly days when I sit in my office and write and edit and edit and write, that I want tea and hot buttered toast and stew and potatoes and very possibly Coq au Vin! I'll have to check my freezer for good ingredients!
A new cat has appeared on the site. He looks very like Tabby or Benny and from a distance we thought it was one of our boys. But this one is tubby. He's really friendly and I can't believe he doesn't belong to someone. For now he's content to sleep with the horses in the stables, though he has politely asked to come indoors and soon I feel sure he will suss the cat-flap. I'm not against him adopting us really, I just don't want Tabby or Benny to leave home because of him. We'll see what happens.
The 9yo has been petitioning for lambs and while there is a stable we can use to house some cades, (orphans we'll raise by bottle,) our fences are only good for corralling bigger beasts. What. To. Do? I suppose it electric fencing, but this is a whole new foray for us. The farmers around here have all raised cades and they tell me 'NO, DON'T DO IT!'
Then again, that means that they've done it and have had that experience. I'm pleading the Doubting Thomas card on this one, basically I've got to see how bad an experience it is for myself.
IF we do get 2 cades, one for the 9yo, one for the 7yo, they'll be long-term pets, raised as lawn mowers...... hmmmm, we'll see.
This morning I was reminding the sprogs about rehearsing guitar for their Thursday lesson. I've constructed quite a good rewards chart on a white-board in the kitchen (covered in dust!) and have displayed pretty decent prizes in the glass cabinet of the Welsh dresser. A friend remarked that this was like an elaborate arcade game and she's quite right. With 7 points the sprogs get to choose a prize. This morning the 9yo won a bottle of mouth wash. Don't mock! Whatever floats their boat is in that dresser.
Guitar practise is one of the steps in my incentive programme........ I'm sure I did something similar to car dealers when I worked for Nissan a zillion years ago!
'Don't forget guitar tonight,' said I. 'You've got to learn the new tune you've been given by Thursday, so's your teacher can test you.'
There were groans from the back seat as we drove to school this morning.
'We'll check out your tune on the Internet again,' I said to the boy. 'So that we can try to remember how it goes, as I just don't know it.'
It's easy for me when they get set a tune like Jingle Bells or Twinkle Twinkle, I know those tunes and can hum along, but this new one La Bergamasca, though sweet, is new to me and I can't quite fix it in my head. Therefore can't tell if they are playing the correct notes or not but it's great to see and hear it being played online.
'How old are you mummy?' Boy asked.
I smiled, clever ruse really, trying to change the subject.
'I'm 46 but I want you to tell everyone that I'm 43.' I replied.
'Why?'
'Because.'
'OK,' he said. 'But if you're 46 you should know the tune. Mr Burgess, [the guitar teacher,] said it was a really old tune and as you're really old, you should know it.'
'Good point,' said I. Sob..... that's not S.O.B....just sob! sniff.
A POULTRY AUCTION
Pre-Auction (Selling) Things to do...
Identify birds for sale
Segregate the blighters
Find suitable box(es) for transportation
Pack food and water for them....gin for you
Wear nothing you care about
At Auction (Selling) Things to do...
Get there stupidly early to bagsy an early lot/cage
Beg everyone for help
Take birds out of the box(es) and place into the selling cages without losing them...sheesh!
Listen and act on all free advice offered, (if the veterans sense you are a virgin seller they will offer tons of advice) NB If the person looks like a complete numpty, consider the advice carefully...
When your birds sell, don't cry, interview the new prospective parents or ask if you can visit.
This morning just after 6:30am I packed up the Bantam roosters and three of the girls, decided against the gin, and drove off into the sunrise towards Hereford.
It was a beautiful morning, cool not cold with not a whisper of a breeze, and I could hardly hear the pitiful cries of the chickens over the audio book, (Philip Pullman's The Amber Spyglass - brilliantly read by the author and actors.)
By the time I pulled into the livestock market, some twenty-five miles away from home, the sun was up and it was more like a summer morning than an autumn one. The market looked like a huge unfinished metal shed, unfinished because one side is open to the elements displaying the containment rails to keep cattle, pigs or sheep from escaping. It looks like an empty DIY or Wall-Mart superstore.
I wore old jeans, wellingtons and a baggy jumper together with my usual smile, the smile is invaluable for seeking out new friends in unfamiliar situations. While I unpacked my chickens, the transit van next to me in the car park was disgorging its colourful characters and their birds, (just for clarity by birds I mean birds, not street slang birds, though I strongly suspect these chaps were intimately acquainted with quite a few birds, if you know what I mean, nudge-nudge!)
By their voices I knew these chaps were Welsh and I would have described them as farmers, except that their earrings made me think they were more traders than farmers. As I got out of the car they toned down their banter, which had sounded very, very bawdy till they clocked me, and we all exchanged pleasantries about the weather, the fact that they'd driven from mid-Wales to come to the sale and the forthcoming rugby game on Saturday. (Cumoooonnnnn Wales!)
Their chief and ringleader was a stocky chap about my age, (... young, OK?!) He was twinkly-eyed and bar-room confident, a lovable rogue, - you know the type.
After the auction-porter and I had loaded my lots into three sales cages; 2 pairs comprising a cock and hen and a trio made of two cocks and one hen. The chief Welsh trader from the transit sidled up beside me to enquire about my chooks. Soon I had my very own personal advisor and he stood very close, whispering poultry secrets.
'You makin' a mistake there luv, you needs to make a trio, rather than leave that hen with the two cocks.' He said in his lovely Welsh accent. I, being blonde and tired, looked blank.
'I've made a trio,' I said, wondering if trio meant something different in Welsh and wishing I didn't have to discuss trios or cocks with a man I hardly knew.
'No luv, a trio's two hens and a cock, not two cocks and a hen!'
'Ah.'
'I'll grab the cocks out and you can put the hen in with the pair if you like? You'll not make any money see, as the cocks'll cancel out the worth of the hen.'
Dear Lord why is everything so sodding complicated!
Anyhoo cocks grabbed (dear Lord!) and girls moved, all was happy in camp Archer. Bearing in mind that the sale didn't start for another 2 hours I decided not to stay chatting to my new best friend, as our vocab was worrying me, so instead I zoomed off to Asda, (big shop wow-wee) to get provisions for the mountain.
By ten, the metal shed was pretty full of cock-a-doodle-doos and lots of breeds of people. I wandered about, briefly on my own, observing the characters - a great place for the writing.
Soon I was joined by my buddy who chatted about chickens and horses and sheep until he enquired whether I had much land and livestock. I'm not sure it was a proposal of marriage, he sussing whether he and I could join poultry forces, but I found myself constantly mentioning my husband and the sprogs but not where we actually lived.
'Have you got raaabbits on the land?' He enquired kindly. I was glad we were moving away from the in-depth analysis of me and of the double entendre language he seemed to enjoy.
'God yes, loads. I can see them from my bedroom window every morning.' [Screech! Why did I mention the bedroom!!!]
'I'll do you a bit of ferretting up your way if you like, pop over like, [from mid-Wales!!!] bring me ferrets and the dogs for a bit of a session?' He said eyes a-twinkling.
I came over all Margo from The Good Life [clip below] after that...
'No thank you!' I said indignantly. 'My neighbour does all my ferreting!' ... Oh! sob! He just grinned.
All in all it was an education. The money was appalling; the trio and pair fetched £11.50... I may have just covered the petrol... and the two cocks fetched a whopping .10p... purchased by my new best friend, a pity-purchase I fear but he did promise faithfully not to murder them.
