Tag Archives: Chicken

Chicken Run II

Where is that drill bit?
Where is that drill bit?

The major event this Easter has been the return of Chickens to the estate.  After a few site meetings Jim had delivered the posts and wire and between us we had dug three-quarters of the way around the area to be able to dig the fence in.  The gate was a slight issue as we needed to make one, so Jim and I suggested to the OM that he might like to dust off his old woodworking skills and throw one together.  He demurred although he did have what Jim and I both agreed was a good idea to hang the non-existent door from the end of the cow stall instead of securing a square post.  TOM decided to advise me on the size of drill bits, wood and other practical matters to aid me in my task.  “They are in the top shed” he told me.  Such instructions of little use.  He might as well have said they were on Mars.  I would have had more chance of locating them in outer space than in the heaps of old tools, wood and machinery in his shed.

“Do you think you can find them for me?” I asked.  He decided he could – and duly did – thus saving me a frustrating search and giving him another thirty yards of exercise.  A win-win, by my reckoning.

So by the Friday afternoon we had a wall plate and three trenches dug when Jim arrived for the main construction session.  Jim and I work well together.  He has the experience and the right  sanguine attitude towards the OM who pays him for his labour, and I am happy to agree with whatever Jim says and to offer what muscle I can muster.

Posts in
Posts in

It started reasonably well with the acquisition of tools:  metal spike and sledgehammer to the fore.  The OM was keen to tell us that the sledgehammer had been acquired from Yeovilton Air Base in 1962/3 when he was clearing the runway of ice (my first winter was a hard one I am told).  A legendary piece of equipment which promptly broke as we hammered in the first post.  We resumed 10 minutes later with Jim’s tools and cracked on with the job in hand.  Incredibly we managed to get posts and netting up and a strand of supporting wire too.   With only two lengths of wire to go, Jim left me to sort it the next morning but with a warning that it would be a two person job as the wire could get “twisted as fuck” if you did not feed it out carefully.  I took this as a serious piece of advice.  Jim does not often use strong language in my experience.

Gate - constructed by the author - not his father
Gate – constructed by the author – not his father

It only took an hour or two with Verity the next morning to make the run secure.  Which was just as well, as I had arranged to collect the hens that afternoon.  This is the third time that we have sourced chickens from Dorset Hens and they never fail to deliver.  They have a great range of hybrids of various hues, and although after a busy Easter there was not a great choice, we took an eclectic foursome of a Mottled Leghorn, an Amber Star, a Bova Nera and a Colombian Blacktail.   They were in a crate waiting for us when we arrived and the owner grabbed them two at a time to put them in the back of our car (in the dog crate).  As she took the Leghorn she muttered a warning under her breath that this was “a little bastard”.  Or at least that was what I thought I heard.  She actually said “this is the fastest”.  Ok – got ya.

VB and I returned with our clucking cargo and started to unload them. When the OM came up the yard I assumed it was to take a look at the new arrivals, but it turned out the more pressing matter for him was to print off a boarding pass for his impending flight to Newcastle – in three weeks’ time.  I politely suggested I would take a look later.  For the moment I wanted to get my hens settled in….

And so the hens are in.  And they have not hung about, with one already laying (three in total so far) and we have also managed to discourage either dog from getting too interested in the chickens too.  If Ella gets the wrong side of the fence, it will be carnage.  The last time we had hens she was only a puppy but managed to get into the old run, to which I was alerted when I heard one hen shouting “f-koff!, f-koff!”  Ella had the bird in her mouth, but fortunately did not deliver the coup de gras on that occasion.  I don’t think she would be quite so gentle now…

Chainsaw Massacre?

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Potential Hen run – in need of modernisation

Plans for the spring include getting more hens.  This time we will house them at the end of the cow stall, in an area of the garden which has for some time been fairly derelict.  It is closer to the house so might reduce the rate of fox-related fatalities.  It is also the part of the garden that is most difficult to fence and from which we are convinced Fudge makes her escape, so the idea of fencing it properly and using it constructively seems a laudable one.

But as with any capital project there are the usual rituals to follow.

First we check that it is do-able, which is achieved with some independent advice from Jim.  We get chatting as he is around doing some treatment on the tennis court.

Next we need to get the Old Man to agree with the idea.  Which means we need to get him to think that it is his idea.  I vague word about hens, locations and fencing, a week’s break, and hey presto, he comes back talking a great project.  He demands our presence by the walnut tree and tells us what we should to.  He even offers to pay Jim to put the fencing up.  Result.

So the first weekend of half term I had a site meeting with Jim and agreed that I would clear the undergrowth and then get the fence posts and netting to get the job done.  He chuckled at how much I was going to have to clear, which is always worrying.  I value Jim’s opinion and work ethic and if he is thinking something will require large amounts of hard labour, I wonder if I am being naïve.

The hens will be moving into the wheelbarrow graveyard
The hens will be moving into the Wheelbarrow graveyard

As it turns out it does not take long to clear the detritus from the area.  But there is the small issue of the ash tree which has grown up through an old gate.  The Old Man actually suggested I use the chain saw (I had forgotten we had one) and offers me a lesson on how to operate it.  Normally the idea of a lesson in anything from TOM would have me running a mile, but I have to concur with his view that “you don’t have minor accidents with chain saws”.  So the stark choice between a long-winded exposition on chainsaw safety from the Old Man, or no lesson followed swiftly by an amputation-inducing accident is a tricky one to weigh up.  But after due consideration I go for the safety option.  To my surprise the lesson is short and sweet and I make short sweet work of a juvenile elder that needed felling.

But the ash tree remained – as did The Old Man.

Tree with gate attached
Tree with gate attached

“You’ll need a rope for that as it will hit the walnut tree or else land on the cow stall” was the wise man’s words.  I nodded sagely and grunted to concur.  Some things are not worth arguing – despite the fact the tree was clearly leaning away from the cow stall and was equally clearly not tall enough to reach the walnut.

Fortunately that day he was out to lunch (no – literally out to lunch) so as soon as he had gone I carefully revved up the chainsaw and started on the ash tree.  Of course I was running a risk here.  I was sawing a tree that apparently had the capacity to bring down airliners if attacked at the wrong angle, and if I did suffer a serious accident there would be no one on hand to say “I told you so” as they drove me to hospital.  But I forged ahead in swashbuckling style.

I sawed a wedge in the trunk to encourage it to fall away from buildings then attacked it from the back.  The tree duly fell – away from the cow stall and short of the walnut tree – and just as I stood back to admire my technical acuity, the base of the trunk slipped and landed squarely on my foot.  It happened almost in slow motion.  The pain was intense, but at least it was not witnessed by anyone with more experience and advice to give.

My foot was fine – but the next near accident could have been worse.

Stand Clear
Stand Clear

I needed to release the metal gate through which, over the years, the tree had grown and expanded until it was wedged tightly between the bars.  A simple slice with the chainsaw ought to suffice to take off the top of the elongated stump.  What I had not realised was the tension in the trunk.  As the saw liberated the gate, the trunk was catapulted down like a hammer by the force of the bars on the gate.   Fortunately I had maintained good posture (unusual for me) and was not hunched over the chainsaw at the time – otherwise it could have been lights out or at the very least we would be talking “concussion protocols” before I am allowed back to work.

So it all went swimmingly.  I have not told TOM that I have cleared the Ash Tree – he will have to take note himself.  I now need to get down to Mole Valley Farmers to get the fencing.  Then it’ll be more Easter hens.

And the Walnut is still standing
And the Walnut is still standing

Against a Dark Background

KONICA MINOLTA DIGITAL CAMERAAugust flew by in a whirl of picking, podding and freezing as the beans, tomatoes, peppers and others all grew to maturity and beyond.  But behind the fecund abundance, the menace of death and destruction lurked in the garden.

I have commented on the battle with interlopers such as moles and caterpillars, and our combined efforts to reduce the numbers of said assailants.  But more desirable garden visitors have not always managed to avoid the dangers of the garden environment.

For example, one morning as I was heading out I saw a squab (young pigeon) walking up the yard – lost, and flightless, it seemed to have fallen from a nest somewhere.  I did not have time to do anything with it, leaving it to its own – or its parents’ – devices.  But later in the day Fudge and Ella (our newest recruit to the Garden Home Guard), were discovered with said squab in mouth.  Claire managed to “rescue” the flightless victim, but only in time to give it the last rites.  The bird was still breathing, though, and as the Old Man pulled up after his morning shoppping and gossip trip, she asked if he would complete the job for her.

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Mind the doors…

Well, by the time he had decided on how to get out the of car, what to do with his shopping, managed to select which pocket to put his car keys in, walked five paces towards the bird, formed a plan on exactly HOW he might despatch it (wring its neck? Swing it against a brick wall? or perhaps take an air rifle shot at it?), the bird had decided “sod it” and quietly slipped off this mortal coil out of sheer boredom.  Death by exasperation was the coroner’s verdict.

We have had a plethora of woodpeckers in the garden this summer – Green and Great Spotted varieties.  I could hardly turn a corner without having some noisy fledgling flying up from the grass, yaffling at me for disturbing it.  Great Spotteds spend more time in the trees (and the bird feeders) but can get confused by greenhouses, as one found out to its cost.  I guess it just flew into the glass and broke its neck.  A shame. “Beautiful plumage”, to quote Monty Python.

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The two feathered salute

The garden is not only a dangerous place for wildlife.  It is for domestic life too.  The hens have a new potential predator in the form of our new, supposedly soft-mouthed, retrieving hound, Ella.  She managed to get into the chicken enclosure the other day and had a magically entertaining minute running after the squawking hens before I managed to pull her away from Foghorn Leghorn (our best layer).  The hen remained lifeless as I took Ella inside, and still did not move when I returned.  She did eventually get back on her feet, and remains fine, though her tail feathers now form a rather tell-tale V shape – as if to give a two fingered salute to any passing labrador puppies.

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Caterpillar – and the remains of the meal

In terms of deliberate, more calculated exterminations, we have continued with the annual cull of cabbage white caterpillars, which have had a field day (or rather a full summer campaign) on our caulis, cabbages and brussels, not to mention the curly kale.  An enthusiastic expert on TV last night was commenting on what a brilliant year it has been for butterflies.  He was excited about the Orange Tips and Red Admirals, but I think their numbers are dwarfed by the sheer density of Cabbage Whites in my veg patch.  It is a grim and stinky job picking caterpillars and squeezing them like runny toothpaste.  But oddly satisfying.

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Death to the tyrant moles!

And what of the moles?  A chance conversation with a member of the underground arms trade gave me access to a weapon of mole destruction and the means to – literally – blow them up.  I thought he was joking at first, but when he explained that this piece of kit, entitled “Le Detaupeur”, (“satisfait ou rembourse”) was imported from France I thought it probably did what he said. And sure enough it does.  I set it up with a bucket over the top and some chicken wire around it to prevent the dogs getting too close and after a couple of nights (and a re-set in case I had not got it right) came out one morning to find both bucket and detaupeur blown out of the ground.  (The voice of Michael Caine echoed in my head here – “it’s only s’posed to blow the bloody doors off”).

The mole was – I assumed – dead, but I was not prepared to excavate the area to find out.  But I need not have worried: five days later, our adorable puppy decided she would do some digging and I only latterly realised where it was that she was working the soil.  She successfully uncovered the decapitated mole – which I disposed off beyond her reach.  So moles need to look out – we have now tapped into the murky world of the international arms trade.

And no UN mandate or weapons inspector is going to help them.

 

Gold Star for one Hen

Who's the Gold Star?

This week we had our first egg from our hens.  We have had them since Easter – 8th April – and our “point of lay” hybrids have been enjoying life at our expense for three weeks since then.  And not one egg has appeared.  Waiting for that first egg is like waiting for your baby’s first footsteps – you want to see it, but perhaps would like to share it with your partner more.  But life does not happen like that and Claire found the small but beautifully formed product of our Gold Star’s efforts on Thursday morning when I was at school.

In the past we have not messed around too much with breeds of hen – just the solid dependable Warrens.  This played well with the old man as, in the old days, when he was between a place in the Navy and a career in avionics, he briefly sold day-old Warren chicks to keep the family afloat.  So – as we were told – you need look no further than a good Warren hen.  After our first hens had passed on (Mr Fox had his wicked way) we flirted with ex-battery hens that came to us with the look of concentration camp survivors, traumatised and featherless, but they were not great layers and we have returned to pullets for better production and more healthy birds.

But we have stepped away from family advice and got some hybrids from Jane Gibson from Dorset Cottage Arks near Stalbridge who sells on behalf of Chalk Hill Poultry.  There was such demand for birds prior to Easter we took pretty much whatever they had – which sadly was not the Columbian Blacktail which we fancied, but instead we ended up with four fowl in various shades of monochrome. I am not altogether sure of their breed names – I think they are a Bluebelle, a Sussex Star, a White Star and a Speckledy.  Line them up in the correct order and you have an artist’s palette of white through to grey / black flecks.  I understand they will lay different coloured eggs, so we might be able to tell who is laying and who Imagenot.  So the fact that our eggs this week were white (another was laid on Saturday when – you guessed it – I was at school) points to the White Star having laid it.  This is does not take too much detective work, as she is the only one with a good-sized comb, but we will see what the others lay in due course.

So it looks like the White Star gets the merits this week and hopefully is setting an example the others might finally follow.

I poached the two eggs for lunch today .  Both were double yokers and were eggy perfection on toasted muffins. Mmmmmm….

First Egg – sitting a little low in a regular egg cup..