Dawn, Part 2 & Chicken sit-in

And so the time of the egg-lay did come upon this hen, and she did sit upon the ordained egg-lay spot as chosen by White Cockerel, the King of all hens at Labartere. The urge to do her allotted task lay heavily within her, fixing her to the saucer of earth as if glued. She was not to be shifted.

Meanwhile, into this hallowed space, the Frenchman came on his red chariot. And he did do his work, and did it well, for his task this day was to smooth the floor of this space, laying down this pile of stones from outside to inside.

He did not see the hen intent on her egg-laying task, for she had been about her busyness and he had been about his.

But then he did have cause to swivel the arm of his chariot, and he did espy the hen, and he knew upset. For was not the time of the food soon to arrive, and was not his intent to complete his allotted task before he went to his nourishment.

And so he did approach the hen. Spoke words the equivalent of 'Off you go' but said in French man-speak.

She did not move.

And so he waved the arm of his chariot in the air above her head. No. That hen did stay fixed in her position.

And French man spoke to Him, expressing his concern lest his job remained unfinished and the day be lost.

So Him made him a cup of tea.

Soothed, the Frenchman did leave. To his food he went.

The hen continued on with her allotted task. The chariot slumbered in lunch time repose. All became quiet in this hallowed place.

And that precious bearer of life was laid, and great rejoicing was had by all of the inhabitants in the Land of the Chicken Hut. For had not a battle been won? For had not the chariot been made to stop? For had not the hallowed egg-space been preserved?

Actually no.

For it is in the nature of the hens of the flock to go about their daily lives once the new egg has been laid. There is other work to do: clean out the sheep barn, recycle morsels from the compost heap, rummage in the veg plot, keep Him occupied by asking for food, keep Her occupied by going to the loo right in front of the door, etc...... And so the busyness of their days lead them away from the hallowed egg-lay space.

French Man did a return. Long food-time he had had. With energy he mounted his chariot.

Alas, the hallowed egg-lay space is no more. The egg was saved though. Which is good.

And so the battle was lost by the flock. And today a new task lays ahead of the White Cockerel, for he has to choose a new hallowed space, and it has to be somewhere else because in a few days time the floor will be cemented over. It is a hard task being King of such a changing land. But not to worry. He will win through.

However: It came to be a good day, a sunny day, a day not to be dismissed in the general busyness of the life that is led by all here at Labartere, or so Her thought. 

And it came into her head that perhaps it was time to take a few minutes of rest. Or an hour. Flowing on with this thought, Her did a rummage in the Half Barn stuff, and came upon this:



And much was the dismay of Her. For what was this mess upon this well treasured item. How came this abomination. For this bed, this sunbed, was festooned with the leavings from the rear-ends of the inhabitants from The Land of the Chicken Hut.

And she thought, with happy thoughts, about the many hours of pleasure spent upon this bed. Her felt the sun outside calling. Yet she dithered. A rest was needed, for was not The Back of Her being difficult, it having been given the task of late to help Her render onto the earth outside of the house, in the part of Labartere known as The Front Garden, a tidyness, Her having been inspired to pursue such an activity by an unfortunate espying on the Internet of plants. Yes, plants. Those living beings which create such a surge of activity in the bodies of those who feel the urge to go plant those plants, and to which The Back of Her was in disagreement with after having been made to do such a task.

So the sun outside and The Back of Her inside did bind together in another urge. With determination did Her take up that bed which had suffered at the hands of the occupants of The Land.

And she did lay down upon that bed. Outside she lay. And had a glorious roasting for all of the afternoon, until the sun laid itself low in the sky, and the shadows did fall, and the goosebumps arose upon the skin of Her, giving a reminder that it was still the middle of January, and therefore Winter time.

And she forgave The Land flock for the soiling of the bed, for she had had a roasting, a precious roasting, and that put her in a good humour, which was good for all at Labartere.





Chickens: Sorted!

A marinade. This is what is in the bowl above. But for why would I be posting such a photo? Ah, well...........

And so it came to pass that in the Land of the Chicken Hut much bother arose. The two Princelings of the the Kingdom were marching into adulthood. Their struttings were increasing and they felt the need to practice their cock songs. At all times of the day they practiced. And for a while their voices were husky and quiet. But over time, well quite quickly actually, their voices were becoming brighter, sharper, louder.

And so White Cockerel, the King of the Land of the Chicken Hut, became anxious lest these usurpers to this throne took away his rightful place as Head of the Girls. For was it not his right to father the future generation, or try to? Even if the job of doing so was rather strenuous when it came to the big girls? Stoically he hangs on when doing his repopulating job. All of the egg laying girls are bigger than him. But his stoicism remains. Hanging on with his beak to the head of the girl seems to do the trick.

So all was not well in the Kingdom. White Cockerel was feeling the need to sing more and more through the hours of the day. In competition with those Princelings was this King.

And Head Man said "No more! My ears are full of cock songs!" With stealth, when all slept, he did take the Princelings from their chosen perch on the roof of the Land of the Chicken Hut, and did bed them down for the night in confined quarters. It was to be their last sleep before the big sleep came upon them.

And still King Whitey did voice his rage at the would be usurpers, even though they were hanging upside down being plucked.

With reverence and respect did Her lay the bodies of the Princelings in their freezer tomb, giving them a blessing for the life they had shared with her. She thought fondly of them, and the place they had in her history, for were they not the first born of the small farm.

And so it came to pass that it was time for the recyling to begin. Her searched for a suitable, and fitting, end to one of the Princelings. On the Internet she did search.

Et voila!

One marinade: some veggies (garlic, carrots, onions). Half a jar of  homemade apricot jam. And, best of all, a bottle of red wine!

Into that vino soup put one of the Princelings, now separated into eight pieces, bless him.

All into slow oven for hours. Too long really, as Her was heavily involved with the allotted task of the day, as given to her by Him, which was moving the electric fencing poles to give the sheep flock new grazing, them all having decided to make a break-out the previous day in disgust at the lack of effort on Him and Her's part in regards to the quality of the food they were expected to eat, after all they were either with child or had newborns, so felt more deserving of better food, even though there were hay bales in abundance to do a raid on, even though they were fed grain in the evening, even so they had done a walk-out, and through the low fence across the drive they had barged their way out, through the lush and verdant would-be lawn out front of the house they had gone, and out onto the even more lush and verdant kerbside offerings of the lane, their walk-out being espied by the lady in the house at the top of the lane, who hot footed it down the lane to shoo them back to home and call urgently out to Him and Her, whereupon Him did a growl at the them and shooed them over to the Side Field, where the grazing is very low because they had spent the last six months eating the once lush field all up, so they were not best pleased, and they did moan and moan for the rest of the day, but Him and Her deaf-headed them. "We are doing our best" they thought, "so they will have to be patient".

So that's what took up the hours of the day during which the recycled Princeling was being cooked.

Eventually out of the oven he came. With trepidation Her investigated. A morsel tasted.

And with full tums Her and Him smiled at each other as they roasted themselved in front of the wood burning stove. Him had spent the day on the new pig paddock. Her had spent the day shifting the electric fencing for the sheep. The day had been warm, the sun coming out often. It was good way to spend a Sunday.

Ending up in a bath of red wine was a fitting end to a member of the Land of the Chicken Hut.

Cock au vin was the name of the dish. Fitting, don't you think!

Peace reigns. The chickens have started laying again. Five eggs yesterday. One of the virgin layers gave us this:



No, not the egg on the left, but the tiny one on the right! Well, we all have to start somewhere!

Wishing you a belated Happy New Year, from all of us here at Labartere in South West France, where humans and animals are all learning to live as a family.

Chickens, potties, refflections.

Well it has been a touch on the wet side of late. Monsoon time, no less. We are all soggy of foot, but not in spirit.

And our Chicken Mum continues to cluck about, maintaining a high profile so that all can see what a grand chicken she is. Top of the pecking order now, she can claim pole position when food is around, and also chooses her own nest site at night. Her babes are doing well, and learnt today that I represent food, so every time I appear they launch themselves at my feet. Little hooligans.

And off they all go for a walk, heading towards the junky environment of the ex-kitchen caravan, the one that is wearing it's awning as a hat. 'Twas the wind that did it!

Turning your eyes towards the left, and that is where we are sleeping. Love caravan life. Would prefer it to be history now though!  And see that little white boxy looking object? That is our retired porta potti, still sort of in situ just in case it is needed in a desperate moment during the night. But a trot across the Courtyard to the house, even in the nuddy, and even when it is freezing, is preferable to wrestling with that appliance.

Et voila:



The reason why the porta potti is going into retirement: the proper potty! Delivered unto us by friends Val and Ron, when they visited a few weeks ago.

But it did not remain in its resting state. Because Ron twiddled about, and hey presto! Uno toiletto!

Proudly the new potty stands upon its own plinth, making it very comfy to sit on. And it is a joined up potty, so one that does not need emptying by Hubs. What I mean is, that it is connected to the fosse, so everything that our bods don't need, and which then gets deposited in the loo, goes into our very own waste disposal system. Our deposits stay here, to fertilize our own land. Cool heh!

Have a bit of prob with the seat of the potty, though. It came with a fragile plastic seat which kept coming apart such that one was in danger of being launched sideways at an inopportune moment if one did not concentrate on staying in the right sitting position. So a nice firm wooden one was purchased. Didn't quite fit the toilet itself, but not to worry, it cushions one's buttocks wonderfully well, and makes the loo experience totally satisfying. For me. Unfortunately the new loo seat does not allow for the abundance of the masculine nether regions. Apparently it is too squashy. Not to worry, though. If care is taken, then all is well. Apparently.

The loud roar of a truck shattered the calmness of Labartere yesterday:

And these beams were deposited. Today they were lifted up onto the Tall Barn roof. Progress!

The temperatures are starting to take a dive, now around freezing, but it is the end of November, so we can't complain about the cold, because we haven't had any really. Just rain. And lots of it. Making us ever so pleased that we can stay under one roof for the hours of our days. A quick trot across to the bedroom caravan at night, and then back again in the morning. Not too far.

And we have a Half-Loo. Why 'Half'? Because it has to be 'flushed' by hand, which means going to and fro the cold water tap out by the main gates to fill the watering cans with which to do the 'flush'. But at least we don't have to scramble about with the porta-potti now. Sometimes things got quite risky. Fumbling about with one's clothing, plus stooping over to get the porta potti sorted out, did take precious minutes. Difficult, if one had an urgency upon one.

So the days are shortening. We are in better shelter than what we were last year, so better prepared for the winter ahead. As my daughter Karen said in an email today: 'Amazing how you deal with stuff when you have to. And when you look back, you think 'My god, how did I do it'..... Human nature - very strong!!! Good to test it.' On looking back to the last two winters, when the house was still unliveable, I would agree. How did we manage! But we did. And still could if we had to. Stirling stuff, the human spirit!

The morning queue

Opening my door this morning, and look:

The girls and boy parked up and waiting for their breakfast!



Barging their way in!

Aw. but they were stirling troopers yesterday. With the weather being a tad on the wet side, the sheep have been in their barn more that usual. We had managed to get the floor cleaned up and fresh straw put down, but they had still been in that space for more or less twenty four hours. Upon a quick recce at lunchtime, I saw that the straw was now trampled flat and overlain with copious amounts of piles of poo, which was going to take quite some time to clean up.

But no time to do it, so abandoned the task to go do lunch. Left the paddock gate open. Me and the dogs walked through it, passing the White Cockerel, calling out, "Come on girls, follow me", on his way into the paddock.

Late afternoon: into the paddock I went, with wheel barrow and shovel, ready to load up. Nothing. There was no sign of poo-piles anywhere. Plus, all the straw had been raked around and fluffed up, looking almost as good as new. The White Cockerel's girl-gang had been and done the housework for me! Now I wonder if I can get them to 'do' the floor of the house for me. Oh of course they would. Eagerly, and with great joy, as can be seen by the charge through the door in the photo above.

One problem, though. Unfortunately they go to the loo wherever they feel like it, so perhaps not in the house. Oh, by the way, as well as being recyclers of sheep poo, they are also providing a solution to the mouse problem. Hubs has to keep mousetraps down all the time, and catches one or two per day. They don't live in the house, but come in from the rough ground of the Middle Barn and Tall Barn through the holes in the walls. Can't stop them from doing that at the moment, but also can't have them running about in the house. Hubs has already caught two frogs, but these he puts outside. But the mice have to be trapped.

But what to do with the dead mouse. Easy. Give it to the Limousins, which are the large greyish/white hens in the photo. Down in one go, thats what happens to the mouse. Great recycling! The hens get the mice, we get their eggs, and they lay the biggest eggs of all of the girls, so are deserving of a treat.

Back on the sheep front: The ewe which is almost ready to lamb was looking very weak and wobbly yesterday. Looked like she was going to lamb at any second, because she was holding her tail away from her rear end and we could see that her botty looked active. Trouble was, that she also seems to have got the runs, perhaps because of the grain and hay which she has to eat because of the weather. She could have grazed on grass, but our girls do not like the wet, so we have to feed them the dry stuff. Hope she gets on alright. She is a nice girl.

The Jacob boy is getting brave, and has pushed his way into the feeding bowl of the lambs now, which I let him do. I don't let the girls push their way in, but him I do. Making friends with each other, that is what we are doing. Lambs are putting on a lot of fat now, which is good. Got some cold weather ahead, and they don't have a mum to cuddle up to.

Apart from that, have made my first skeins of spun wool. That spinning wheel! Makes yarn so fast! Tamworths are quiet, although their paddock is one huge mud bath at the moment because of the rain, so they are to go out into the electric fence paddock today to give them a change.

Remembrance Day yesterday: Went up to Castelnau village. Quite a crowd. Mostly French, some English. Stood to one side. And watched.

The memorial overlooks the plains of the valley. In the background the Pyrenees, snow covered now, the first snows of winter having now fallen. It is a magical view. And beside me the little service for the fallen. They individually read the names of the village men who have died in the wars. Two elderly man stand proudly holding French flags aloft. They flutter in the sunshine and light breeze. My poncho does the same.  I look around me. At the old buildings. At the history. And the reality of the First and Second World Wars are with me, because I am standing in a country which was actually invaded. This makes those wars seem more real somehow.

The minute silence. Tears drift ever so slightly in my eyes. "Crikey, I'm in France! Who'd have thought I would ever do this! Not me, that's for sure!" Then the French national anthem played on a portable CD player. The tears do a bit more of a drizzle. "Who'd have thought that I would ever get to be standing beneath a French flag," was in my thoughts.

If you are a life traveller, then you take up opportunities which come  your way, even if you are not quite sure where that presented opportunity is going to lead you. Trust that everything will work out OK, and it will, even if along the way there are times when the panic about making the opportunity work threatens to overwhelm.

And I met a lady, English and with a mum soon to be one hundred years old, both living in the village, who mentioned bees. And so the Bee Project is resurrected, but more about that another time.

Pigs  and sheep to get up and out, chickens to be shooed out of the house again (front door is open because it is warmer outside than it is inside), dogs to be fed and walked, Hubs to be got up with a cup of tea, chicken mum and babies to be cooed over, sickly ewe to be chatted with so she feels looked after. Ah the joys of smallholding. And the mud has dried up, and the sun came out and baked us yesterday, and I had a moving moment underneath the French flags, grew in appreciation of how it must have felt like to have a foreign army camped in your country, and felt a wave of amazement that I am actually living here.

She has, she isn't, and the awning?

January 2010

BEFORE: This, then, is the old 'kitchen' caravan. With awning still pristine, everything intactus.

November 2010

Oooohhhhdeearrr! And so the now redundant kitchen caravan has a new hat to wear: the awning. Taken up into the air and repositioned by one of the huge blasts of wind which came visiting during the night.

And so we have a mucky mess: mostly loads of assorted gardening paraphanalia, the old camping twin tub washing machine with which I had many a merry moment until the advent of the new washing machine, the old washing machine kindly donated by friends but which konked out after a couple of months, and the chicken.

And she has! Up off the nest she came a couple of days ago, to have a feed. And I had a look at her nest in the dustbin. A broken egg shell. And  a baby chick. So she has / had one hatchling. I say 'had' because I have not seen it since, and don't like to get her off the nest to have a look, because this hen has, with remarkable stoicism, sat tightly upon her nest, despite the awning flapping and blowing about around her. 

She ought to be moved. Not sure where we can put her though. We have minimal barn space here. Could have done with having the roof of the Tall Barn finished, but no sign of that being done any time soon. So she will have to keep camping out in her dustbin.


As for these two:

They continue to lay seige to the front door, waiting for the appearance of Dad Hubs so he can feed them. They are the lowest of the pecking order here, being the littlest and youngest, but are doing well nonetheless. Just wrecking my plants round the door, that's their fav pastime. But I suppose their thinking is, that while they wait for grain, that they may as well have a munch on what else is available. They are sleeping in Bool's old puppy kennel at night. Seems to suit them.

On the piggy front: Tess. Is she or isn't she? She isn't. Upon frequent examination of her posterior, we have noted an increasing pinkiness. So, no, no babies were made last time. Which is just as well really, as we are still in the process of building another paddock. And Max has quietened down as well, which is a relief. Although he still lays his ears back and dribbles and snorts when Hubs is anywhere near him. I keep telling Max that Hubs is not interested in Tess as a possible mate, but he doesn't listen. Like all males,  he seems to switch his hearing off when it suits!

Copious amounts of rain have fallen over the last day or two, but the temperature remains quite mild so we haven't had fires on during the day. But we have had our newly purchased electric blanket switched on all night. OoooohhH! Getting into that bed, out in the caravan, which is toasty warm, is like getting into a deep bath of lovely warm water. I slide into those sheets, and submerge myself into the welcoming warmth. It is quite, quite delightful! And I firmly push to the back of my mind any stray thoughts about being electrocuted and should I wear PJ's just in case.

Thinks we have learnt: That it takes team effort to get a smallholding up and running, and that patience is a 'must have' requirement in regards to the animals one has on one's smallholding. They all have individual needs, and will not hesitate to speak if they are upset or in need. Not only are we having to learn French, we are also having to learn the body language and vocal language of thirty six other beings. Patience, as I say, is a 'must have'.  

And so: what are we going to do about the seeds to be sown next year now the awning has become a hat, having been recycled from its previous role as our potting shed. Don't know. So will await inspiration on that one.

Meanwhile: Have a good day!

With legs a-trembling

I am all of a wobble. My heart is pitter-pattering, and from the waist down my muscles feel as weak as if I have run a marathon. And what have I been doing? Spinning, that's what. And I have spun for an hour, having spent a couple of days trying to get the yarn to stay put on the spindle. Endless Internet viewing, and the solution was to tighten the tension. Which makes it harder to paddle those paddles, which drive the wheel which turns the whorls which rotates the spindle which makes the yarn. And all driven by my two feet powered by  my calf muscles attached to my creaky knees powered by thighs which have seen better days, which fetch up hung from my botty. From my toes to my waist, that is the area needed to power that wheel. Oh and then there is the air bellows system of my lungs, which are needed to pump that air into those various muscles to drive those various parts of the spinning wheel.

Crikey!  What effort! But I did it! I have made yarn.

The Tamworth Project:

On the piggy front, is she or is she not? That is the question we keep asking ourselves as we view Tess's rear end to see if it is looking fetchingly pink signalling that she is getting ready to receive the attention of Max who, if you recall, was seen completely on board under the moonlight three weeks ago. Twenty one days. That is the interval between her coming into season. It is the twenty first day today.

And doesn't Max know it! Strewth  but he is being a pain in the proverbial butt. Keeps on trying to tangle with Hubs. Not sure why he is doing that. Worried in case we have a mad piggy on our hands. And Internet search fetched up the info that male pigs apparently go through a temperamental and difficult patch about eighteen months to two years old. Like teenagers I suppose. Or he could be getting a whiff of Tess's imminent season if she is going to have one and doesn't want Hubs to take his place on board his lady love, so is protecting his patch. Or he might be getting frustrated because he is having to wait for his moment of trying to procreate. Or he could be sensing she is with piglet and gone all protective. Or he might be just being an ***e.

To give the Tams more room to stretch their legs, Hubs and moi organised a new paddock for day use:

God bless electric fencing! Although the ground looks just bare earth, it is actually covered in acorns, which the Tams love.



They love it. Race through the passageway with great enthusiasm. Or rather, they did. Now Max grumbles and growls his way along, with ears back, and all foamy mouthed. Something is going on with him. And they keep cuddling up with each other, all lovey-dovey. As if they want the world to go away and leave them in peace. Will let you know how they get on over the next few days.

The Sheep Project:

Ah, the lambs!

Fed by hand, they are big boys, now minus their male accoutrements thanks to Ron of Team Val and Ron, friends of ours who came and helped us out a few weeks ago. And they brought with them these two:

Not the two in front! They are the lambs. Its the young sheep to the right and the spotty one lying down, which is our new ram. Team V & R collected him for us, and donated one of her own lambs as well. He is  a Jacob. Lovely little chappie.

But uno problemo possiblement. He is quite a short boy. Our sheep have long legs, and are therefore quite tall. Wondering how he is going to manage the making of the babies. But have been reassured that sheep will be quite obliging and crouch down if the male is having difficulties reaching. 

Both are settling down, and he has been having a sniff around the hind quarters of a couple of our girls, so he looks as if he will be keen to do his job when the time comes.

One of our ewes is looking like a tank at the moment, being as wide as she is tall. Obviously going to have a lamb soon. As are a couple of others. Not a good time of year to be having lambs but flock management went out the window this year, but then they must have come to us pregnant anyway so it was out of our hands really. Hope she manages to get that lamb born while the weather is relatively mild. 

Otherwise, the flock is doing well. All very tubby  through eating the Autumn grass, but looking good. 

The Chicken Project:

These little ones:

Who were looked after by Hubs when the mum-hen chucked them out the nest, are also doing well:

Bools sees it as his mission in life to clean up the botties of all the young animals, so has licked the bums clean of the sheep, and now is intent on doing the same for the chicks. Gus remains aloof. Even today, when one of the hens had a go at him, he remained aloof. But Bools wants to get involved.

Unfortunately we are now down to two chicks because one of them got deceased by a piece of wood falling down on it. But the other two are getting along fine. They are always to be found hanging around the front door, as are all the rest of the flock of late. Might be something to do with the daylight hours shortening, but they are definitely not as energetic as they have been. Still getting eggs, although having to do a search for them every day. One of their favourite places is under the rabbit cages. I have to almost lie down to reach the day's offerings. And one of the hens has taken it upon herself to take those eggs as her own clutch. But no! Off I take her. We already have one hen sitting on eggs in the dustbin-nestbox, and that is enough:



She is only allowed to have six eggs to sit on, all numbered. Sometimes one of the other hens squeezes in beside her and lays another one. But six is enough, so I take the other one away. And will any of those eggs hatch? Three weeks is supposed to be the incubation time, and three weeks is now up.

Ah, feel the need for another work-out. Think I will go pedal my treadle and make me some yarn. Bye for now.....

Things I have learnt: That there is a lot of making babies with this smallholding lark! And that animals have off days as well.

Time for a change

With their normal field of the day now reduced to dried grass because of lack of rain, we decided to put them on the Front Field, which is has lush green grass but no fencing. Not wanting the girls to go off down the lane on a jolly, Hubs took a deep breath and bought some electric fencing to make them a temporary paddock. Good idea, we thought.

And it worked! Trouble was that the girls were not fussed with their new grazing. After first munching everything growing except the grass, they then spent the rest of the day complaining that they did not like their new patch even though they could get back to the Sheep Arbre for their afternoon nap. 

So what they did was keep on yelling at us their dislike of the situation, parking themselves up by the Paddock gate which was just beside the office. Hubs has had his head buried deep in data work the last few days. Needs to concentrate. Even I keep a low profile, taking cups of tea and slices of cake to keep him going. Difficult days, these, for him. The smallholding needs him, but bills have to be paid so at the moment he has to work, via the Internet, with the UK, doing a job which is mentally taxing such that he gets all twisted up in knots sometimes. Not to worry, though. The company he is working for is gradually falling on to the ground, so change is on its way for him, which in itself is a nagging background concern. But then we take ourselves off round the farm which always has a re-energising effect on both of us.

Anyway, the sheep were shooed off back to their temporary grazing area by an irritated Hubs, and there they stayed for the rest of the day.

And it became a precious moment for me towards the evening. There I was, picking up the acorns from beneath the oak tree, Gus and Bools looking after me as per usual. To my left, the sheep were grazing,  some of them now chomping their way through the compost heap. Also on the compost heap were some of the hens. Oh so up to the heap the White Cockerel marched, scrabbled up to the top, kept on going upwards onto the back of one of the black speckled hens, did his male duty, then slid himself off her and back down the heap, job done. The other hens were in the Veg Plot to the right of me. Off the White Cockerel went to see what they were up to.

And in the Tam Paddock Tess and Max waited for the acorns which I was harvesting for them. For a rare moment all the animals were surrounding me. Lovely moment indeed.

Oh and I must just mention the meat thing again. Yummy yums! Had some lamb cutlets at the weekend from the recycled sheep. Pot roasted them first, then into the oven to finish off. They were absolutely delish and even I had a second helping. It is unlikely that I will ever enjoy meat from other sources now, and if you have a parcel of land on which you can also make a small farm, then do it! But a word of warning: once you have got used to the work and responsibility of looking after animals, then you will become addicted both to the life and them.

Bbrrrr! Sitting here writing this blog at 6 in the morning. It has been my habit to rise early, and do jobs and other stuff, in the nuddy. Oooh, but it is a tad on the chilly side this morning, and methinks that I will have to think about ordering some new thermals for the winter ahead. For the last two winters I have worn pretty lacy thermals, which are very feminine but absolutely useless in regards to keeping my bod warm. So this year I am going to order some man-type thermals. They will not be very nice to look at, especially the long-johns complete with loo-opening, but needs must. I am also going to make some long cotton petticoats, after having found my box of winter skirts, which were not findable last winter so I had to go through the winter wearing two pairs of summer cotton trousers at the same time. So long-johns, long petticoats, long winter skirts, boots (just ordered), several layers of jumpers, topped off by a homemade crocheted wrap. Methinks I will look quite the farm-girl! 

Oh so now the chickens are kicking up a fuss, wanting to be let out so they can get on with their day. The sheep are still asleep, but will be heading out to the Station Field as per normal, Hubs having given up with trying to coax them into staying on their new pasture. Bools is giving himself a wash round at my feet. Gus is tucked up in the house, as is Hubs in the Bedroom Caravan. Those two, and the sheep, are not early risers.  Max and Tess will get up when they hear me, every hopeful for a handful of acorns. 

And I am getting more 'goose bumps', so bye for now, and I hope your day is a good one.

The White Cockerel's day cometh

In The Land of the Chicken Hut there did come a problem. Friction reigned. Division  arose. Dark Cockerel  and White Cockerel were at war, with Junior Cockerel lending his quota of aggression into the war-pot.

Dark Cockerel started it. Here two days, and it came into his mind that he wanted to be King of  all The Land. And he took ownership of The Run, making it his territory and thereby controlling the food rights, delivered into the run from above by The People.

But he wasn't alone. With him were his girls, six in total: the two brown hens, the speckled brown hen,  the brown, black and white speckled hen, and two black and white speckled hens. This, then, was his harem. And the brown hens became his second in charge, raging war upon all who dared to step out of line. They laid down his law, did those brown hens.

White Cockerel was banished to The Hut, although was made to move out if Dark Cockerel felt he needed to claim that space for a while, after first making sure that his  tummy and his girls tummies were full of food, leaving scant offerings for the others.

With White Cockerel was Junior Cockerel, the two junior black hens, the Transylvanian bare neck hen, and the newly arrived Limousin hens. They were the ones who Dark Cockerel deemed not worthy of his company, with the brown hens reinforcing his dislike of them by bullying them as often as they could. It was not a good time in the Land of the Chicken Hut. Tension was too great, so the girls couldn't focus on egg laying, so none arrived. The People didn't mind that, but they didn't like the tension that was starting to emanate from The Land.

And then things got worse. Junior Cockerel started a sub faction of unrest by sectioning off the junior girls, bullying them into being in his start up gang. White Cockerel was avoiding any confrontation though, even though Dark Cockerel would frequently chase him round and round and round The Run, trying to do unto him harm. But worst of all was the crowing. Dark Cockerel would sound off about himself being The King of The Land to all within hearing range. For all of the day he would sound off. From first light, at 5 in the morning, all the way through the hours of the day. At first it was intermittent, but as each day arrived, so did his need to proclaim his kingship grow mightier.

Until the day cometh when he ratched up the aggro. Upon his girls, each in turn, he put himself,. Rough,  aggressive, his passion to pro-create ruled any gentleness that the girls deserved. Often they would be squawking, not really involved with his passion. In his desire to be The King, he was harsh to all. In his voice The People heard this harshness. It rippled over the air waves, creating unease and unrest throughout their world, smashing the calmness which usually prevailed. 'Twas not good, this aggression which was increasing by the day.

And The People looked at the Dark Cockerel with dismay, for it had been told them that the White Cockerel and the Dark Cockerel were friends. Well they might have been in their previous land, but not in this Land. What to do. An urgent decision had to be made.

So into The Land did the Man Person go. Bravely did he venture forth into that place, on hands and knees,  The Land being tiny in comparison to his world. And he did bring out of The Land Dark Cockerel and Juniour Cockerel.

Junior Cockerel has already been recycled, and Dark Cockerel is in the freezer, plucked, drawn and ready for the oven.

Meanwhile, White Cockerel holds kingship of The Land. All the adult girls are laying well, (seven eggs yesterday), and are a happier band. He is gentle with them, and goes upon their backs with care. They never squawk their displeasure, but instead, when he has finished his job, they ruffle up their feathers as if to say 'Wow, that was good'. He even manages the large Limousins, although does fall off sometimes, they being bigger than him. But at least he has a go at pleasing them.

Peace reigneth now in The Land of the Chicken Hut. White Cockerel is a gentle King, singing when the occasion demands, but with sweetness rather than aggression. All is well.

Sometimes decisions have to be made for the greater good. For the chickens to live together in harmony, two had to be recycled. It makes one feel like one is playing god. This is an uncomfortable feeling, but goes with the territory if one is running a smallholding.

Lessons learnt: to immediately recycle, or put into the pot, a previously alive chicken is not a good idea. From life to plate has to take a few days at least because the actual experience of stopping a life does stay in the memory for a while, making it difficult to successfully manage the cooking, and the eventual eating, of that chicken. Freezing is therefore a good idea because it puts a space in between the living bird and the frozen bird.
Forever after, if we do purchase a chicken from the supermarket, I will be aware that it was an alive bird once.

And we are now in egg production, which means the girls are happy. But one of the juniour black 'hens' looks like 'she' is a 'he', or it could be a transvestite!

An egg on the plate

It's was a wonderful moment, staring at the egg which our chicken had laid, which was laying on the toast  on the plate in front of me. But what was this! Curiously I found myself reluctant to start eating it! Why was I reluctant?  Because eggs normally come out of egg boxes which are purchased from a shop, that's why, and I don't think of the chicken which actually laid the egg. There is a food loop, and the origination of the food loop, the chicken, is not thought of, dismissed from my head as being irrelevant almost.

But the egg was there in front of me, fresh from the chicken's bum, and I did think of that chicken. Of the long drawn out process of the arrival of that egg into the world. Of the hours of cooing and long drawn out chuckling under her breath as the egg made its way through her abdomen, that is what I had heard.

Painful, her voice sounded pained during the process such that I was reminded of the time when I was birthing my children and I became in total empathy with that chicken. But I only had that experience three times, she does a similar process every day, of this I was aware as I observed that egg on the plate. I had shared that experience with her, cluck by  cluck. Being so close to the chicken run I hear and see most of what goes on with the flock, so I was made aware of the process of birthing an egg by the sounds which emanated from the chicken which was in egg laying mode, of the way in which the rest of both flocks quietened down while she laid her egg, staying out in the run, letting her have her space in the hut, not bothering her.

And they, too, did quiet little clucks, even the Boss Ladies (the two brown hens belonging to Gang 2, the Dark Cockerel's girls), who think they are the queens of all and allow only themselves to poke their heads through the chicken wire of the run to nibble at the greenery still surrounding the run, the ground in the run  now having been made into bare earth by the  poking of fourteen beaks and the scratching of twenty eight feet. Soon, today actually, is the day the door to the run is opened. Today they meet the dogs. Today we may have less that twenty eight feet left to scratch in the floor of the run by the end of the day. But they must come out and explore the Courtyard and enjoy all that the evironment has to offer. This we must do for them so they have a good life.

And so I looked at the egg on the plate, and I thought of the effort which had gone into the laying of it, and my respect grew for that little bird which had given it to me. Forever after my awareness will stay, because I was with her all the way as she laid that egg, and with her when she yelled her joy at having released it into the world.

So when you have an egg on a plate in front of you, stop a moment and think of the origination of that egg. That it does not come from a box, but that it comes from another living being who has the same rights to a good life as we do, which will actually make the eating of the egg all the better for you. It did for me. It was a lovely egg. I knew where it had come from and shared in the excitement when it arrived, as did the rest of the girls. We all cheered, the chickens clucking loudly at speed and me hooraying!

Off out for a long dog walk now to tire Bools and Gus out, in the hopes that they will not be too enthusiastic about chasing the chickens later on. They are good boys, and will learn, that I am sure of, although I am equally as sure that there are likely to be a few ruffled feathers as they do so!

Things I have learnt: that food tastes better when one has been involved in the process of its creation.

And then the rest arrived

So, anyway, I was having a browse amongst the Classified Adverts on the website Anglo Info, and my eyes chanced to land upon an advert posted a couple of weeks old: For sale: chickens. 

And for some reason, not sure why, I posted a response, asking if they were still for sale. Now already we have Gang One, arriving unexpectedly, and living in the recycled pig arc until we can get the Back Field fenced and their new house built. We have no room for anymore. Really. We Do No Have Any More Room! 

Yes. The chickens were still for sale, but the flock was to stay intact. OK, I says, will pop round tomorrow and buy them. Now why did I do that! What bit of my brain makes me take these leaps! 

And here they are: Gang Two:

And Gang Two comprises: 2 brown hens, 2 black and white speckled hens, 2 multi coloured speckled hens, 1 dark coloured rooster, and 1 white rooster.

Adding the two gangs together, that makes: 6 adult hens, 3 juvenile hens, 1 juvenile cock, 2 adult cocks.

Meanwhile, Hubs urgently assembled a run for The Gangs:

And then we went shopping. Come along, Sara says, to a market on Sunday. We went, there to purchase two more hens. Limousin's apparently, with the darlingest fluffy rears which looks like frothy petticoats. None of The Gangs have these fluffy bums, and they are smaller as well, including the cocks. These are  new hens are grand hens, creamy coloured with bits of white and black, and very, very elegant.

Back at base camp: there has been a division between Gang 1 and Gang 2. Gang 1 now has a leader, the white cockerel having taken it upon himself to become king of that little flock, which  comprises all the juveniles. I am glad for him, because he has found his role. And here he is with his little band:

The darker cockerel has the rest of them, which he probably always did have, but the new girls are undecided as to who to run with. And yesterday we had our first egg, delivered by one of the new girls. But I think that it was probably one which was in 'the pipeline' so to speak, and expect there  will be no other eggs for a while until they settle down. 

For two more days they will remain in their accommodation. Then the door will be opened and out they will come. They are free range chickens, and must therefore have adventures out and about. Bools and Gus wait in anticipation. 

And we are networked now. The Dark Cockerel makes it be known, to all who would listen, that he has arrived. At day break he starts, and twenty minutes or so thereafter he yells his head off. Most times he quietens down once I deliver unto him and his girls some food. They have the main arena, which is the exterior run, and maintain dominance over this patch when food arrives. I have to sneak the food into the back door of the run for The White Cockerel's flock. He has also started crowing. It can be quite noisy here. All day it can be noisy. Cockerels do not necessarily speak their voice at dawn. At any time during the day they can sound off as well. Ah well...such is country life!

So now we have two flocks of chickens, and Hubs will have to build two new houses. And we have our first egg! Wow! And somehow, in the space a few days, we have acquired fourteen chickens!