Daily Express Monday, April 6, 2020 13HEN
HEAVEN:
Deborah
relaxes
before
another
hunt for
eggs from
Snowy,
Shadow and
GingerT
HE news that there has
been a 66 per cent rise in
sales of chicken coops, and
that breeders have sold out
of pullets does not surprise
me in the slightest. Happily,
I have three hens already: in fact
they are fast approaching their first
birthday and they are one of the
most unexpectedly satisfying pur-
chases I’ve ever made.
Long before coronavirus and the
lockdown, I found myself spending
way too much time I didn’t have
just observing them as they
pecked, scuffled and strode around
the garden.
A time I cherish most is early on
Saturday and Sunday mornings
when I take a large mug of coffee
and walk round the garden – in
dressing gown, overcoat and wel-
lies – in pursuit of The Ladies, oth-
erwise known as Snowy, Shadow
and Ginger.
I let them out of their hen house
every morning and they are a joy
to watch as they go about their
daily routine.
Snowy is always last to bed and
the first out of the door in the
morning, followed by Ginger and
lastly, as ever with a theatrical
pause designed for maximum
anticipation and impact, Shadow.
I still feel a ridiculous sense of
excitement as I open the back of
the house to see if they have left
an egg and a sense of contentment
when there is one, still warm and
covered in their feathers and
bedding.
M
EANWHILE on the
lawn, The Ladies are
already attempting to
steal my black Labrador Boris’s
breakfast – foolishly brave consid-
ering that his diet consists almost
entirely of raw chicken.
Then they swing past the barn
where their feed, corn and bedding
are kept in the hope that I will give
them a treat, and afterwards
scatter to various corners of the
garden, in readiness for laying.
They have very distinct person-
alities – not to mention eggs – and
Shadow, a Blue Haze hen, is top of
the pecking order.
She is fatter and bossier than
Snowy, a timid Light Sussex, and
Ginger, a doughty Ranger.
Shadow’s are also the largest
eggs, pinky-brown in colour, and
she is the most prolific layer.
Snowy, poor thing, had “soft
shell” syndrome and her eggs
came out as a mushy mess on the
hen house floor until I added
crushed oyster shell to her diet.
That solved the problem. But she
still lays only every other
day and her eggs are
pale and delicate.
Ginger produces
a classic farmyard
egg, smooth and
nutty brown in
colour.
All are deli-
cious, with
golden yolks and
a rich fluffiness
you will never find
in the supermarket
variety, no matter how
free-range they claim
to be.
That is, however, when I can find
them. The blessing – and curse – of
truly free-range hens is that they
lay wherever and whenever they
want. And if they don’t want you
to find their bounty, you won’t.
The only clue they give is a very
loud and distinctive clucking when
they have finished laying which
means you have to be in a position
to drop everything and run if
you’re to see where they emerged
from – usually a large
prickly bush or deep
undergrowth – before
they vanish. And
even if you do
manage to pin-
point the general
area, there’s no
guarantee that
you’ll be able to
find their master-
fully hidden eggs.
I was under the
misapprehension that
with their wings clipped,
hens move slowly. How
wrong I was. When they hear my
voice or the sound of the bin con-
taining their corn being opened,
they are at the barn door in sec-
onds, doing a comical sort of fly-hop the length of the garden.
At the time of writing, we are
down to our last five eggs. It may
sound a lot – especially in the cur-
rent climate – but an average
healthy stock for us is 20: anything
less and I start getting nervous.
The Ladies all lay in the same
spot, which they choose and dis-
cuss between themselves – yes,
hens communicate all day long,
warning of danger and flagging up
food arrivals such as a discarded
slice of bread on the lawn – and
designate a spot as the “new” nest
after I’ve plundered the previousone. The eggs pile up on top of
each other with never so much as a
crack, even under Shadow’s not
inconsiderable weight.
The conundrum is that if you
remove the eggs, they won’t return
to the same nest – I assume
because they consider the eggs to
have been stolen by a predator –
yet if you don’t take them the hens
will get broody and slow egg
production.
So, the daily hunt continues and
when I finally uncover their latest
cache, I calculate there’ll be in the
region of 25 eggs in the nest. Oneof the things I am looking forward
to most with the onset of summer
is the spectacle of The Ladies
bathing. In sunny weather they
start taking dust baths to clean
their feathers and rid them of tiny
parasites. They lie down in a patch
of warm, dry dirt and burrow and
shuffle until they have created a
bowl perfectly shaped to their
bodies.
Then they start flicking earth up
and over their feathers, all the
while pecking and scratching
themselves with beaks and feet.
Once the bathing ritual is over,
they settle down for a little doze.
Who knew having hens could be
such fun?
Last week, I had the pleasure of
interviewing Daily Express reader
Maureen Stone from North
Yorkshire.
She told me that food rationing
during the Second World War had
prepared her well for the coronavi-
rus lockdown as she was able sim-
ply to make do with less and it
didn’t bother her. Maureen remi-
nisced about the post-war years
when her father grew fruit and
vegetables in their garden and
tomatoes in the greenhouse.
Her words stirred in me a vivid
memory of the smell of green
tomatoes in my grandpa’s conserv-
atory, and spending hours with my
own dad gardening.
He grew every-
thing, from cour-
gettes to sweet
peas and runner
beans to strawberries.
Some of my happiest
memories as a child are
of sitting by the cold-frame
containing cucumbers and
peppers, talking to my dad
while he dug, raked and sowed.
And so, inspired by Maureen,
and in memory of my beloved dad,
I decided to do what I have been
vowing to do since I bought my
house in East Sussex two and a
half years ago – reinstate the vege-
table patch.
The former owner created a
beautiful, magical garden here and
when I moved in, that included a
vegetable plot and fruit cage.
The fruit cage has been success-
fully converted into the chicken
coop but the neglected vegetable
garden became a tangle of bram-
bles and weeds.N
OW – as of last weekend –
it is clear of both, ready
for planting. I shall grow
potatoes, onions, runner beans,
leeks, courgettes, lettuce, straw-
berries and my dad’s favourites,
sweet peas.
This is a difficult time for our
country and particularly for those
who have lost loved ones or liveli-
hoods. Everyone has to dig deep to
find the resilience to do what is
being asked of us and stay at
home.
I am fortunate to have a garden,
family and our animals – precious
and loyal Boris, our haughty and
hilarious white Maine Coon cat
Gracie, and, of course, The Ladies.
While uncertainty, confusion and
trepidation reign in the world out-
side, here the animals and the gar-
den are a source of stability, dis-
traction and comfort to me.
With vegetables and fruit soon to
come, I feel very lucky right now
to be living the Good Life.My good
cluck charm
When writer
DEBORAH COLLCUTT
decided to keep
chickens, she didn’t
realise how satisfying
self-sufficency
would become
v h h t b w v f c g b p l b s c w h‘The Ladies
all lay in the
same spot, which
they choose and
discuss between
themselves’