The French egg cupboard

Recently I was looking after TCL’s smallholding for a couple of weeks. Here there are chickens, ducks, loads of fish, a rabbit and a cat. And of course those horrible worm eating turtles that S loves. The other pets are collected by S’s mum and holiday by the seaside in Suffolk.

As you know TCL lives in a beautiful spot, on the edge of the village boundary. The garden looks over a large paddock – filled with mares and foals at the moment. The broad range of chickens includes beautiful Sumatra chickens. These chickens are not good layers and their slim shape means that they are not a meat bird. But chicken aficionados prize them highly.

The day TCL and S left for the sun one black Sumatra hen hatched four adorable chicks. These were moved to their own apartment in an old high legged rabbit hutch.

“The hutch is well out of the way of predators. But what happens if a chick falls out?”
Oh fateful words.

Mrs Sumatra was a great mother. Immediately she heard my walking down the stone steps towards her apartment she would cluck loudly to call her precious chicks under her wing. Even though I was feeding them and making sure that they had every creature comfort that a small chick could want – I was still the enemy.

On the last day I spotted that the water bowl had been upturned and was right at the back of the hutch. I put might hand gently inside. There was an immediate agitation of mother hen staccato clucks and teeny chick shrieks.

In an instant a chick had leapt from the open door and was on the ground. Never being one for fast reactions I just watched it in shocked surprise. When I leant down to scoop it up it shot into a mess of undergrowth and wide gauge wire netting and vanished.

Now that little chick moved fast and an amazing instinct kicked it. It remained silent but always ahead of my hand. Every time I left the location of the apartment, the chick returned and bayed beneath the hutch. Even if I crept into view it would rush away and hide.

The shrieks cut right through me. These cries made the chick so vulnerable to predators.
“If only I’d just left the water bowl at the back and found a new one?”
I thought of Malcolm Monteith immediately.

I hung around doing the watering. Watching, listening and planning. Perhaps I could trap the chick under the car rug. I sat down trying to blend into the woodland with the rug to hand but the chick didn’t come.

Danny came up and we both tried to corral the chick. I could sense it watching. It didn’t appear. As I drove D back to our cottage we could hear it shrieking beneath the hutch. A desperate cry.

That evening I returned at dusk, hoping to find the chick asleep. But I opened the car door to a hollow, errie silence. Perhaps the chick had been eaten already? There was not a trace of it on the ground beneath the hutch..

The next morning I was on the phone to TCL. They had heard the chick and hadn’t been able to catch it. Suddenly she announced that S (who is a bit of an animal whisperer) had found the chick and it was back with Mrs Sumatra. Safe and sound.

Florence as a pullet not so long ago

“There’s something wrong with Florence. She’s looking odd, not eating or drinking. She’s isolated herself from the others.”
“Let’s put her in The Emerald Castle – with food and water of course. Away from the rest of the flock she can relax and concentrate on geting better.”
Wise words from Danny that apply to any ailing chicken.

It’s strange but it usually seems to be my favourite birds that keel over. As in any group there are some that have more attractive personalities. I still miss Mrs Boss, Carol and all the others that have gone to the Great Meadow in the sky. Most of all I miss Lightning - a pure white guinea fowl that I adored. This was the first Big To Me loss.
 
Lightning  has a little part of the garden dedicated to him. He was buried in a nest fashioned from moss and herbs and placed under the satyr seat.  I know that it’s sentimental but I think of him every day as I pass his resting place.

Florence was much admired by a visitor on Monday – the sun made her greenish black glossy feathers look as lush and inviting as a deep pool on a hot day. She seemed content as she snuggled up with her friends on the roof of the Emerald Castle.

She was fine then. First in the queue for the feeder and, as usual, trying to do a Houdini and exit the run with me to the lush grass beyond the pen.

Her eggs were large and dark brown. She was a friendly hen – easy to pick up and cuddle. Intelligent too. She also reminded me of a wonderful trip to Florence that I took with my mum when I was in my early twenties. Shoes, museums, coffee, fantasy stories and the Boboli Gardens.

This morning Florence looked hunched and dirty. No preening is a sure sign that a chicken is ill or unhappy. Do you remember how straggly Baby looked before he moved into his own studio flat in the run? Away from the bullies he preened and looked great in just a week or so.

It was warm today so I washed Florence gently with an old tea towel soaked in warm water. She seemed to like that. But when I put her down she hobbled away and banged into the side of the pen. As D had advised the EC was the perfect place to put her. She lay down almost immediately. But her neck was odd.

This evening I’m pretty sure that Florence won’t make it through the night. I have a strong suspicion that she is suffering from Marecks disease. Chicks are inoculated against this at a few days old. It’s easy to miss the odd one. Why did it have to be Florence? I just need confirmation from The Chicken Lady.

If you keep livestock you will always eventually have dead stock. Although losing my bird friends is getting easier over time, this is the side of animal husbandry that I find very hard indeed.

Update: I just went down to check on Florence and she had died. RIP Florence – now in that great sunny meadow in the sky.

King Beatyl overseeing his wives

Since I started keeping chickens I’ve always used gravel in the 30’ x 6’ run. Gravel provides drainage – when it rains the chicken poo is washed away. If it doesn’t rain you can turn over the gravel and, if you are energetic, worms appear. Special treats for the chickens.

Six bags just cover the run. Applied four times yearly, you are looking at quite a sizable bill. At least £36 for just one a spread. If you don’t buy something to raise and aerate the ground the chickens are standing in foul mud. Diseases increase. And what animal apart from a hippo would glory in mud.

The ground level has been raised by about 3” over the last 7 years. Even though chickens are light the gravel quickly sinks into the mud. I buy the bags – not economical I know – but they are handy and I can just transport them to the wheelbarrow and drag them quickly into the run. Chickens trying to escape to the great world yonder can be a bit of a nightmare. They wouldn’t last a second if they came face to face with a Min Pin or, even worse, a hunting trio.

I was just about to get some more gravel when I read this post from the super blog The Really Good Life.

Sometimes the lateral thinking of a recycling genie completely passes me by. Canny recycling tips can be huge step.

Initially I empathised over all those steps! Then the next morning I began to plot and plan. If I shredded things that were neither poisonous or had thorns, I could use this material in the chicken run. No more waiting for years for things to break down on the Pension Compost Heap. This is our long term heap that never seems to produce anything particularly useful for the garden.

So this afternoon I shredded some of the autumn and spring prunings. There were a lot lying all over the garden and as I wanted to mow the lawn, this session was a priority. I was assisted by Danny who is a wow with the long handled loppers and saved me a lot of time. When the shredded stuff was spread over the run the chickens came down from their roost to inspect. They always love the arrival of the gravel. But the shredded stuff was lighter. Kickable and the most scratchable medium that the old gang had ever come in contact with. Success! The five newbies kept their distance so tommorow I’ll shred enough to cover the run.

I left them at dusk happily playing, searching, sniffing and tasting. The perfect way to recycle our woody trimmings. And they organic, safe and free.

How do I know what is not poisonous and safe for my flock? Check whether you can make wine from the flowers of your shredded shrubs. Easy peasy.