Tales from Titchmarsh

Ever fancied keeping chickens in your garden? Alan reveals why this may not be quite as idyllic as it sounds

My dreams of becoming Lord Emsworth from PG Wodehouse’s Blandings Castle novels have been on hold for some time now. Lord Emsworth, you may recall, had a voluptuous sow by the name of Empress of Blandings, who had won the silver medal in the Fat Pigs class at the Shropshire Agricultural Show three years running. His Lordship enjoyed nothing more than leaning over the railing of the Empress’s sty and offering her a tasty boiled potato, sighing contentedly as the porcine amazon put it away as part of the 5,700 calories she needed to consume every day in order to maintain her impressive physique. But my livestock ambitions are confined, as yet, to chickens, which I have kept for 30 years or more. They’re not the same chickens I began with back in the 1980s, but one or two of them – diminutive Lavender Pekins with feathered feet – have been around for a good eight years at least. They don’t lay any more, but I don’t have the heart to dispatch them. Like Lord Emsworth, I’m a bit soft about my livestock. I do not, as he did, spend every waking hour reading Whiffle On the Care of the Pig (or even ‘Waffle On the Care of the Chicken’), but the other hens give me delicious orange-yolked eggs for my weekend breakfasts, even if their characters make them less endearing than a contented sow. Chickens are, almost without exception, nasty pieces of work. Life has taught them that unless they arrive at the feeder first, their companions will have polished off breakfast, lunch and dinner. As a result, the ‘pecking order’ comes into play, and this one will see off that one with a flutter of wings and a warning squawk. I have tried to love my chickens over the years, but they’re not endearing characters and so my appreciation is for their produce rather than their company. Every now and then this magazine will contain a delightful picture of picturesque poultry roaming a garden, their plumage beautifully set off by a border full of flowers through which they roam, under the premise of helping with pest control – eating slugs and grubs that would otherwise eat our plants. Do not be fooled. Let chickens roam at will in your garden and you risk having no garden at all, for they will scratch up small plants, leave soil scattered over paths and lawns, and generally wreak havoc – unless you have stately acres to absorb their foraging. However, I have become used to their ways, and we keep them corralled in a small area dotted with plum trees (to call it an orchard is akin to calling a windowbox a family estate). I manage to keep the grass growing by dividing the plot in half and having a chicken-proof gate between the two sections, so that one can recover while the other is being foraged. They also have access to the compost heaps. They live a charmed life, and between January and October, five chickens produce as many eggs as we and our children can eat. But over the last year or two we have encountered a problem. The duck house on our pond is hugely successful at rearing mallards and, in particular, moorhens. Now, moorhens are nervous birds and run a mile if you approach, but they have discovered the chicken feeders and within half an hour of my filling up the small containers with the corn and sunflower seeds and kibbled maize, they’ll have emptied them. I feed my garden birds every day, but the moorhens are taking liberties by robbing my poultry of their breakfast. I resolved to take steps to prevent their predations. On the internet, I discovered a clever piece of kit that would allow the chickens access to the contents of a stainless-steel trough when they stood on a step at the front. Their weight would cause the lid to lift and they would be able to tuck in – the lid closing again when they stepped away. Gleefully, I rigged up the feeder and filled it with corn. But the chickens steadfastly refused to take any interest. The moorhens, however, have mastered the art and clear it daily. There is no justice. I really must get a pig.

I have tried to love my chickens over the years, but they’re not endearing characters