Chickens have Rab on the run... with egg on his face

The birds seemed like a good idea as a way to pass the time, but for Mr MacNeil they prove anything but fun. He should’ve tried a novel... or an album... or anything else, frankly

Well, my chickenwatching sojourn has begun. The strength was down to four, even before I arrived, with one pegging out, as they do. The others appear not to mourn, but merely stoat aboot as if it was just another day. Which, when you think about it, it is really.

Before departing on their holidays, the owners had given me tutorials on feeds, eggs, opening and also closing the doors on the beasties’ two houses.

It was hammered into me relentlessly that I had to close the gate behind me when entering the chicken run.

This was very important, otherwise the beasts would get out and skedaddle into the nearby woods.

At one point, I was even tested on closing the latch and the bolt to assess my overall competence. I did OK but thought to myself: “Enough of the gateclosing lectures already.”

And, on the first day on my own, ladies and gentlemen, what did I forget to do?

Correct: I forgot to close the gate. My suspicions were first aroused when, painstakingly deploying the fingers on one hand, I counted the beasts.

“We appear to be 50% down on the strength,” I thought. I counted again. One. And another one. That seemed to me somewhere short of four.

I thought maybe they were playing a practical joke with the new guy, perhaps hiding behind their wee hooses.

But, no, when I looked round, I saw that some idiot had left the gate open and two of the creatures were gallivanting hither and even yon.

Luckily, I managed to entice them back into the run with some dried worms, but I had at least learned my lesson: the brain needs putting in for a service.

Once settled into the chicken-feeding routine, I really enjoyed it. There was an initial period when I thought I was on holiday and nearly forgot about the birds.

This had happened previously on catwatching duty, where the owners told me to help myself to the drinks cabinet, which I did immediately upon arrival, waking up on the couch several days later with the neglected, starving cats trying to eat my face.

But, with chickens, even when I woke up feeling rotten in the morning – that awful moment when you remember you’re a journalist – I’d soon recover my equanimity, staggering down in my wellies to wish the beasties good morning and feed them scraps, pellets and dried worms.

I gather up the two or three eggs then waddle back to the hoose, feeling sort of useful and appreciated. This is new for me. It could be life-changing.

As usual, I went on to Google to look up what else one could rear as well as chickens, but it was all dire warnings about there being no money in it.

I hadn’t even thought about money. I just wanted a hobby. But, as with anything to do with the country, it was all misery, woe, warnings and moaning, so I gave it up already.

I thought: “I’ll just enjoy my time here.” There’s an artist’s studio in the grounds, where I intend recording an album of music and writing that great novel. All I need is to learn to play a musical instrument and to think up an idea or plot.