Summer and fowl play have turned my lawn to dust
THE DROUGHT may now be subsiding and reservoirs filling up with rain, but my lawn remains little more than a patch of scorched earth.
It is causing me more worry than I care to admit. From an upstairs window I cast a furtive eye along the neighbouring gardens and theirs seem to be faring far better. Even next door is beginning to once more look positively verdant in comparison and they have four young children scampering up and down each day.
The culprits lurk at the end of the garden, clucking with malevolent intent. Every time I venture out our four hens strike up a plaintive cry, pleading to be released from the (rather generous) confines of their coop in order to roam as they please.
When I do eventually give in and set them free, the first port of call is to fan out across the yellow grass like a platoon of soldiers, plucking at each new shoot.
This method is devastatingly effective. Any lawn seed I scatter will soon be rootled out and end up in the chicken’s gullet. Thus I face a dilemma: keep the chickens cooped up and restore some semblance of a lawn or go free-range and be damned?
Matters are reaching the stage where I am minded to fence off the worst-affected patches for a decent spell in the manner of an officious local custodian of a neighbourhood park: no ball games and no fowl play.
I have always thought that the British climate means we are blessed with the finest grass the world can grow. Alpine meadows? Too spiky. New Zealand pastureland? Too irrigated and lush.
But this two-pronged threat of chickens and climate change has made me fear for the future.
So roll on September and, one hopes, the promise of autumn rain. Or at the very least, colder days that justify whipping up a coq au vin.