Maddie’s World
In her weekly column, Maddie Grigg shares tales from her life in rural Dorset . . .
CHAMPAGNE CHARLIE and his wife seem to be overrun with bantam chickens. Although there’s one fewer than there used to be.
Earlier this year, mother hen sat on a clutch of eggs and hatched out nine chicks. Another bantam, after cavorting with a cockerel, took off into the bushes and hatched seven more. This family is still there, refusing to sleep in the hen house at night.
Signs went up on the shop noticeboard, advertising chicks for sale. There has been a steady stream of takers from the village and beyond ever since. It seems that everyone wants their own hens, and that includes the Good Lord himself.
You see, one of the young cockerels has made a bid for freedom. I saw it when it flew over our fence then scuttled into the garage.
It swiftly skedaddled back out again after taking one look at Arty, who was equally surprised to come face to face with a chicken.
No more was heard of our feathered friend until yesterday, when I saw Bubbles walking down the church steps, scattering a trail of corn behind her.
“There’s a chicken in the churchyard,” she told me, responding to my puzzled look. “It’s been up in the old yew tree for several days and won’t come down.
“We’ve lost count of the number of people who have called at our door to tell us one of our bantams has turned to God.”
We’re used to having sheep grazing in amongst the headstones, but a chicken is a new one on me.
“What are you going to do?” I asked her.
“Charlie and I have been going up with some corn in the hope it’ll hop down and follow us home. But it hasn’t happened yet.”
Today we’re in the Comrades Arms, our pop-up bar at the village hall which is being run by Mr Grigg and a band of volunteers until the pub reopens.
Champagne Charlie is tucking into a bowl of crisps until my husband tells him he needs to buy his own.
“How’s the chicken hunt going?” I ask my neighbour.
“We’ve seen it several times,” he says. “But as soon as we get close, it edges up to the tree trunk and won’t come down. At this rate, I think we’ll get the Sunday school children to adopt it and take it under their wing.
“Bubbles has already said she’s going to put a trail of chicken feed between the tree and the church pulpit. Imagine the reaction when the vicar gives her sermon and a chicken lands on the lectern.”
At the bar, the assembled throng have a giggle and try to come up with names for the bird, which Charlie says is a young cockerel.
Barry the Bantam, Colin the Cockerel and Chico the Chicken are just three of the suggestions.
“I’ve heard of free rangers – maybe as this one’s on its own we should call it the Lone Ranger,” I say, which prompts a discussion at the bar about what was the masked adventurer’s name. “Tonto,” one says. “Silver,” another says. I know for a fact that Tonto was the name of the Lone Ranger’s faithful sidekick and Silver was the name of the horse.
“We’re digressing,” I say. “We need a name for the chicken and we need to catch it before a fox does.”
At that point, there is a commotion at the bottom of the stairs, where Mr Grigg has gone to test that the stairlift is working – a procedure he carries out regularly.
All eyes are on the stairs as he turns the corner on the lift, with a chicken sitting on his lap.