Country Squire

FORGET THE HUMBLE HOUND, ROB INGRAM REVEALS WHO REALLY IS THE COUNTRY MAN’S BEST FRIEND.

LET ME TELL YOU SOMETHING STRANGE about the average country bloke. He swears at his dog. He swears at his cattle. He swears at his sheep. He swears at the weather. But he speaks in whispers to his chooks. That big burly bloke who can kickstart a harvester and turn a herd of stampeding buffalo around with a single blow of his nose settles down on the sofa in the evenings to shampoo and blow-dry his prized poultry. His sheep and cattle survive polar blizzards to help pay for the kids’ private school fees… and get no thanks at all. But the chook who gets to eat the same gourmet food as the farmer in return for a humble egg is showered with TLC. Sure, there are suburban chook fanciers too, but somehow they’re more discreet. They conceal their curious behaviour like the Brotherhood of the Ancient Order of Knights of the Reformed Faith. In the country, it’s the in-your-face bond between the awkward and the ornamental, the rough diamond and the fussy little fowl, that seems so eccentric. I grew up believing that dog was man’s best friend — and certainly boy’s. Then, for an all-too-fleeting period, I thought a good tax accountant was man’s best friend. I was right the first time. Now, domiciled in the bush, I have to cope with the fact that country bloke’s best friend is the chook. The late Adrian Gill (who wrote under the name A. A. Gill) knew the stark feathered folly of fowl fancying, plus the surprising fact that men and chickens is perhaps the oldest symbiotic relationship in history. “They are our oldest friends,” Gill wrote, “but they still look at us with an intense curiosity.” Maybe it’s the extraordinary duration of this relationship that has resulted in so many of the hen’s instinctive habits being adopted by their owners. Once alone with his chooks, the country bloke — visibly normal at other times — cocks his head on one side, shuffles his feet, scratches himself randomly and ruffles his hair. Both hen and owner whisper and cluck to each other furtively. Gill didn’t understand chicken devotion either. Until he held a hen. A man standing next to him at a village show said, “There’s nothing quite like holding a hen. Here…” He was shown how to hold the little brown hen gently but firmly to make her feel secure. She settled into the palm of his hand and he found the weight and balance of the bird reassuring and satisfying. He was hoping the bird felt relaxed when he realised it was he who was feeling relaxed. A feeling of calm washed over him. Tension and worry was spinning away from both of them. Man and hen bonded in a kind of giddy happiness. “It’s unexpected, unlikely and a little embarrassing,” Gill wrote, “but it is virtually impossible to hold a hen and not smile.” On page 71 of our June issue there’s a photograph of Sus Bush from Bookham in southern New South Wales holding a hen. She’s smiling, and she’s very probably suffused with feeling of calm. There’s no sign of tension or worry in either party. The photo reminded me of Gill’s words. And Gill’s words in turn explained to me the complacence of a neighbour who shows chooks. He’s the busiest man I know, working around the clock on industrialstrength tasks in his industrial-strength workshop. If he’s not grappling with his own problems, he’s grappling with someone else’s… but come the evening, the tension ebbs. It’s time spent with his wyandottes — an American breed popular internationally on the poultry show circuit. They’re docile and friendly and affectionate and drop-dead gorgeous. He swaps toolkits — to the one containing the show-and-shine shampoo, the baby wipes, the clear nail polish, the baby oil, the blow dryer, the silk polishing cloth. And his hens snuggle down in his hand and enjoy the full spa treatment. “There’s no such thing as a pretty good omelette,” he says. “And there’s no such thing as a pretty good hen. Both need to be perfect… and there can be no better reward.”

TENSION AND WORRY WAS SPINNING AWAY FROM BOTH OF THEM. MAN AND HEN BONDED IN A KIND OF GIDDY HAPPINESS.