‘The Ladies all lay in the same spot, which they choose and discuss between themselves’
When writer DEBORAH COLLCUTT decided to keep chickens, she didn’t realise how satisfying self-sufficency would become
THE news that there has been a 66 per cent rise in sales of chicken coops, and that breeders have sold out of pullets does not surprise me in the slightest. Happily, I have three hens already: in fact they are fast approaching their first birthday and they are one of the most unexpectedly satisfying purchases I’ve ever made.
Long before coronavirus and the lockdown, I found myself spending way too much time I didn’t have just observing them as they pecked, scuffled and strode around the garden.
A time I cherish most is early on Saturday and Sunday mornings when I take a large mug of coffee and walk round the garden – in dressing gown, overcoat and wellies – in pursuit of The Ladies, otherwise known as Snowy, Shadow and Ginger.
I let them out of their hen house every morning and they are a joy to watch as they go about their daily routine.
Snowy is always last to bed and the first out of the door in the morning, followed by Ginger and lastly, as ever with a theatrical pause designed for maximum anticipation and impact, Shadow.
I still feel a ridiculous sense of excitement as I open the back of the house to see if they have left an egg and a sense of contentment when there is one, still warm and covered in their feathers and bedding.
MEANWHILE on the lawn, The Ladies are already attempting to steal my black Labrador Boris’s breakfast – foolishly brave considering that his diet consists almost entirely of raw chicken.
Then they swing past the barn where their feed, corn and bedding are kept in the hope that I will give them a treat, and afterwards scatter to various corners of the garden, in readiness for laying.
They have very distinct personalities – not to mention eggs – and Shadow, a Blue Haze hen, is top of the pecking order.
She is fatter and bossier than Snowy, a timid Light Sussex, and Ginger, a doughty Ranger.
Shadow’s are also the largest eggs, pinky-brown in colour, and she is the most prolific layer.
Snowy, poor thing, had “soft shell” syndrome and her eggs came out as a mushy mess on the hen house floor until I added crushed oyster shell to her diet. That solved the problem. But she still lays only every other day and her eggs are pale and delicate.
Ginger produces a classic farmyard egg, smooth and nutty brown in colour.
All are delicious, with golden yolks and a rich fluffiness you will never find in the supermarket variety, no matter how free-range they claim to be.
That is, however, when I can find them.The blessing – and curse – of truly free-range hens is that they lay wherever and whenever they want. And if they don’t want you to find their bounty, you won’t. The only clue they give is a very loud and distinctive clucking when they have finished laying which means you have to be in a position to drop everything and run if you’re to see where they emerged from – usually a large prickly bush or deep undergrowth – before they vanish. And even if you do manage to pinpoint the general area, there’s no guarantee that you’ll be able to find their masterfully hidden eggs. I was under the misapprehension that with their wings clipped, hens move slowly. How wrong I was. When they hear my voice or the sound of the bin containing their corn being opened, they are at the barn door in seconds, doing a comical sort of flyhop the length of the garden.
At the time of writing, we are down to our last five eggs. It may sound a lot – especially in the current climate – but an average healthy stock for us is 20: anything less and I start getting nervous.
The Ladies all lay in the same spot, which they choose and discuss between themselves – yes, hens communicate all day long, warning of danger and flagging up food arrivals such as a discarded slice of bread on the lawn – and designate a spot as the “new” nest after I’ve plundered the previous one. The eggs pile up on top of each other with never so much as a crack, even under Shadow’s not inconsiderable weight.
The conundrum is that if you remove the eggs, they won’t return to the same nest – I assume because they consider the eggs to have been stolen by a predator – yet if you don’t take them the hens will get broody and slow egg production.
So, the daily hunt continues and when I finally uncover their latest cache, I calculate there’ll be in the region of 25 eggs in the nest. One of the things I am looking forward to most with the onset of summer is the spectacle of The Ladies bathing. In sunny weather they start taking dust baths to clean their feathers and rid them of tiny parasites. They lie down in a patch of warm, dry dirt and burrow and shuffle until they have created a bowl perfectly shaped to their bodies.
Then they start flicking earth up and over their feathers, all the while pecking and scratching themselves with beaks and feet. Once the bathing ritual is over, they settle down for a little doze.
Who knew having hens could be such fun?
Last week, I had the pleasure of interviewing Daily Express reader Maureen Stone from North Yorkshire.
She told me that food rationing during the Second World War had prepared her well for the coronavirus lockdown as she was able simply to make do with less and it didn’t bother her. Maureen reminisced about the post-war years when her father grew fruit and vegetables in their garden and tomatoes in the greenhouse.
Her words stirred in me a vivid memory of the smell of green tomatoes in my grandpa’s conservatory, and spending hours with my own dad gardening.
He grew everything, from courgettes to sweet peas and runner beans to strawberries. Some of my happiest memories as a child are of sitting by the cold-frame containing cucumbers and peppers, talking to my dad while he dug, raked and sowed. And so, inspired by Maureen, and in memory of my beloved dad, I decided to do what I have been vowing to do since I bought my house in East Sussex two and a half years ago – reinstate the vegetable patch.
The former owner created a beautiful, magical garden here and when I moved in, that included a vegetable plot and fruit cage.
The fruit cage has been successfully converted into the chicken coop but the neglected vegetable garden became a tangle of brambles and weeds.
NOW – as of last weekend – it is clear of both, ready for planting. I shall grow potatoes, onions, runner beans, leeks, courgettes, lettuce, strawberries and my dad’s favourites, sweet peas.
This is a difficult time for our country and particularly for those who have lost loved ones or livelihoods. Everyone has to dig deep to find the resilience to do what is being asked of us and stay at home.
I am fortunate to have a garden, family and our animals – precious and loyal Boris, our haughty and hilarious white Maine Coon cat Gracie, and, of course, The Ladies. While uncertainty, confusion and trepidation reign in the world outside, here the animals and the garden are a source of stability, distraction and comfort to me.
With vegetables and fruit soon to come, I feel very lucky right now to be living the Good Life.