Life and times

The author and Telegraph journalist on posh chickens, spiritual ravens – and terrifying bears

Joe Shute on his love of all things feathered

I AM EXPERIENCING the seasons through the beady unblinking eyes of the chickens that live at the end of my garden. There are four of them, two rescues and two fancy pedigrees (a Bluebell and a Speckled). They fulfil their class stereotypes to perfection: the posh birds preening and daft as Bertie Wooster, while the hardscrabble hens make up for their bad life chances with an impressive greedy guile.

At this time of year, though, they cut diminished figures, barely bothering to rouse their plaintive chorus. The reason for this discomfiture is that they are moulting (birds shed their feathers each year). A little like Brexit, the online chicken forums (of which there are many) suggest there is a ‘hard’ and ‘soft’ moult, depending on how quickly the feathers fall out. Mine waver somewhere in the middle, although they are hopefully through the worst.

They have my sympathy, but only to a point. What I, like many bald men before me, would give for such ability to renew one’s plumage.

I THINK I HAVE AN inverted case of seasonal affective disorder, whereby I am happiest on the bleakest days. I recognise similar symptoms in younger people too. Over the past year, I have documented the seasons with a group of teenage writers on Sheffield’s sprawling Manor Estate, which sits atop a deprived part of the city. Their efforts are currently on display at the aptly named Winter Garden glasshouse. We worked through the spring and summer heat, but it was as autumn turned to winter that their writing blossomed.

A few weeks ago, in driving rain and heavy fog, we headed to the Peak District. For some of these young people it was the first time they had been to the countryside, despite living only 20 minutes away. We clambered over gritstone rocks, watched redwings, marvelled at the caramel colours of a peat-fed hilltop stream and giggled at a flock of ducks in the midst of an avian orgy.

The weather was foul, but their subsequent poetry revelled in the mist and murk. The joy of flicking a wire fence and watching the raindrops explode like sparks. That last line was written by a 14-year-old. I told her I might nick it.

RECENTLY I JOURNEYED to Haida Gwaii, an archipelago off the far northwest coast of British Columbia, Canada, to record a radio documentary for the BBC on the close relationship between the indigenous Haida people and ravens. Here the birds are revered as tricksters and conduits between the human and spiritual worlds. There are raven totem poles, a raven clan and special raven headdresses. As a corvid lover I was in heaven.

The islands are still relatively unspoilt with beautiful temperate rainforests of red cedar, which the Haida use to carve their totem poles. They are also home to the Haida Gwaii black bear, the largest subspecies in North America. Never run if you encounter one in the wild, so the locals say. Stand your ground, shout and wave your arms. If it continues to advance, lob fir cones at it. If it starts mauling you, ‘play dead’. Nobody says what to do if that doesn’t work.

Tramping through the forest looking for raven roosting sites, I was constantly aware of the bears’ presence and questioning what I might do should one appear. Sadly (to a point) I never got the chance to find out. But nothing sharpens your connection to the natural world like the fear of becoming lunch.

Heart and Soul: The Raven is on BBC World Service at 1.30pm on Friday

What I, like many bald men before me, would give for the ability to renew one’s plumage