Your Chickens - - Feature | Moving Home -

The only drama came at mid­night af­ter cross­ing the French/Span­ish bor­der in the Pyre­nees moun­tains. It was snow­ing heav­ily and trac­tion wasn’t great. Once we had de­scended into the Span­ish foothills, we stopped to cel­e­brate with a sand­wich in an iso­lated lo­ca­tion. De­spite hav­ing pa­per­work, within a few min­utes of pulling over we were con­cerned to see a Catalan po­lice pa­trol car stop­ping to speak to us. The po­lice­man looked jolly and was wear­ing a wide smile. The cold, snowy con­di­tions en­sured that the van win­dows had only been opened a few times. As we wound down the win­dow and said “Hola”, the smile van­ished muy rápido from the po­lice­man’s face when the smell of 16 chick­ens cooped up in a van for sev­eral hours hit him. His first words were “Are you all right?” He shone a torch into the rear of the van and, to our re­lief, with­out fur­ther ques­tions, left us in peace. We were very thank­ful that our roost­ers kept quiet — that could have been tricky to ex­plain.

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