The Ladies Move Down In The World

Fate is a cruel mistress. For two years, my girls resided in the small but quaint Convent. It was easy to clean out, looked great in the border, but severely limited my flock size. So the Palace came to be. And for two years, they lived mostly harmoniously in a flock of ten. Yet, after some untimely deaths and a few girls moving to pastures new, my small flock of four began to look rather lost in their giant house.

So now they are going to live here.

This is a perfectly pleasant, back garden coop. It is not dissimilair to the Convent. Once the Palace has been taken away by its new owner, I'm sure I will embrace it with happiness and love. But as it stands in the garden, and the Palace is sill here for comparison, my heart sinks a little. This is a step backwards and there's no denying it. Yet I console myself with the knowledge that my ladies won't freeze to death in their cosy new dwelling. If this coop is a warm little flat, the Palace is a draughty stately home.

This afternoon, I moved the pekins from their old home to their new one. They reacted much as chickens will, and didn't notice for at least an hour as they were too busy scoffing toast. Then, they noticed. Maeve and Hilda, still deep in their broody psychosis, took it the hardest. They wanted a nice dark nest box to dream in, and the change in location means that their tiny bird brains can't work out how to find one. So they stand, frozen with indecision, and stare in to the middle distance. Mabel and Maude, the much more sensible mille's, spent the time pecking about at the much smaller perimeters of their new home. Once nest box angst and exploring were exhausted, however, they grouped together in the middle of the run and looked perplexed. Much chuntering ensued. They observed the puppy wandering around inside the Palace's grounds, and chuntered some more. After a brief huddle, Hilda attempted the ascent in to the house.

She managed to get half way up before her ascent became a descent. Slowly, she began to slide backwards. She greeted this development with mild surprise which quickly turned to alarm as she picked up speed. Landing on the floor in an undignified heap, she squawked her displeasure. It seems that this ramp has a steeper gradient than the Palace's.

When I next looked out, the run was empty. All four birds had found their way in to the new premises. I peered through the perspex window, and four curious birds peered back. They tested out the perches and pecked at the aubiose. The pup ran around the coop, looked in through the pop hole and made eye contact with me through the window. This blew his tiny spaniel mind.

All in all, I don't suppose they will mind the reduction in their circumstances. I'm sure I will mourn the pekin empire dream more than they will. And in the end, I know that they are well cared for and will see out their lives in comfort. This new house needs a name, though, so all suggestions are welcome.

I hope the house warming is a quiet affair.

It's No Good, The Feathers Are Here To Stay

Now that Maude seems to be mostly done with her moult, I thought I'd have a go at cleaning up the garden a bit. There were feathers pretty much everywhere, but a good twenty minutes of plucking them from rose bushes and raking them from the borders made a world of difference. And then I spied the Palace.

Maude's old season plumage was liberally scattered about the run. In fact, it was like a new layer atop the sub-strata of the poo and aubiose. With a sudden burst of enthusiasm, I decided to get rid of all the feathers in the garden, and began clearing the run debris. Naturally, as soon as I began every adult hen in the vicinity decided that they needed to lay an egg. I opened the main coop door to give them an alternate route, but oh no. They actually wanted to waddle across the area I was working in, and use the ramp. That held me up somewhat. A succession of haughty chickens casually kicking through your piles of old litter is rather irritating. At last, all would-be layers were in the coop vying for the best nest box and I could get on with it.

It is still the school holidays here, and the children are therefore in a 'helpful' mood. Today the help consisted of flinging water all over the garage floor, tipping a large bucket of woodshavings out on the lawn (they missed the composter) and getting a seriously narked peck from Celia as they rummaged under her for eggs. Sorting out the various calamities meant that the clean out took two hours instead of one, but at last, we were finished.

I stood at the back door, covered in poo and aubiose and red mite powder, and surveyed my feather-free lawn. One by one, the hens emerged from the coop and went about their business. The last hen to emerge was Mabel. She took a few steps from the run door, and then shook her left leg like a dog. One solitary fluffy feather gently swirled to the ground. I chose to ignore it and look the other way. However, a few steps later she shook from her head to her talons, and several more fluffy underfeathers floated to earth on the breeze. I swear she looked at me to make sure that I'd noticed.

I should probably give up.


(As a quick aside, if you get October's 'Country Smallholding' magazine, and look on page 31 of the poultry section, you may spot a familiar beak...)

The Great Corn On The Cob Heist

I went out for dinner yesterday. If you're interested, I had a pasta dish. The eldest had spaghetti, which oddly, came with a random corn on the cob. The eldest doesn't like corn on the cob. The corn sat on the side of his plate, taunting me, for the whole meal. But I didn't want it. I don't think corn on the cob is a natural accompaniment to pasta, as it happens. However, I knew several someones who would very much enjoy that corn on the cob.

As the ever tolerant husband was busy sorting out the bill, I seized my chance. I casually picked up a napkin, gave a quick glance around the table to make sure I was unobserved, and went to grab the corn. Unfortunately, the waiter chose that exact moment to reach forward for the plate. He hesitated as I clutched my prize, and instead of simply ignoring the whole awkward situation, I blurted out for no apparent reason 'It's for Maeve. She's a chicken'. I actually felt the ever tolerant husband wither and shrink in to his chair.

When we got home, I triumphantly presented the corn to the inhabitants of the Palace. They had already retired for the evening, but the whiff of luke warm corn lured them back in to the run briefly. Chickens generally pig out before bedtime, so they had already filled their crops with pellets. After several gluttonous pecks, they admitted defeat and went back to bed. I had no doubt that they would dream of crispy, fresh corn and wake up raring to scoff.

Of course, as well as being eating machines, chickens also have pretty rubbish attention spans. So this morning, the half eaten corn lay neglected under the Palace's ramp. It hadn't been spotted by the usual suspects at breakfast, and now that they were all out free ranging it was all forgotten about. That is, until the new pekins spotted it.

Winnie and Flo regularly stroll in to the Palace at this stage. If a regular spots them, they will give a half hearted chase. But on the whole, they're ignored. So imagine the sheer joy they experienced when they found the corn. Flo actually did a lap of excitement, flapping and bouncing around the run like the total nutjob she is. They pecked at the corn gingerly, not really understanding their prize but twigging that the other pekins wouldn't want them to have it. With this in mind, they took it in turns to drag it to the run doorway.

Just as they were about to commence dragging their treat across the lawn, they were spotted by the serama. Vera has given up being broody for now, and she and Betsy clocked the newbies Getting Away With Something. They came over to inspect. Flo dropped the corn and pretended she was very interested in the grass. Winnie decided to perch on it, in an effort to hide it under her voluminous knickers. The serama were not fooled. They pecked at the corn a bit, then commenced muttering. I don't speak chicken, but it seemed to me that Vera was issuing instructions. After a quick conference, Operation Rob The Corn was back underway, now with the serama helping to drag/push/peck the corn towards the garage.

I watched all of this with a smile on my face and a cup of tea in front of me at the garden table. The pekins were mooching at the bottom of the garden, and I was frankly amazed that the tiny thieves hadn't been noticed. Of course, I should have known better. As the corn got within a metre of the garage door, Maeve ninjad out from behind the rose bush and landed in the middle of the cooperating outsiders. They wisely scattered. ASBO Chicken strolled around the corn, marking her territory. She gave the silently creeping Vera the beady eye and chuntered in a menacing manner. Defeated, Vera, Betsy, Winnie and Flo went off to dust bath.

Maeve didn't tell the rest of the flock, and stripped the corn bare on her own like the boss she is.

Rampaging Chicken Mauls Owner!

As the very last 'News Of The World' has rolled from the printing press today, I thought I'd give you a tabloid style headline. Its technically true, although I dont think you can legitimately claim that a chicken has rampaged. They just dont really have the capacity. I have certainly seen severe narkedness from a hen, and occasionally even full on high dudgeon. But actual rampaging has been thin on the ground. But as the photo below proves, I have in fact been mauled:

Now, you'd be forgiven for thinking a kitten, or a small dog had scratched me. But no. It was a tiny, teeny chicken. Namely, this one:

Yep, Flo. In her defence, she was trying to climb her way up on to my shoulder. From her perspective, perhaps I resembled a mountain which needed conquering, and she felt it necessary to break out the crampons. As she scaled my upper torso using her considerable talons for purchase, I had a small amount of time to wonder at the sharpness of her tiny baby nails. I don't think I've ever known a pekin with razor sharp tootsies before. These claws resemble more hawk than domestic poultry, and I find myself trying to remember when I last had a tetanus booster. I am considering flooring the run with sandpaper in an effort to make her less lethal.

Now that my hideous ordeal has been covered, let's move on to the almost unbearable cuteness of baby pekins. The new arrivals have settled in rather well, and we're all a bit in love with them already. Even the ever tolerant husband had a cuddle with the teeny Winnie yesterday evening. There is something about Winnie which reminds me of Maeve at the same age, so I'm expecting her to grow up in to a very handsome bird with a penchant for evil. Could be very interesting. Flo, as well as an enthusiastic climber, is quite noisy. I'm hoping this settles down, or else she and Celia will have to have a sing off.

Celia and Winnie eye each other up.

Flo and Winnie investigating the Palace, safe in the knowledge that the big girls are behind weld mesh.

The adorably tiny Winnie.

I'm off to rub savlon in to my wounds.

Painting The Palace

I can hardly believe that it's been a year since the girls moved in to the Palace. I spent months trying to find the perfect coop for my pampered ladies and I have to say that I am delighted with my choice. However, perfection doesn't come cheap, so in an effort to protect my investment I decided to paint it. The recent warm weather made me think that today would be ideal. Naturally, the temperature has plummeted by around ten degrees and the wind has picked up. I also have two helpers at home, as the children are on their Easter holidays from school. Despite these possible hiccups, it went reasonably well.

I kept the hens in the run while I painted the outside, figuring that it's the outside of the structure which suffers the most weathering. I want to treat the inside as a red mite preventative, but what with the serama occupying the garage and my tomato seedlings taking over the greenhouse, I have nowhere to stick the pekins while it dries. So for now, the inside of the coop will have to wait. After giving the children strict instructions on the handling of the creosote substitute and putting them in some old clothes, we got started.

The creosote substitute (creocote) smells like creosote, but is thin and watery. So naturally it goes everywhere. The hens watched with interest as the youngest mostly covered his own shoes and arms in the runny mix, while I attempted to duck out of the eldest's spray. Doris kept up a running commentary in her baby seagull stylee, while the others muttered in the manner of little old ladies at bus stops that go 'Ooh!' about everything. After around twenty minutes of watching the carnage, I thanked my helpers graciously and sent them indoors to eat Easter eggs. The hens and I eyeballed each other, all of us grateful for the reprieve. I think the girls were tiring of dodging out of the way of random creocote showers.

With my helpers not helping, it was finished in no time. It doesn't take very long to slap a coat of creocote on to your chicken housing and can make a huge difference to both the longevity of it and also any red mite attacks. I heartily recommend spending a messy, stinky hour doing so. Just be prepared that you won't be able to smell anything else for hours as the fumes singe your nose hairs.

Now, I realise that I haven't mentioned Vera and the eggs yet. Apologies. The thing is, there is nothing more to tell. Tiny tapping sounds continue to be heard from the nest, and Vera continues her steady vigil. As yet, there are no chicks.

The waiting continues.

Right, Which One Of You Was It?

In my experience, just as you think you've got the whole chicken keeper thing nailed, they decide to throw you a curve ball. You can almost time it to the minute. The moment the thought 'Ah, I think I've got this just right' enters your head you are practically begging them to cause mayhem. I'm beginning to wonder if they have some psychic abilities.

The feeder in the Palace run holds 3kg of feed. During the winter months, I might only need to fill it twice a week. However, once the girls are in full lay it generally needs filling every other day. A chicken that is making eggs needs more fuel, so it's not surprising. Yet it is quite surprising when 3kg of feed disappears from the feeder within 12 hours. The first time this happened last week, I began to mildly panic. I have never had a rodent problem and I'd very much like to keep it that way. I could all too easily imagine a family of sleek tailed rats sitting around the feeder discussing whatever rat families discuss while stuffing their chubby chops. Careful examination thankfully revealed a carpet of pellets under the feeder. I'm no rat expert, but I'm assuming that they would eat the feed, not redecorate the floor with it. Which brought my suspicions back to the feathery fiends.

I refilled the feeder and watched the hens on and off all day, waiting to see which one of the little darlings was playing with their food. Under scrutiny, hens tend to be on their best behaviour. So I saw nothing except dainty pecking and polite noshing. Hmm. Deciding it was a weird one off, I forgot about it. Until this morning. Because yesterday I definitely refilled the feeder, and this morning it is empty. The feed is all over the floor. Lovely.

As I don't know who the culprit is, and it's a fairly new habit, I've decided to nip it in the bud. I've ordered a new feeder with slats across the dish part. The theory is that the naughty hen will be discouraged from digging by the lack of room. Well, that's the theory anyway. As the feed from yesterday is all over the floor, I am not rushing to refill the feeder today. This makes me feel a little guilty, and also like a parent disciplining a naughty child.

They won't be going to bed without any supper, though.

Rocky Makes His Presence Known

Well, here we are. Two days in to cockerel ownership. Rocky has well and truly arrived. He was utterly silent until 9.30 yesterday morning, when he gave forth a volley of squeaky crows which made sure that I couldn't deny his existence any longer. He was then thoughtfully silent until lunchtime, when he once again gave us his best solo performance for about a minute. After that, he seemed to lose interest and didn't open his beak again until 8am this morning, which was terribly inconvenient as the ever tolerant husband was on the drive at the time about to get in to his car. He, for his part, is remaining stoically silent about the whole thing.

The girls are not quite sure what to think. I've let them out in the mornings, and then returned them to the Palace grounds so that the serama can have some free ranging time without being eaten. They have borne this amazingly well. When Rocky crows, they watch him with interest. The young cockerel has no idea of the danger he could be in, and wanders up to the door of the Palace at regular intervals to chatter to the much larger girls. For now, they merely observe him, no doubt imagining a fajita or other chicken based wrap.

The serama ladies are very accepting on the whole. Yesterday, the plucky youngster attempted to woo Vera. He staggered to the left with his wing sweeping the ground, and then staggered to the left, all the while chuntering a song of seduction. Vera watched the whole performance while scoffing some grass and seemed less than impressed. In fact, she turned away from him and began to amble off. Misreading the signals, Rocky thought she was giving him the green light and attempted to climb aboard. Not a smart move. Vera turned on him like a chicken possessed. There was much hissing and hackle raising and a few open mouthed pecks. Dejected, Rocky sloped off to hide behind a plant pot and no doubt attempt to regain some dignity.

I wish I could relax and enjoy him, but I'm still waiting for the complaints to start rolling in.

Advice For A Newbie

I am by no means an expert, but it suddenly occured to me that I've been keeping hens for two and a half years. Which is not bad, really. So maybe, just maybe, I'm now qualified to give some pointers to anyone out there who is toying with the idea of keeping a few hens in their back garden. You don't have to agree with me on all of my keeping practices, after all if there's one thing I've learned as a chicken keeper it's that everyone has there own way of doing things. But there are a few things which everyone should know and care about. So, here goes.

Firstly, make sure that you have the space, time and permission to keep chooks on your property. Some housing will have a 'no livestock' rule in the deeds/rental agreement. It is best to check this out before you spend money on coops and feed. Chickens don't take up a huge amount of time if you don't want them to, but they still require daily attention. Even a few layers will need around 20 minutes a day for food/water/egg collecting/health check purposes. The amount of space you have available should direct you in the type of birds you can keep. If, like me, you don't have acres of land, it's best to stick to a small number of large fowl or go for bantams. Most large fowl have bantam counterparts, but bantam sizes vary. Jersey Giants are amazing looking chickens, but they will not be happy living in a confined space. In the same way that you wouldn't keep an ostrich on a balcony, you can't keep all breeds in your average garden. Best to resign yourself to that straight away. Also, consider your garden. Hard landscaping is not ideal for hens.

Secondly, invest in the best housing you can afford. It will always be cheaper to make your own, so if you're in any way competent that might be the way to go. If you're like me, however, and a bit useless, you'll have to buy a coop. I've noticed that a lot of pet shops now sell chicken housing. By and large, it is over priced and hideous quality. Do some research, and keep in mind that cheap housing is a false economy. It will fall apart, probably in the middle of a horrific weather event. It is no fun having to repair a roof in the middle of a snow storm/torrential rain/a hurricane. To be honest, I think that the housing cost highlights the lie that chickens are a cheap source of eggs. Decent housing is not cheap, but will last you a decade or more. Also, buy a bigger house than you think you'll need. A lot of housing woefully overestimates the number of birds it will hold. Overcrowding should be avoided at all costs. Birds that are overcrowded are more prone to stress, and therefore illness. They are also more likely to develop bad habits, such as feather plucking or egg eating.

Thirdly, welfare must be your priority. If you get the housing and number/type of birds right, you are on the right track. Predator protection is the next thing to tackle. Letting your birds free range is always going to be a risk. Some people leave their hens out all day even if they're not at home, knowing that there is a risk or predator attack but balancing that out with the benefits of the birds having their freedom. I personally don't, but I am at home most days so my pampered girls spend a lot of time gardening. I also have a secure run attached to the Palace for when they are confined. Some people keep their birds in a secure run all the time, and if it's big enough it isn't a problem. It is a question of risk versus benefits, and one that every keeper has to weigh up according to their circumstances. However you choose to manage your girls, they must have adequate space to roam in. They should also have access to a dust bath and if they are confined to a run it's a good idea to provide some environment enhancing features (perches, logs to jump on, treats hung on string etc).

I knew nothing about chickens when I first decided to keep them. I read a lot, but most things had to be learned on the job. It was terrifying. So my advice is to arm yourself with a basic chicken first aid kit. Personally, I always have to hand: apple cider vinegar (helps to prevent worm infestations, and is a good general tonic), anti-peck spray (to deter pecking of injuries), flubenvet (wormer, which I use every 3 months), poultry spice (a feed additive, which is useful if the hens are under the weather/in moult), gentian violet (a purple spray which can be used to mask any wounds, hens peck at the colour red), red mite powder (both as a preventative in the housing and the dust bath, and also a talc used on the hens) and a mite spray (to treat any suspected infestations on the birds). Most problems can be dealt with using these things, although of course if in doubt you should consult a vet.

My last piece of advice is this: get to know your birds. Take the time to build up trust and handle your ladies at least weekly. A well handled bird makes all of your husbandry easier. It makes health checks a breeze, and stops the bird (and you) going in to a stress induced panic. Spend time just observing them. You quickly get to know what is normal behaviour, and what is just a bit off. Chickens are amazing at masking their illnesses, so often your first indication that something isn't quite right will be a slight change in behaviour. There are many ailments which can be effectively treated if caught early.

Now, I hope I haven't put anyone off.

Gently Does It

The chooks are unimpressed. Frequent downpours keep the garden a soggy mess, and my delicate feather-footed girls really dislike the way the wet makes their feet straggly. They examine the streamers trailing from their toes with disgusted mutters, and shake their feet with irritation as they become one with the longer grass. As they have just come through their moult, this problem is at it's worst. Their new foot feathers are particularly long.

Betsy and Vera are not affected by this problem. However, being silkied, they are not really designed for wet and windy conditions. On their brief trips in to the garden, they are buffeted about by the inclement weather and frequently retreat to the garage to poo all over the place and perch on the step ladder.

In an attempt to cheer them all up, I threw an apple out on to the lawn. The pekins watched it roll past, looked at me, and then went back to sulking. Even the greedier hens couldn't find the enthusiasm to stuff their beaks. The serama considered running the gauntlet of many garden obstacles, but then thought better of it. I think we're all missing the sun.

I noticed this afternoon that Betsy and Vera were scratching and shaking their heads, much like the pekins were just a few weeks ago. I wouldn't be surprised if the cause of this irritation was a mite, possibly of the ear variety. As the tiny chooks have been spending time in the Palace run, I am beginning to wonder if this beastie is living in the horse bedding. So this weekend I'll be clearing the run, scrubbing the slabs and dusting everything in mite powder. In the meantime, all birds got another spray with anti-mite and a light dusting of powder. In fact, I managed to gently dust the serama while they perched, looking up in wonder at the gently falling beastie killer.

It was quite festive.

This Is A Restricted Area

I have no wish to decieve anyone via my blog. Much as I adore my girls, it would be wrong of me to only highlight the amusing positives of hen keeping. So, today I am tackling one of the downsides. The garden.

As mentioned several times before, my back garden is not measured in acres. In fact, it can be measured in a few fence panels and long strides. Therefore certain allowances must be made. If you've ever heard a back garden chook keeper say that their hens make no impact on their garden, I can safely say that they either keep their birds confined, have no interest in their garden looking nice for the neighbours, or own a country estate. The truth is that chickens are like any other pet. They rearrange the landscape somewhat.

If you're going to keep chooks in the garden, get used to poo picking. And not once a week either. We're talking daily vigilance. Unlike say, a dog that thoughtfully defecates once a day, a hen will poo as she roams. And she will poo a lot. The more you let your hens roam, the wider a poo picking area you have to cover. And don't expect them to have any respect. Anywhere is fair game.

Now that my pampered ladies have the Palace to call home, I am restricting their free ranging. Many people would argue that letting them out for 3-4 hours a day is actually quite a lot, but usually they have been given their freedom for most of the day. In the summer that equals approximately 12 hours of pooing, munching and digging. This year, I am taking back control.

I have got in to the routine of letting them out in the morning, and shutting them back in to the run at lunchtime. They are tolerating this at the moment, but I know that when the longer days roll around they will be most miffed. Thing is, this comes back to the poo issue. Twelve hours of unfettered wandering leaves the garden smelling less than fragrant. Sizzling chicken poo has a scent straight out of Hades. Until someone invents a nappy for chickens, letting them spread manure all over the place in the heat is off the menu. While I love seeing the girls sunbathe and laze about the garden on sultry summer evenings, I'd also quite like to have some flowers. Or any plants really. Apparently, I can't have both.

In an effort to give the newly sprouting plants a fair chance, I am going to fence in the main border. I've tried keeping the hens penned in, and frankly they treat such measures with total disdain. It usually works for five minutes before one by one they harrier jump jet over the netting and wander off to eat something. I am hoping that penning the plants in has more success.

Ask me if it's worked around May.

Darth Doris And The Onset Of Winter Proper

Now that winter is in full swing the hens and I see each other mostly divided by double glazing. Much as I love my chooks, sitting outside in the freezing cold does not appeal. I sit at the kitchen table with a cup of tea. Occassionally, Gladys will wander up to the back door and tap haughtily, demanding a treat. I perform the necessary husbandry quickly so that I can get back to the central heating. Therefore, the girls have to work a bit harder to get my attention.

Doris has hit upon a novel way of getting me to linger. She breathes heavily through her nostrils. The sound is hard to describe, and saying that she sounds like a chicken doing an impression of Darth Vader probably won't help. Yet that is what she sounds like. She perches in the Palace run, happily deep breathing apparently at will. If I grab her for a closer examination, all nostril music abruptly ceases. I go through the necessary health checks and come up blank. We stare at each other for a bit. Sometimes Doris tries to engage me in conversation 'Bok bok bok?'. The second I place her back down and turn to come inside, the Sith impersonation starts up again. Sometimes she stops if I give her a hard look.

Maude has taken an interest in this phenomenon, and cranes her neck around to peer up her flockmates nose. She mutters interestedly to Doris while carrying out these examinations. Doris randomly Darth's, and then stops when bored. Occassionally, Maude pecks at Doris's nostrils in a spirit of helping. This is rarely appreciated, but does stop the droning. As Doris is showing no signs of illness or lack of condition, I am for now going to put this behaviour down to attention seeking.

Luckily, the hens have no access to the weather forecast. I do, and am bracing myself for possible snow in the next few days. Whether or not the white stuff shows up is debatable, but the freezing conditions at night are not. I will be adding a deep layer of woodshavings to all nest boxes so that the girls can make themselves comfortable. Sleeping in the nest boxes is deeply undesirable when the hens are laying, but as none are I am quite happy for them to be used as bedrooms.

Although I pity whoever ends up sharing with the still arsey Maeve.

Hanging In There

We're back from our wanderings, and I'm pleased to report that Doris seems to be on the mend. The spot has vanished and the inflammation looks like it's on the retreat. So a collective sigh of relief all round. My heroic chicken sitter managed to administer all of the medicine without serious incident so I will be delivering a bottle of wine to her door with copious amounts of grovelling thanks. Hopefully she hasn't been put off for life.

The Palace stood firm in the face of extreme gales the night we left, for which I am eternally grateful. I can just imagine the ever tolerant husband's face if we came home to a pile of very expensive timber. My chicken sitter came to check on the girls early the next morning and confessed that she was apprehensive about what she would find, the wind was that strong. The hens were apparently unmoved by the whole experience and just demanded raisins. Typical of them, really.

The temperature has plummeted over the last few days and this morning we awoke to a thick frost. Pekins are not generally happy about cold/wet conditions, so when released this morning they hopped from one foot to the other across the lawn to the relative comfort of the sunny patio. The lawn gets a break over the winter from chickenny attentions, but the patio takes a beating. I am not looking forward to chiselling rock hard poultry poo from the slabs before the ever tolerant husband gets home.

All in all, it's good to be home.

Insulation Has Its Downside

Pekins are wonderfully feathery. In fact, I'd go as far as to say that two thirds of the little round bird you see is comprised of feathers. A soggy pekin is a pitifully skinny (although amusing) sight. In the summer this over-abundance is a pain, and my girls can be seen panting in the shade. I imagine it's a bit like being wrapped in a high tog duvet all year round. However, in the winter it's a God send.

I will freely admit to fretting about my girls once the thermometer dips below zero. Last winter, when the temperature hit the perishing lows of minus twelve, I almost smuggled them indoors. The only thing that stopped me was the thought of the ever tolerant husband getting up in the night to use the toilet, only to turn sleepily around to find eight small chickens perched on the side of the bath. I couldn't see it going down well. Instead, I made them comfortable with extra bedding, hot porridge and extra corn rations. All was appreciated, but I'm not sure how much was necessary.

They appear to cope well with the cold on the whole. The one thing they are not keen on, and which frequently accompanies the colder weather, is the wind. Being light and covered in feathers is a positive disadvantage when faced with a northerly gale. For the first time this season, the air movement got up beyond a breeze today.

With a strong wind blowing, your average pekin finds walking in a straight line next to impossible. She finds herself going woefully off course. In her panic, she speeds up, which only seems to increase the problem. Hence a hen that was ambling towards the bird bath finds herself mysteriously plastered against the rhododendron bush in the corner. She will usually mutter in alarm, before attempting to reverse her course back to the Palace. Unfortunately, the wind whistling down the garden means that she is more likely to end up in the greenhouse where she will huddle with fellow refugees.

When the wind is particularly strong, I don't let the girls free range. I learnt my lesson last year when a frightened Maude attempted to fly back home to safety only to find herself smeared across the patio doors. I'm not sure who was more traumatised to be honest. Today the wind wasn't dangerous, but challenging at times. I watched a grimly determined Maeve dig her claws in to the soft lawn and drag herself towards the coop like a chicken Terminator, while the others cowered in the shrubbery. The wind blew her feathers over to the right, giving her a curious lop-sided look. She made the door way, and turned around to throw a disgusted look at her inferior flockmates before scoffing all the corn.

Poor Gladys has had the most trouble. All of her feathers are fluffy, so today she resembled a ball of lint in a tornado. Only by offering her a grape could I work out which end was which. As one end elongated and a beak emerged, I was surprised to find I'd been offering her backside a snack.

Let's hope for calmer weather tomorrow.

A Helping Claw

It's a lovely autumn day here in the midlands, so I decided to force the ever tolerant husband in to helping me tidy the garden for the winter. With reasonable good humour, he battled through the ankle high lawn with our frankly rubbish hover mower. The hens watched this warily. They are not great fans of noisy garden equipment, so retreated to the Palace to mutter darkly about the pesky humans encroaching on their kingdom.

I set about tackling the greenhouse. Last year, because we were planning on moving, I neglected a lot of my gardening duties. The greenhouse was badly underused this season, but I have big plans for next year. The chooks never miss an opportunity to raid the greenhouse, so I had lots of, er, help. Every few minutes, a sneaky hen would dart in and grab a stray tomato before legging it out again. It was a tag team of thievery. I didn't want to spoil their fun by pointing out that they could eat all of the split tom's on the floor, so turned a blind eye. Much strutting about the lawn ensued.

Hilda and Gladys think they are soooo clever.

Gladys pretends she's not there, while a very nosey Hilda bobs in to shot.

Mabel watches over all the thievery with an approving eye.

Doris, Maeve, Celia and Purdy. Reservoir Chooks.

Maeve plays bouncer to the broody Celia and Purdy.

The Potato Snaffler

I was enjoying a lovely hot bubble bath last night when I heard a strange noise from the back garden. Initially I ignored it, assuming that it was the neighbour's dog over the back. When the strange squeaking sound came again, I paid more attention. I climbed out of the bath, grabbed a towel and peered out of the bathroom window. I couldn't see anything, which isn't surprising since I wasn't wearing my glasses and was trying to see through obscured glass. Realising my lack of visual effectiveness, I wandered in to the eldest's bedroom to gaze down upon the Palace. All looked well.

Just as I was about to head back to the bath, the sound came again. A rapid succession of squeaky yelps. They were definitely not coming from the garden to the rear. These sounds were much closer. my heart sank. These had to be the sounds of a young fox. Taking the stairs three at a time, I legged it past the ever tolerant husband, garbbed a torch from the kitchen and flung open the back door. There was no more squeaky yelping, but I could now hear scrabbling from near the Palace.

This is it, I thought. The local fox population has finally cottoned on to the walking buffet in my back garden. My girls will never be able to free range again, and at some point the wiley creatures will get lucky. I will one day have to face the aftermath of a fox attack. Every chicken keeper knows that this might happen, but I couldn't believe just how devastated I felt by the possibility that it was happening now.

I shone the torch all around the Palace, expecting at any minute to see a fox attempting to chew it's way in to the run. Seeing nothing, I widened my search. The (rather pathetic) beam of light skipped over the children's football, the chooks treat bowl and an old brown shoe. Hang on. An old brown shoe? I homed in on this stray footwear for a closer look.

The shoe was eating a roast potato. Because it wasn't a shoe. It was the biggest, fattest hedgehog I have ever seen. And it was squeaking with joy at having found a stray piece of spud that I'd given the hens after dinner. It momentarily stopped stuffing it's chubby hedgehog cheeks to watch me thoughtfully. Deciding that I wasn't going to try and steal it's prize, it went back to chowing down.

We watched the hedgehog finish it's meal, and then wander about the garden looking for more. Coming up short, it mooched over to the bird bath for a drink, then wombled off under the rhododendron. It was a delightful encounter, and it was good to see Mr. Hedgehog carrying a few extra ounces as he prepares for hibernation. I checked on the hens, and found all but ASBO Chicken snoozing, oblivious.

I wonder if Maeve sensed the spud stealing intruder.

Some October Pics

The sun was shining here this morning, so I took advantage of the fine weather and cleaned out the Palace. The girls were happy to pose for a few snaps, as long as I bribed the narky madams with raisins.

Mabel, coming nicely through her moult.

Maeve, aka ASBO Chicken, eyes up the raisins. You can just see Maude rushing in to shot.

Maeve, Mabel and Doris. Mabel is doing her best pneumatic drill impression, hence the blurry head.

The eldest takes his life in his hands removing a broody Celia from the nest box.

The marvellously frizzled Gladys, and Hilda's glowing white bum.

Purdy, recently evicted from the nest box, chows down. Maude is considering an ambush.

The newbies huddle in the border, catching the last of the sunshine.

Purdy disobeying the 'don't drink from the bird bath' rule. Sigh.

Hilda and Gladys might look nonchalant, but it's faked. They have just flattened that plant.

Maeve and Doris are unimpressed with the invisible treats.

Hilda about to decimate the globe thistles.

The Damp Settles In

Autumn has well and truly arrived here in the midlands. Temperatures have plummeted, and the house once again resembles an industrial laundrette. The damp air is doing interesting things to my hair, but more amusingly, it's doing interesting things to Gladys.

Poor Gladys. Being frizzled apparently comes at a price. While all the other hens look sleeker now that their feathers are damp, Gladys has puffed up. She now resembles a pom pom with legs. Her neck feathers have curled so far over her head that she has to strain her neck out to see where she's going. She looks strangely alien as she wombles across the lawn looking for bugs. If the rain was anything other than this barely there drizzle, she wouldn't have this problem. Even frizzles de-frizzle when very wet. However, this current dampness just adds to the curl. She looks magnificent, but also embarassed.

She has taken to perching in the Palace grounds, and determinedly preening. With painstaking attention to detail, she attempts to flatten out the worst offenders. I think this serves to act like an open bladed scissors on ribbon, and just curls her feathers more extravagantly. Eventually, she sits and sulks. With her head tucked in, it can be tricky to work out which end is which.

The other girls are being suitably sympathetic. Maude has taken to following the follicly challenged youngster about. Not to chase or peck her, but seemingly purely because she can't believe her crazy hairstyle. If chickens could laugh, Gladys would hear nothing else.

I think she's gorgeous.

Kiki's Revenge

It has been glorious here today. I used the opportunity to knock the garden back in to shape, with the enforced help of the ever tolerant husband. We spent the morning shifting earth, moving plants and pots and generally tidying. The chooks mooched about after us, occassionally getting themselves close enough to the downwards stroke of the spade to only just escape the fate of a French aristocrat during the revolution. Doris is without doubt the most fearless, risking her neck several times for that juicy must-have worm.

At last, the chores were finished, and we locked the hens in to the Palace so that we could enjoy sitting in the sun without a feathery marauder landing on your shoulder. The chooks took this well, for the most part. The Palace is truly palatial to my small girls, and a vast improvement on the Convent's more modest grounds. They contented themselves with perching in the shade, or sunbathing in the aubiose. All was peaceful. Until, that is, Kiki was awoken from her broody spell.

I had caged Kiki earlier in the day in an effort to get her to eat and drink. The hormonal silkie has been in the broody zone for a fortnight now, and shows no sign of stepping out of it. She paced agitatedly about the cage, periodically sticking her fluffy head and long neck up out of the cage through the wire mesh like a submarine upping its periscope. After a few hours, I released her from the cage but shut the pop hole. Immediately, she dashed in to the Palace and smacked straight in to the closed pop hole. The rebound took her to the bottom of the ramp. Undeterred, she tried several times more. When sheer brute force didn't clear her path, she attempted to use her beak as a crowbar. I have to confess to being quite impressed. Alas, this too failed. She perched in the run, muttering darkly.

All of a sudden, she seemed to notice the chooklets for the first time. She has been in her broody alternate universe all through the move to the Palace, and the introduction of Purdy and Celia to the main flock. Her short spell in the cage was all it took to bring her round enough to notice. And she didn't like it. As we sat in the garden, enjoying the sun, Kiki decided to kill the chooklets. With uncharacteristic viciousness, she hounded them around the Palace, allowing them no respite. All of the hens took up a loud screeching, as Purdy and Celia legged it at light speed from the mental roadrunner. I watched anxiously, knowing that interference would only prolong any bullying, yet ready to step in should feathers and/or blood be drawn. It would settle down for a few minutes, only for the crazy Benny Hill chase to begin again with renewed vigour. Eventually, I decided to remove Kiki so that she could calm down.

Cornering her in the sleeping area, I grabbed her. She immediately started making a racket as if she was being murdered, flapping her wings and wobbling her neck about. With grim determination, I hung on to the struggling silkie and wrestled her back in to the broody cage. Immediately, the rest of the flock fell silent and went back to their sunbathing/preening/snoozing. Kiki resumed pacing and chuntering.

I have no idea what led to Kiki's sudden hostility. After about an hour, I put her back in with the flock. She strutted back up the ramp to her favourite nest box and pancaked herself. The glazed look in her eye told me that she was no longer with us. This is one determined broody.

I think that Celia and Purdy will be glad of it.

Digging For Victory

The Chook Palace has been successfully relocated. In the end, we had to call in the services of our lovely drummer neighbour to help move it. My assertion that I could lift it turned out to be, frankly, wrong. Like any self respecting Palace, it weighs a ton (If not literally, it's not far off).

Now that its reached its final resting place, I can begin to landscape around it. I would love to plant swathes of beautiful flowers, but the pragmatist in me knows that what I really need are unappatising, chicken proof shrubs. The chooks have taken the move well, and even obliged by putting themselves to bed last night like sensible hens. Partly, this might be down to the fact that it is absolutely freezing here again. I peeked in to the sleeping area to find all six pekins huddled together, the chooklets sensibly putting the fearsome Mabel between themselves and the social climbing Maeve. The silkies were a mass of fur in the nest box, and at some point I will be addressing this bad habit.

In digging out the flower bed to make a flat base for the Palace, the ever tolerant husband has created a large pile of earth. This needs to be moved, and I managed to distribute four wheel barrow loads last night before my back threw a tantrum and stubbornly refused to haul any more. The hens are in raptures. Its a veritable smorgasboard of squirmy things, and they are gorging themselves. Indeed, Maude has gotten a little carried away, and managed to dig herself a crater. All that can be seen from this side of the mound is a fine spray of earth being furiously thrown up and behind her ample rear end. Occassionally, a hapless hen wanders past and gets a faceful of dirt. The protestations can be heard from the house.

Kiki is broody, so ignoring all of the activity. I turfed her out while the Palace was moved, and she diligently kept pace with it as it was transported up the garden. As soon as it was landed, she sprinted back up to her nest box. I imagine that when she finally wakes up from her maternal spell, she'll look about her at the cavernous Palace and go 'Huh?! Where am I?!'.

Something, while up to my elbows in chicken poo, I often ask myself.

The First Night

I contacted Smiths yesterday after updating this blog to enquire about putting the hens in to the freshly creocoted Palace. I was informed that as soon as it was dry, they could move in. So, at seven o'clock last night, they did.

I eagerly prepared the shiny new coop for the chooks first night. They watched the activity from afar, apparently unconcerned by this new development. I very much doubt that they expected the new structure to have anyting to do with them. Boy, were they in for a surprise.

Once everything was ready, I threw in a handful of corn and called them. They came thundering up the garden, before coming to a comedy stop at the threshold of the new pad. Some low level chuntering passed from the hens at the front (Maude and Maeve) to those at the back (Mabel and Kiki). Most opted for a slow backwards retreat. However, Doris was hungry, and shot in to the run to grab a beakful of grain. Maeve sauntered after her, looking around the fabulous new addition to my chicken keeping empire. She half heartedly scratched in the bedding, before nonchalantly turning back for the door. At the same time, Doris decided to vacate. It started out quite sedately, and ended in a mad dash across the patio. Not sure what spooked them, but they were definitely disturbed. So, there was nothing else for it.

I darted about the garden, grabbing hens and stuffing them in to the coop. Finishing with the chooklets (who were stuffed in to a nest box), I stood back and waited for the girls to emerge. Ten minutes later, I was still waiting. Some bokking could be heard from the bedroom area, but not so much as a beak passed the open pop hole. I decided to make myself a cup of tea.

When I returned, I saw Maude emerging from the house. She stood at the top of the ramp, doing that curious 'head up, head down' thing that all chickens do when trying to suss out their environment. She darted her head all about, taking in the roof and walls, before elegantly leaping on to one of the external perches. Shaking herself, she let out a loud bok-ARK. Maude had obviously been chosen as the scout chicken. Finding the coast clear, she gave the signal. The others began to emerge.

They spent the next hour or so exploring the grounds of the palace. Every so often, someone would attempt to fly up to the roof, no doubt checking the security features. So engrossed in this were they, that the chooklets were largely left alone. Only when Celia refused to vacate the space on the perch which Mabel felt was rightly the top hens spot did she get a bit of feather pulling, but on the whole it has been quite tame. Relieved, I retreated to the human house to eat biscuits.

At half eight, I went out to check on them. Strangely, the daft silkies were the only birds to go in to the house to sleep. I found them wedged in to a nest box. This was a surprise, because in my experience the silkie girls have the combined intelligence of a crisp packet. Maeve had occupied a neighbouring box when first introduced to the Palace, and had stubbornly refused to move. Outside, on a perch, I found five snoozing pekins. Chook by chook, I placed them on the internal perch block. Being in that curious half asleep/hypnotised state, they allowed me to do so without a sound. I closed the pop hole, and crossed my fingers.

My alarm went off at 7 this morning, and I eagerly went out to open the coop. Not a sound. With a dark dread I opened the main door, imagining lots of creocoted to death chooks. Eight hens stared back at me, blinking in to the light. The coop is very, very dark. This is very, very good. Hopefully, the false night will keep the gobby hens quiet. Within the hour, all of the girls (even Maeve) had made their way downstairs to get some breakfast. They are staying in today, just to get them totally used to their new house., and so that they can redecorate a bit.

Moving day is always a bit stressful.