One Flew Over The Chicken's Nest

I've been keeping hens for two and a half years at this stage and consider myself to have a fairly good grasp as to what it involves. I have dealt with illnesses and deaths, injuries and bullying, and even the world famous ASBO Chicken's cowbag mood swings. On the whole, I thought I'd seen it all. So imagine my surprise when I looked out of the kitchen window earlier to see a chicken sitting on the roof of the greenhouse.

At first I thought I must be mistaken. Surely that vague chicken shape was merely melting snow inching its way down the glass? Erm, no. That would be Hilda the white pekin. Sitting on the greenhouse roof. Looking rather startled.

I barely paused to tug on my boots before legging it down the garden. As I left the house, I shrieked for the ever tolerant husband over my shoulder. The greenhouse is eight foot high at its peak, and Hilda was sitting on the glass roof very near the ridge. After my mad dash down the garden I found myself clueless as to how to proceed. Hilda peered down at me with interest while the ever tolerant husband stood in the door way hardly believeing his eyes.

Pekins can't fly. It's a basic fact of the breed. Their stubby wings and rotund bodies can at best manage a sort of flapping jump. I have never clipped a pekins wings for this reason. Yet here was Hilda, somehow having scaled at least seven feet. Now I may have mentioned that I didn't think that Hilda was the best example of a pekin. She has limited foot feathering and a rather pointed tail, none of which is desirable in the breed. However I have no intention of breeding or showing my birds, so I can happily overlook these things without any consequence. Or so I thought. Because apparently Hilda's non-Pekin-ness means that she can get some serious height in to her flight.

As I stood there, vaguely formulating a plan involving a broom, Hilda began to move. The snow that she had landed on was inching its way like a glacier towards the edge of the roof. At first she didn't seem to notice and carried on watching me in an interested sort of way. As momentum built she adopted that long necked, comically startled expression that chooks do so well. She began her squawk just as she slid in to grabbable distance, and I managed to rescue the errant hen before she ski jumped from the roof in to the roses. It wasn't the best save in the world, as Hilda ended up upside down and hanging on to my thumb by one claw, but at least she wasn't buried under the avalanche her descent had created.

I righted the adventurous chicken and she seemed no worse for wear from her ordeal. The ever tolerant husband tried unsuccessfully to suppress a guffaw and made a passing remark about 'You've Been Framed'. Hilda stalked back in to the coop with her head held high, clearly trying to preserve her dignity. As all of the other hens had watched proceedings from the run perches, I closed the door after her so that she wouldn't attempt to fly south for the winter. I can only assume that the covering of snow made her think that the greenhouse roof was a legitimate landing strip.

Hilda may need grounding.

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.

This Means War!

Now, I love my girls. Their chickenny pottering makes me smile, and their chicken chatter soothes my life frazzled nerves. I love standing at the sink, doing some dull domestic task, and glancing out of the window to see them tearing about the garden chasing whichever one of them has caught a worm. It still makes me laugh the way they turn their heads to the side to look up at the rain, only to run around in a panic when a drop hits them in the eye. They are brilliant, magnificent pets.

However, they have zero respect for my other great love: gardening. They poo copiously over my lawn. They eat my favourite plants, or sit on them. My beloved greenhouse is pebble dashed in chicken poo and feathers. Maeve has taken to sitting on my seedlings when she wants a nap. Enough is enough.

The feeble barrier around the Convent is getting an overhaul this weekend. I'm not sure how yet, but I will devise a way to keep the little vandals contained. A concerted effort is going to be made to move Maeve from my greenhouse, so that instead of growing mounds of droppings, I can start growing my salads. A broody cage is in the process of being obtained so that Belinda can be returned to her slightly less psychotic laying state.

In short, I'm taking back control.

The Sheer Horror Of Skirts

Chickens are creatures of habit. They like to know what's likely to happen at any given time, and really don't appreciate surprises. Therefore, when I wandered down the garden yesterday wearing a long, flowing skirt, all hell broke loose.

The girls had accumalated in the greenhouse, beaks buried in Maeve's growers pellets. Spotting them from the kitchen, I decided to firmly show them the door. Being a warm spring day, I thought I'd wear my first skirt of the season. Strolling leisurely across the lawn, I couldn't have imagined what was about to kick off.

Maude spotted me first, and issued a low bok bok bok. This is chicken for 'Hang on, girls, something's up. That non feathered tall thing is on it's way down here to tell us off'. One by one, the others stood tall to peer at me through the glass. There was a gentle breeze, and they all began muttering as my skirt moved slightly. Sensing something was up, I slowed my advance and spoke reassuringly. That was the exact moment that a strong gust of wind blew the flowing material around my legs.

Mabel let out a blood curdling shriek. The greenhouse was suddenly filled with a vortex of feathers, beaks, shrieking and panic. Hens careered off the glass, crashing into each other and knocking trays of seedlings flying. After twenty seconds of them stampeding around the place, they all froze to get their breath back. We stood in a surreal tableau, chickens gasping and me holding my breath. Then the wind blew again and off they went, crashing into everything.

Sheepishly, I retreated with my terrifying skirt and let the dust settle. There was much chickenny muttering and feather rustling. In the end, I went and put on a pair of jeans.

Belinda Wreaks Vengeance

A broody Belind refuses to give up the nest for Maude and Doris.

Right, so the ebay eggs are on hold until we get back from our travels (yay!). Therefore, a broody Belinda will not get her chance to hatch her first clutch, which means we're still trying to persuade her that there is more to life than sitting in the dark cooing to yourself.

After what seems like weeks of rain, the sun came out today. It was too good an opportunity to miss, so I stripped the coop down to give it a good scrub and disinfect. This always unsettles the hens, who understandably take exception to someone taking their home to bits, making it smell like flowers and disposing of their favourite chickenny smells. Doris was her usual vocal self. The entire neighbourhood was treated to the gobby madam ranting at the cheek.

Belinda sat on the grass where I'd plonked her, and glared at me. She issued a low growl whenever any of the other hens ventured too close, which earned her a 'Oi! Remember who you're growling at!' type peck on the head from top hen Mabel. It was quite disconcerting to feel Belinda's evil eye boring into my back while I crawled about in the run scraping poo (yes, my life really is this glamorous!). After about twenty minutes, she stood up, shook herself, and sauntered off down towards the greenhouse. Pleased that she'd given up her vigil, I carried on battling with easibed and wood shavings.

As I began reassembling the Convent, I heard an odd noise. The other girls had also heard it, and were stood with their heads cocked to one side, listening. Thump. Hmmm. I counted four big girls, and one little Maeve dotted about the human garden (so much for the fencing). Thump. It sounded rather a lot like earth hitting glass. Odd. Thump. After extracting myself from the hen run, I walked up the garden, looking for the missing Belinda. Thump.

The sound I had heard was indeed earth hitting glass. In fact, attached to the earth hitting the glass were some young tomato seedlings. Belinda was systematically pulling seedlings from a tray on my greenhouse staging, and launching them against the lower panes. She froze, seedling in beak, when she saw me stood in the doorway. Human and chicken eyeballed each other for several seconds, before the stroppy hen spat out the current seedling and attempted to move on to my sunflowers. Grasping her firmly with both hands, I removed the chav chicken and frog marched her back to the chicken garden. The hormonal vandal let out a blood curdling shriek which set all the others off bokking and running around in a panic. Plonking her none too delicately back in the Convent's grounds, I gave her a stern look. Regally, she sashayed back up the ramp into the coop, pausing only to throw me a look of disdain before disappearing into the darkness.

I never knew that chickens were capable of such vindictiveness.