Subsquent to the Chicken Acquisition, and not unrelated to it, I discovered that there are few things more dispiriting in life than going out to your newly-planted herb garden, in which you have invested time, money, weedkiller and many hours of naked rolling, and finding nothing left but a patch of bare earth, three bits of pecked greenery and a lump of chicken pooh.
But, you know, chickens lay eggs. And gardens don't, although you can, with much hard work, whole days of weeding, hoeing, tying up, pegging down and covering with netting, persuade a garden to let you have not quite enough vegetables in one go to actually feed the family, thus necessitating having to go to the shop anyway to top up with frozen veg. So I gave my garden over to the chickens. And, by extension, the hedgehogs, rabbits, pheasants, deer, butterflies birds and wasps. I mean, I could be out there now, carefully turning over soil in order to painstakingly plant something which the chickens will eat as soon as it sprouts, or will turn my newly dug soil into a dustbath. But I'm not, I'm sitting here on my bed, in the sunshine, guilt free.
|Here they are. On my picnic table, on what used to be a lawn.|