In which our hero nearly brains herself and receives no sympathy
So I’m bragging, yes, but my courgettes are huge (not a euphemism). They have taken over the entire greenhouse, with leaves so enormous you could seriously float down a river on one (yes, of course they would hold my weight – I am, after all, sylph-like in stature). The chickens have taken to making little impromptu nests under their leaves in the evening, they provide so much shade (and yes, I might have a small bindweed problem – I’m trying to ignore it):
Tuesday evening, then, out in my garden, pootling and pottering, tying stakes and watering, I was being careful to avoid treading on the giant leaves (should I later wish to do a little languid river floating), and didn’t notice the edge of the greenhouse window.
Next thing I know there was an enormous bang, several bursts of silvery stars and a fading from green to black. I staggered backwards, nearly crushing my precious courgette/triffids, and touched my hand gingerly to my forehead.
Blood.
Now as a complete and committed hysteric, my first move was obviously to utter a bloody curdling shriek and burst into tears. The important stuff out the way, I then rushed to the house, stemming the blood with my palm and envisaging a huge, open wound, stitches, hospitals and maybe even plastic surgery.
Staggering into the lounge, then, where my three men, plus Irish house guest were watching TV, I relayed my terrible story and showed them the head wound of epic proportions.
Reader, there was sniggering.
Yes, one of the sniggerers did go and get me a piece of wet toilet roll to dab at my bloody forehead, but seriously. There was barely-stifled tittering, which soon turned into not-so-stifled belly laughs. I was not a little confused and not a happy bunny.
Why? Why would they laugh when I was so obviously injured? I could have DIED.
#1, smothering his guffaws, gently led me to the bathroom and pointed me in the direction of the mirror, where it turned out that, rather than the enormous, gaping forehead I was expecting, there was actually a small and perfectly formed red dot in the middle of my forehead.
‘Mum’, he said, before they all collapsed with laughter again, ‘you look like a Hindu’.
Teenagers should come with a warning label: do not expect sympathy of ANY kind.
Tsk.
Wisteria and chickens
Wow it’s been beautiful, hasn’t it? We’re really starting to feel at home in this house now (well I am, the kids were settled pretty much straight away). Here at English Towers II our little garden is actually a bit of a revelation, what with the gorgeous Wisteria that’s emerging, draping itself over the wrought iron arch that leads to the vegetable patch and the greenhouse:
As you can see, I’m still working on that vegetable patch, hence the weeds, but I’ve planted some peas:
…and a little herb border:
…and underneath all those weeds and nettles, I was delighted to find old strawberry plants and raspberries already there, both of which are happily flowering. This, it seems, is the benefit of inheriting a garden off an older person – it may be slightly overgrown, but there are treasures just waiting to be discovered:
…like this beautiful old lilac tree which leans, like the Wisteria over the ancient brick garage:
What’s the old saying? You plant Magnolia for your children and Wisteria for your grandchildren? I have no idea how old this beauty is, but walking under its blooms to potter in the little greenhouse has become one of my nightly pleasures. And then, after plenty of swearing, I put together the chicken ark (the more eagle-eyed amongst you will notice that at this stage I had forgotten to slide the little door into place and had to take the whole bloody thing apart again):
and yesterday we picked up our chickens, a beautiful, lavender coloured Bluebelle and a white Sussex Star (and look at the Wisteria now, just a couple of days after the first shot):
My only concern is that they haven’t been introduced to the Ninja Cat of Death yet, but seeing as she’s still quite small, I’m hoping they’ll keep her in her place. Still, as with all things in my life, it has the potential to go horribly wrong. I’ll keep you informed…
Minnie the moocher
Y’know, when we started this whole chicken thing, waaaaay back when the wondrous Hugh was starting his Chicken Out campaign, lots of people said to us how they have their own little personalities and you get quite attached to them. At the time we just laughed and thought ‘yeh, right, isn’t it funny how people always want to give dumb animals a personality’. But, dearest reader, it’s really true. Take Minnie the crap Rhode Island Red (they’re supposed to be dark red, but she’s a kind of pale ginger), for example. Her perpetual escapology drove me mental at first. Whatever kind of fencing I put up, however much I clipped her wings (they were practically stumps at one stage) I couldn’t keep her contained, but now I’m actually quite happy that she just wanders around. I love looking out of the window when I’m at the kitchen sink and seeing her bimbling round the garden with her best mate Chilli the Black Rock:
She’s also completely and utterly in love with Hubby, which we all find absolutely hysterical. I think it started when she first followed him as he mowed the lawn and uncovered all sorts of tasty goodies. Now, within two seconds of the garage door clanging, you’ll see Hubby pushing the lawn mower round the garden, followed by a hopelessly infatuated Minnie in hot pursuit, doing that ridiculously comical ’Lee Evans’ fast walk that chickens do so well. He had to take a strimmer to the garden heart today, and ended up having to put her inside the coop lest he gave her an unintentional haircut (see, he loves her really – he only swears at her when he thinks anybody’s listening):
I’m pretty convinced that she actually sees herself as a human, following me back into the kitchen after I’ve hung out the washing, and pootling happily around, pecking at crumbs on the floor whilst keeping up a perpetual little burble of contented clucking.
This evening she spent the entire time perched on the handlebar of #2′s bike. Eventually it got so dark that we had to gently lift her off and pop her into the coop.
Tomorrow I’ll have a chat with her and remind her she’s a chicken. After we’ve had our Cheerios together, obviously.
In which Evil Stealth Chicken has her wings clipped
So chicken news, then. It’s all going very well, actually. Stig the cockerel went back to the chicken breeder. We were going to keep him, but he kept practice-bonking poor Minnie and she was getting quite flustered by it all (not to mention the questions this brought up at the dinner table: ‘does Minnie like it when Stig keeps doing that, Mummy?’). I’ve been promised another girl at some point, but the two we’ve got seem quite happy. Yesterday was sunny and warm and I spent a happy afternoon digging up the last of the spuds while my small feathery helper carefully inspected each freshly turned spadeful for any tasty morsels, and provided a bit of gentle clucking for some light background music. Minnie, the little Rhode Island Red is the friendliest chicken ever. Pop outside to hang out some washing and she bustles over, clucking and cooing, ready to take any tasty titbit gently from your fingers (she’s particularly partial to a marrowfat pea, incidentally).
Beautiful, enormous Chilli on the other hand has been re-labelled Evil Stealth Chicken. I do tend to let them out if I’m in the garden, but otherwise they’re confined to their quite generous fenced enclosure, which we move around the garden to give them fresh grass. But oh no, that’s not good enough for ESC. As soon as they’re out of the coop in the morning, she flaps over the fence and skulks away shiftily to the far corners of the garden, where she lurks, only stopping briefly to peck viciously at poor Minnie should she dare wander too close. She also keeps buggering off over the hedge to D’s garden and I’ve had several ‘oy! your bloody chicken’s in my garden again’ shouts over the fence. He doesn’t really mind, but still, it’s not cricket.
I turned, then, to Irish Times journalist, author, self-sufficiency expert and all-round chicken guru, Michael Kelly, for advice:
“Wing clipping is the most common method of controlling the flight of home-farm chickens”, says Michael, ” it involves using a sharp pair of scissors to cut off the first ten flight feathers on one wing. This causes a bird to lack the balance needed for flight and in theory discourages them from trying – it is also temporary because it lasts only until new feathers grow during the next molt (may be a few months in young birds or up to a year for older ones).”
But does it hurt? And is it mean to curtail their freedom in this way?
“Clipping their wings doesn’t hurt the bird at all and it isn’t noticeable when they are walking around since the primary flying feathers are hidden underneath when the wings are folded… If you feel bad about clipping wings (and you will), give yourself a stern talking to – the reason you keep hens in the first place if you are a home farmer, is so that they will provide eggs. If you can’t find the eggs because they are laying in a ditch or in the neighbour’s garden then you are wasting your time. Also, it’s your responsibility to keep your flock safe – if they are able to leave the garden at will, you are putting them at harms way. ”
Okay, so I was sold. The next problem, of course, was getting it done:
“Here’s how to do it – you will need an attractive assistant to help you (to hold the hen and keep it calm). ”
Check: one small child grabbed from in front of the XBox360
“Once you have spent three hours running around after your hen to catch it, spread one of the wings out to display all the feathers.”
Check: It only took us an hour an a half of Benny Hill-type running, swearing, clucking and flapping, and we finally managed to nab her in the bushes (ooer). Next?
“The feathers you want to cut are the primary flight feathers which are the longest ones towards the front of the wing. You can leave the first one (the one closest to the scissors in the pic) if you want as it is visible when they tuck their wing in to the body). Cut the other nine at the level shown in the pic – for most chickens this means cutting about 6cm, to bring them in line with the rest of the wing. Keep apologising to the hen in the process for the inconvenience you are causing. Voila – your work is done. You will need to carry this out again in about a years time after they have moulted. ”
The result: one extremely cross chicken (check out the chicken death glare in the pic at the top) who seems to have had her stealth escape attempts thwarted. Watch this space.
Oh, and one more thing. Apparently some people think that clipping means a hen is less likely to be able to escape a fox.
” Believe me”, says Michael, “a hen wouldn’t escape a fox if it had ten sets of wings and a jetpack…..”
Oh right. Mind you, I wouldn’t fancy even a foxes chances against Chilli. She’s evil.
Everything in the garden is…
…well, frankly, a bit pooey.
Let me explain. We woke up this morning to much commotion. There was howling and yowling and even the odd woof (very unusual – Bert’s usually completely non-woofish). Anyhoo, disgressing. So a very excited Bert was telling us something crucially important, and we needed to get downstairs right away. Something wasn’t quite right in the garden.
‘
Look!’ he was shouting in Greyhoundese (he’s fluent y’know), ‘something’s in the garden! I want out!’ And then: ‘oy! gerrof my land!’:
So I joined in too. ‘Oy!’ I shouted, ‘gerrof my bloody sofa!’. So then I looked. And yes, I could see why he was slightly annoyed:
Not only did we have furry invaders, but they were making themselves comfy:
So I grabbed the phone and rang Bridget the Farmer. The conversation went something like this:
Me: ‘Bridge! Wake up! Your sheep are in our field!’
Bridge: ‘Er… wha? It’s 7am…’
Me: ‘Yes but your sheep are all in our garden and I don’t know what to do!’
Bridge (groggy): ‘Sheep you say? Oh…’
Me: ‘Yes sheep! I need something doing – they’d better not find my veg garden, and I can’t take Bert out there and he needs to…well, y’know… go.’
Bridge: ‘There’s one problem’
Me: ‘What?’
Bridge: ‘I don’t have any sheep’
Me: ‘What? Er…oh. Sorry’
Ah. Muchas grovelling and apologies later, I hung up. By that time, Hubby had gone to work, chasing them all down the drive when they turned and went up D-next-door’s drive, and later, pootled off down the boat road, where, presumably, they found their way home. They left behind piles of droppings of epic proportions and a very disgruntled hound, who’s still huffing and puffing about it even now.
And yes, Linda, I did happen to take a video, although it’s incredibly boring:
I was glad, though, because my garden’s looking really nice, and I was worried they’d eat my beautiful Hebes:
…and #2′s lovely poppies:
Country life eh? It’s all go…
The Friday photo: clucking chickens, fresh bread, golden yolks…
I suppose I’m a bit odd (well if you’re a regular reader you’ll know that already) in that most of the best moments in my life seem inextricably linked to food. My very happy childhood full of roast dinners, Christmas Snowballs, rice pudding and jammy dodgers, warm strawberries straight off my Grandad’s garden and plums off the tree (‘oy gerrof them you kids!’). Then it was puréed baby food (#2 liked banana and courgette – he won’t believe it now), making cupcakes with the boys as toddlers, a pea and prawn risotto when Hubby and I got a rare New Year’s Eve together while Grandma babysat… holiday food… Christmas food… family food… every lovely memory seems to be accompanied by the warm scent of baking, the zing of lemon or the fizz of champagne bubbles up the nose.
The other day was no different. We met fellow blogger Maxi Cane and his other half, the adorable Jelly Monster to arrange collection of Maxi’s Ma’s unwanted chicken coop, which he’d kindly agreed to give us. A friend was picking it up, but I needed to meet them anyways, just to say hi and to make payment in the form of chocolate brownies, carrots and spring onions, all freshly picked. Now if you know Maxi’s blog you’ll know he’s a bit naughty, but in real life he was sweet and funny, and the lovely Jelly – wow. You know those people who are just so sexy they practically crackle with it? She’s curvy and gorgeous with the prettiest face – not a single man walked past without sneaking a look, I swear.
Anyhoo, so we got the coop and later on, David, our garden chappy, dropped off its occupants (in a sack! Only in Ireland). The first disappointment (well, the second – the first was the sack) was that the coop was condemned as unsatisfactory – no separate nesting box, no perch and too small, so much to Hubby’s disgust, we had to go out and buy a new one.
€180 lighter (it’s a hell of a pad, it’s got an upstairs with removable poo trays, a perch, a separate nestbox…you name it), but very excited nontheless, we got to check out our new arrivals:
We got a bossy little ginger madam who was quickly adopted by #2 and given the name Minnie Dean (named after a serial killer - don’t ask) and a taller, darker red one – adopted by #1 and called Chilli – bit feisty this one – she gave #1 the slip as she was being transferred and sparked a ridiculous 15 minute family chicken chase round the garden (cue the Benny Hill music) where we all hurled ourselves at her, unsuccessfully, shouted at each other, got zapped by the electric fence (#1) and basically made fools of ourselves until she was rugby tackled by Hubby and taken, squawking loudly in protest, to join the others. Here’s Chilli (top) and Minnie in their new pad (that hangy thing is an apple, by the way):
And as a freebie, we got a cute little black and white cockerel, who got nicknamed The Stig.
Trouble is, Minnie and Chilli don’t like Stig and keep attacking him, so there’s a possibility that if they don’t settle, Stig will have to go back. The chicken man is coming over later to check on stuff.
Anyhoo, they’re obviously settling in well, because the next morning we got – an egg! And then this morning another one! Well, there was nothing for it, this called for fresh brown bread and a perfectly fried egg. And so, our first ever chickens will be inextricably linked in my mind to the smell of freshly baked brown bread dipped in a golden, runny yolk:
I am a happy, happy chicken owner and no mistake.
Six unimportant things…
So this is a good one. I got tagged by Jane at Foodzilla over in Michigan (I know! I’m feeling all international and cosmopolitan now) to tell her six unimportant things that I love. Actually, this is more difficult than it seems as every time I thought of something it occurred to me that it really was quite important after all. Still, I managed, so here goes:
1. My doggit. Yeh, okay, so he’s just a dog. Most Irish people think we’re mental for a) having a ‘working’ dog as a pet and b) having him living in the house! But he’s the softest, silliest, and most adoring fella you could ask for. He’s immaculately clean in the house (even after a marathon 8 hour shopping trip to the north – bladder of an elephant, that one), incredibly gentle and sweet natured and he just loves us all to bits (slightly annoying having a lanky, furry lesion attached to your leg at all times but hey). Okay so retired greyhounds are ten a penny, but still, we love him.
2. My garden hearts: Hubby’s a man of few words, but he does occasionally surprise me with a nice little gesture when he’s mowing one of the lawns. I love looking out of a window and finding this:
Sometimes it’s not all about words.
3. Great ingredients. I love using real butter, free-range eggs and lovely fresh, Irish produce. There’s a great fruit & veg wholesaler local to us and I’ll often be found there picking up tons of great quality fresh stuff (they do local duck eggs too) and planning menus in my head. The great butcher at Sheelin has a little white-board up where he writes ‘this week’s lambs came from…’ and the name of the local producer. His meat is amazing. Unimportant, but it makes me happy.
4. Forward planning. I’m a bit obsessive about stuff, and nothing makes me happier than having something to look forward to. Obviously our forthcoming wedding blessing is occupying a lot of my time at the moment, and a swift search of English Towers will see me ensconsed with my notebook and a couple of magazines, daydreaming and planning about table flowers, menus, dresses… you name it.
5. My garden. I’m a novice gardener and kill as many things as I nurture, but I’m really enjoying learning all about it and our dinner yesterday featured home-grown new potatoes and baby carrots, which I served up with a certain amount of pride.
6. Our little community. It’s only when I hear people talk about ‘school runs’ and Tesco delivery that I realise quite how rural we really are. There is no school gate ‘Mommy mafia’ at the little school here, as the children that aren’t within walking distance are all picked up and dropped off by bus, such is the huge rural catchment. Tesco probably hasn’t even heard of us, let alone decided to deliver here to the arse end of nowhere, and shopping is a half-day challenge. Still, bimbling down the boat road with Bert yesterday, the scent of the honeysuckle so heavy you feel it could pick you up and float you away, and stopping and chatting to the lovely lady with the new baby, I couldn’t have been happier.
Small things, but often they mean just as much as the heavy stuff. I’m off to visit the folks for a while (and have a speedboat trip booked in London! Thanks Ma!), but while I’m gone, how about you, then? Six unimportant things that you love…
The Friday photo: Un-wabbit welated gardening update
Okay, so the rabbits haven’t eaten everything, although I’m really disappointed that they ate the tiny shoots of the plants that my Ma and I planted (what were they Ma? Dahlias and something?) as I really fancy having a few more flowers in the garden. One teeny new shoot has just peeked out again (see the little bed by the patio, left of top pic) so I’ve covered it in a cloche to see if it will reappear.
Still, the carrots are recovering well after their surprise early haircut. Here’s the raised bed, where you can see at the back that the fennel is enormous (and very cuddly – everyone stops to give it a hug) again, as are the chives and thyme, also at the back next to the remaining potatoes, and that my weird green pointy cauliflower things are doing well (netted area, far left). Next along, inside the fleecy area are some cabbages, then two rows of carrots, and to the front you can just see the two strawberry plants peeking over the fleece:
:
Here’s the middle. A bit of overlap as you can see the carrots in the fleecy bit first, but then there’s two rows of spring onions, another row of cabbages, then a fleece area containing the purple sprouting broccoli – my monster rhubarb is at the back there:
And to the right of the bed is the weird, bushy area where #2 ripped open a random bag of blue flower seeds and they went everywhere, next to some more chives and a few marigolds and red salvias planted for colour. As you can see, the remaining potatoes not stricken by the dreaded Blackleg (arrrr) are still thriving, thank goodness. Oh and that purple thing in the front is a flower with purple spikes but I can’t remember the name:
Not a bad effort eh? In fact, I might go so far as to say English Towers: 1, Rabbits: 0.
Heh.
Shiver me timbers, it be the dreaded Blackleg… arrr…
Ahoy ye land lubbers. So tragic events be unfoldin’ here at Ye Olde English Towers. The potatoes they be dyin’ and there’s nowt that can be done about it. They be stricken’ with the dreaded Black Leg. Argghhhh
Okay, I can’t keep up the pirate speak. But basically my poor potato plants have started going yellow and wilting and an emergency call to the garden oracle, otherwise known as my Disreputable Dad, uncovered the tragic news that my poor tatties are suffering from Potato Blackleg, a bacterial disease that makes the potato stems rot, killing the foliage and ruining the crop:
Sadly, there’s no cure but to dig the buggers up. Apparently I bought infected seed potatoes (Damn you, Woodies!), but happily, not all have succumbed quite yet, and the ones that have died have been caught early enough to save most of the little babies beneath. Gutted. First wascally wabbits and now this. I’m just not cut out for the country life. I should have a high-rise apartment in Kensington or something, dahling.
So for the purposes of today’s post we be talkin’ like a pirate, yarrrrr. In fact, I designate today ‘English Mum’s Talk Like a Pirate Day’ (with apologies to the real Talk Like a Pirate Day, which is sometime in September), which means any comments shall be strictly of the pirate variety (and yes Moon that means you have to join in) else you’ll be walkin’ the plank, so ye will, ye lily-livered scallywags. Yarrrr.
The Saturday photo: Why have a dog and bark yourself?
So oopsy, was so busy ranting about the Evil Octopus Woman I completely forgot the Friday photo. I did have one in mind, which became even more relevant when I took a quiet wander round the English Estate this morning and discovered not only a new rabbit hole from the field into the garden, but a tunnel. A TUNNEL! In my raised vegetable bed. The cheeky furry little bastards have dug a tunnel through the potatoes (the hole is in the middle and all the yuck they threw out is covering my spade):
… and under the rhubarb:
I mean, what’s that supposed to be? They do realise it’s a raised bed and they can’t actually dig anywhere do they? Or is it just that they’re sneakily trying to reach the carrots on the other side with a covert underground access-point?
And, to add insult to injury, where – you might ask – was my rabbit-chasing, ex-coursing greyhound during all these rabbit digging shenanigans?
*sigh*
