Chicken-sitting

Our first stint at looking after some little ones for a long period of time is coming to an end; Goldie, Ginger and Dopey's parents return tomorrow and take over the everyday care of these fluffy little people.

Okay so they're chickens. I know, I know but they act like little people and also, from the little I know from experiences with my niece and nephew, they act like children! Trying to cajole them into their cage could be equated to getting children into bed when they want to stay up that little bit longer. WHY won't the blasted things just get into the cage? Why? Because they want to continue mooching around the garden and in fact why should they when it clearly far more fun tormenting me by hiding round the side of the chicken coop!! Grrrr

However, like children there are far more fun moments than frustrating ones. There is nothing more amusing than watching them scratch around in the raised beds - I hope that our neighbours haven't planted any seeds yet!! In fact I think they may have given up with seeds and growing most things in the greenhouse first - very sensible as otherwise it would be a continuing cycle of a) sow seed, b) wait patiently for it to germinate and c) feel desire to wring chicken's neck as you realise they have happily scratched up said seed all in the name of FUN! They are very sociable creatures as well - as soon as I appear in the garden they can hear my footsteps and run over to great me. They do however rapidly disappear when they realise I have no food for them! I have discovered that they have a particular fondness for Evening Primrose - luckily I wanted to remove it from the garden I suppose as they clearly thought this when they manage to devour most of it through the garden fence! Things had to STOP when they took a liking to my Penstomen!!

So after a week we have got plenty of free range eggs, some of which I tried yesterday and must say I was a little dissapointed. I grew up with chickens at the bottom of the garden and the eggs we had were the most delicious I have ever tasted. I think this is due to the boiled up vegetable scraps (regularly burnt on the aga by Dad - I remember the smell to this day) and mash they ate and the wide area of land they had to forage in - probably an acre for six or seven hens. The only risk they ever were subjected to was the rifle range in which they foraged - as far as I know no chicken was ever mistaken for a target or were they...?