The King is Dead, Long Live the King!

I'm feeling very sad today.
Wellington is dead.
He had an eye infection, which we've been treating for the last two weeks with oral antibiotics and ointment, and I thought he seemed much brighter. But last night when I carried him in to the kitchen for his dose, he felt a bit limp. I wondered if he was all right, but I put it down to the lateness of the hour. I'd been out at a meeting, so we didn't get to treat him until nearly midnight, when he would have been well and truly asleep anyway.

Wellington, the King of the Castle

Poor Wellington. He was dead in his bed this morning.
It's the way they go, generally, birds. In the wee, small hours of the night, but I've never got used to finding someone dead in the hen house. Especially not Wellington.

He weighed over nine and a half pounds. I couldn't believe it.
We knew he was a big boy, but I was amazed when I found out how heavy he actually was. We had to weigh him for the medication - our friend the Cement-Sculptor staggered onto the scales holding him firmly in both hands.
Nearly ten pounds. That's four and a half bags of sugar. It's a lot of bird.

We buried him in the orchard this morning.
ModelDog sat very close to my legs and leaned down to peer into his grave.
She doesn't like graves.
SuperModel disliked the whole sorry process so much that she boycotted the funeral - well, almost.
She compromised and lay under the neighbouring apple tree, watching us and yawning self consciously. It was obvious she didn't want to be there.
I wrapped him in a tea towel that had a map of Jersey on it - it seemed appropriate, as he was a Jersey Giant, although he'd never been to the Channel Islands, map or no map.
Perhaps he'll go now. Make his way to his ancestral fields that look to France one way and England the other. I'm sure he'll like it there.

He was a big boy, and looked all spit and polish

I put a bunch of Felicite and Perpetue roses in his grave too, and a sprig of rosemary. I always put rosemary in anyone's grave flowers. 'There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance. Pray you, love, remember.'
Because I'll always remember.
I nearly picked some fennel too, but not pansies, or columbine. And not rue.
The French boys dug up all my rue and threw it away, so there is no more rue.
Just plenty of rueing.

The French boys dug up all the rue

The In-Charge and I stood in the orchard, trying to remember when we got him, Wellington.
I remember the night well enough. I met a friend up at the lay by in the next village, and he opened up the back of his Landrover and took this huge, black cockerel out of a cage and handed him to me, and in return I gave him a bag of layers pellets.
'There you go,' he said. 'Just wait til your ladies get a sight of him, they won't know themselves!'
He was right. They followed him everywhere, he was a beauty.
A great, gentle giant.

Wellington keeping Napoleon in his place back in the day

As we stood paying our respects, a rather frenetic figure hurried across the grass not far from us.
He paused at regular intervals to crow as loudly as possible.
Heinz von Bitzen.

'The King is dead. Long live the King!' the In-Charge commented dryly

But it will take a while before he assumes the crown in my head.
And none of the hens paid the slightest heed either.
Despite Napoleon, his Imperial grandfather, he just doesn't have the presence.
Perhaps he'll grow into it.

Heinz von Bitzen

  

Showtime: Hello Bonniconlon!

A few days ago, the In-Charge came home and said: 'It's Bonniconlon Show on Monday.'
Year after year, we hear people enthusing about Bonniconlon Show, but we've never been.
'We ought to go,' he added.
Later that evening I finally managed to track down the winner of a giveaway I'd organised for Country Markets. 'Here's my address,' she said, 'Or if you're going to Bonniconlon Show, I'll be in the Craft Marquee.'
That settled it. We agreed to meet there.

It started, we noticed, bright and early. '8.30am sharp' it said on the website.
8.30am sharp in Ireland generally means 'We'll start at 9am whether you're here or not.'
But an early start was fine by us. The In-Charge had promised to help someone later in the afternoon, so we needed to get back, and the statistics - which never lie, after all - had recorded 30,000 people attending the show last year.
Here in the west, 30,000 is A LOT of people, so we decided to go first thing.

Haha.
The best laid plans etc etc... I'd overlooked the fact that I had to ring the florist in England first thing to confirm an order for flowers (it's not a Bank Holiday in the UK) - and what with one thing and another, we didn't get to the Show Grounds until well after midday.
It was packed. And quite expensive to get in, I thought.
But it was great fun.

By then, a smoky bacon and sausage stuffed bap was just what we needed to perk us up, and, happily munching, we found all sorts of stuff to look at.

The first thing that caught my eye was a model railway

And close by there were some homemade model farms.

I love miniature things.
I was poring over them, vaguely aware of some traditional Irish music playing in the background, and out of the corner of my eye saw three people sitting, playing. It took me awhile to drag my eyes away from tiny tractors and straw bales, but then I realised that the musicians were also models - full-sized model people.

A shame we hadn't taken Model Dog with us!
She could have posed alongside them.


There were lots of other dogs though.
Gorgeous Borzois - a rare sight here.

I'd forgotten just how big they are!

The Borzoi kissing his mummy

There were dogs all preened and prepped for the show

And dogs not remotely interested in being in the show

And some dogs far more interested in the possibility of poussin for lunch

I was pretty interested in the poultry section myself. I hadn't thought about it beforehand, or I would have taken an empty cage with me. The ravages of old age, disease and Monsieur Renard have left poor Wellington sadly depleted of wives over the last few months. (We won't mention the TeenQueen in relation to sorry ravages. It is time to let bygones be bygones.)

I was extremely taken by the headgear some of the ducks were sporting

In another cage, some duckings had opted to sleep the day out, perhaps in the hope that when they woke up it would all be over and they'd be back in their own little ponds at home. Bless them.

But, as the In-Charge didn't hesitate to remind me, it wasn't ducks I was supposed to be looking at.

There were lots of chickens, so it was quite hard to choose, but in the end we came away with 8 young pullets who are even now settling into the big pen in the hens field, happily exploring the boxes, dust bath, food and water bowl that I have hastily put in there for them.

They are not without an audience. The TeenQueen is extremely interested in the newcomers, and Mistress Bluebell looks quite outraged.

I will introduce you to them properly next time.

We didn't have time to do much else. It took us awhile to find the Craft Marquee, but eventually we managed to deliver the prize to our delighted winner.

A Talentui Organics box of goodies for the Country Markets Giveaway winner

The In-Charge paused for a quick gander at some of the old cars while I was negotiating the purchase of my hens, so the only vintage vehicle I saw was this one. A lovely specimen, though - I've always liked those old Austins.

After that it was time to try and find our way back to the remote field where we had parked.
We did spot a familiar face as we edged through the crowds. Beltra Country Market's sister from down the road - Ballina Country Market had a stall selling all sorts of things from homemade cakes and jam to handmade denim bracelets.

Their stall was starting to look fairly bare by that stage, as they'd already sold so much, yet when we finally got to the gates, people were still streaming in.

Maybe this year Bonniconlon Show has topped last year's figure of 30,000!

While I and my boxes of hens waited for the In-Charge to go and bring the car, I looked back across one small part of the showground. There was lots we hadn't had time to see.

 Maybe next year...

 

In Memory

I couldn't live without animals. Literally. It would be a kind of death of the soul.
I suppose it's because I never have. Even though our family moved country every few years, we always had cats and dogs at home - pets that often, sadly - had to be given to new homes when we left, or had to spend time in kennels when we were 'on leave' in the UK.
But they were as much a part of the family as my brothers and sisters.
Just as my animals now are.

In fact, at the risk of sounding judgemental, I think that bringing children up without animals is a deprivation as bad as bringing them up without books, or clothes, or treats. I think they are an essential part of teaching children to love and share with someone outside themselves, of teaching them about caring for others, and becoming aware of the other occupants of our planet.

My biggest problem is in turning a needy animal away, and the In-Charge (also an animal lover) dreads me seeing orphaned kittens, or abandoned dogs, or anything else in distress, as he knows I won't be able to walk away. And things have only got worse in the time I've lived in Ireland, as I've always felt a moral obligation to share the  generous space we have with as many animals as possible.

But I don't think I'd make a good foster-mother, as I'd never want to part with any of the rescues that came through the gates. I wasn't very good at finding homes for the one set of kittens and one litter of puppies born on our property - I practically made any interested parties sit written exams proving how good a home they were offering.
Spanish Inquisition - eat your heart out!

I've often said that if there aren't any animals in heaven, I have no interest in going there.
      And it's true. I'd be completely lost.
      Happily, I think they'll all be lined up, waiting for me - the dogs, heads  cocked, wagging their tales fit to drop off; the cats pretending they just happened to be at the Pearly Gates by chance as I arrived. I expect even the hens will be there, busying themselves somewhere in the background.

It's been a bad year since Pet Remembrance Day last year.
We've lost so many in this twelve-month. The Little Empress died this very time last year,
     And then we lost Napoleon.
We have also lost Henrietta, and Popsicle and - a real blow - the tiny, gloriously beautiful Golden Princess, aka Mrs Smith.

But far and away the worst losses of all were my sweet boys, Top Dog and Under Dog who I still miss every single day.

 But thank goodness we had them at all. They have all, in their own  individual way, made our lives richer and better, more entertaining and more fulfilled. Pets want to be with you all the time, and don't care if you're wearing makeup or just a hessian sack, they hold nothing back, and hold nothing against you, they're sensitive, great company and entertaining and moreover, their love is absolutely unconditional.
How many people would fulfil those criteria?

Tonight I'll be lighting the candles and raising a glass (sadly, of cough mixture and night nurse) to them and all the animals we have loved and lost over the years. A toast in gratitude for ever having had them at all.
And I'll be raising another one to my fabulous Model Dog, and the TeenQueen, to Hobbes and Pushy and Pixie, to Wellington and all his girls - because I love them all and they make every day special.

I hope you'll join me in memory of all the animals you have held, or do hold dear.


It was my blog-friend, IsobelandCat who started this special Pet Remembrance Day, and she and many others all over the world - including Pix, will be saluting their animal friends today.

 Thank heaven for them all, past and present.

The Life of Reilly

It is a cloudless day here in the west. There is a bit of a cool breeze - not uncommon for us, living within sight of the Atlantic as we do, but in our sheltered courtyard, you could almost feel you were in France.
Particularly as our French wwoofers have arrived, and that lovely, lyrical language is floating on our airwaves once again.

Our lovely wwoofers arrive in true French style

I have just been to let Napoleon and Mrs Smith out.
They spend their mornings in a large pen, while Wellington and his girls have the freedom of the paddock and easy access to the nesting boxes. Then, when Wellington moves on into the orchard, I shut the gate and let the Emperor and his lady out for the rest of the day. Napoleon is usually exhausted by then, and in need of a little rest.

Napoleon and Mrs Smith have the little paddock

This is due to the fact that while in the safety of the pen, Napoleon is the hero of the French through and through.
He hurls Gallic insults at Wellington through the wire netting, and Wellington, lest he let the side down, says extremely unpleasant things back again. They jab at each other and shout defiantly.
The trouble is, I think Napoleon is all crow and no trousers because I have seen him run - and run - when there is no steel curtain to hide behind, whereas Wellington, should he wish to stir his stumps, would be a formidable foe. He closely resembles a tank when he charges across the field, and I would not like to see him with all guns blazing. After all, we have no wish to re-enact Waterloo.
Napoleon might never recover from the indignity of it all, let alone the battle itself.

Wellington thinking up a new insult

But today all is peaceful, and the little paddock was already empty when I went out..
How happy my chickens are! I wish all chickens could lead such pleasant lives.



Napoleon and Mrs Smith have the freedom of the paddock, with a sycamore tree for shade and shelter, and a suite at the George V when they retire at night. And all afternoon there is a feast of green to devour.
I think Mrs Smith, although she came from a happy, free-range home, was not used to being on grass. Lots of free-range hens have open space but no grass. She cannot get enough of it - she eats and eats and eats while Napoleon runs around behind her, searching out greener blades and lush pockets that she  might have overlooked. He is very attentive.

The gaggle of girls come and go between the paddock and the rest of the garden. They can get over the wall or the gate, which mercifully, Wellington can't. Even the boarders, on their very  pleasant holiday with us, learned quickly how to get in and out of the paddock when the gate was shut for the day.

Very free range indeed

Once out of the paddock, they have a detailed and complex schedule to follow.

In ones or twos - or sometimes all together - they parade around the orchard and investigate all their favourite places.
They bathe under the old dead ash stump where the dust is just perfect.
They excavate large holes here and there in which the rest of us risk breaking our ankles.
They scratch up random patches of grass for no apparent reason.
The toddle outside the front gate to look for dietary supplements. Weirdly, they never go in the road or wander off. (How do they know not to venture into the big, bad world? It's a mystery.)
They sunbathe in the yard at the back of the house, and pick interesting insects out of the cobbles.
In short, they lead the life of Reilly.

Frau Schpeckle posing by the bluebells

But it's never enough, is it? An acre of space, but their beady eyes are fixed on halcyon pastures denied them and they contort themselves, and push and squeeze and shove to get under the gate that leads into the vegetable and flower gardens. We have to remember to barricade below the gate with stones.
And to each and every one of them, the Elysian Field of myth, fantasy and desire is the courtyard.

That is where they long to spend the greater part of each day - scratching up the the flowerbed, eating any seedlings I might have hardening off against the wall, sitting on the table or the back of the bench and - in bad weather - rootling happily in the adjoining turf-shed, and laying secret, never-to-be-found eggs it it's dark, straw-strewn nooks and crannies.


Top Dog - who doesn't like to see me put-upon by anyone but himself - will tell you that they are all wicked, bad and spoilt.
He may well have a point.

The In-Charge has finally put his foot down and has constructed a makeshift gate to keep them out, until funds and opportunity coincide to supply a more permanent fixture. The cats are not entirely pleased, as they now have to go round the other side and perform acrobatic feats in order to gain entry. The divine duo, to whom gymnastics are of no avail, are frankly speechless. How are they supposed to run freely to and fro doing important work, like greeting visitors and keeping an eye on things?
But at least none of us have to do the hot-coals-dance to avoid hen droppings, and in the rare moments when we are able to sit down out there, we don't have to fight for occupancy of the bench.
All good so far.

And I am learning to ignore the row of deprived, starving, neglected and abused creatures whose beaks and beady eyes are thrust resentfully against the wire.

They are spoilt, I tell myself.
Completely and utterly spoilt. And I have no one to blame but myself.
And things were only going from bad to worse.
Especially with my lovely French wwoofers here.
Every time I turn round, I find them coddling a feathered brat something rotten.

Spolt rotten

The Golden Princess

Joy of joys, Napoleon has a new wife.
I know you will remember that his little Empress died.
You will also remember, I am sure, that Marie Walewska didn't love him as she should.
He was not a happy bunny.
However, a new era has dawned. Marie Walewska has moved back in with Wellington, where she is much happier, and Napoleon is on honeymoon with his new bride.
They are still getting to know each other, but I can reveal that the bride is a charming little bantam of delicious prettiness and impeccable origin.
By which I mean, she is Sligo born and bred.


She is still a little nervous and has obviously never seen anything so rude as a CAT before.
As for a DOG, apparently she has heard tell of them, but thought they were rumours put about to scare young chicks.
She is wide-eyed and innocent. But she thinks Napoleon is very handsome and she is most impressed at the smorgasbord he lays before her at breakfast time.

Here is the little golden princess.

Don't you just love her violet earrings? And her fascinator? And her pert little tail?

I'm not sure which is her best angle yet

Napoleon is smitten

She hasn't got a name yet.
Any suggestions?
(PLEASE bear in mind her imperial status before suggesting anything as frivolous as 'Goldilocks')




I have just had to stop writing and rush outside because such a hue and cry arose (or 'human cry' as I have heard it called here), that I thought a fox had leapt into the orchard and was causing havoc.

No fox.
The blue, blue sky was full of seagulls mewling and screeching.
I love the noise of seagulls, though I know many don't.
Living all of five minutes from the sea, I would have thought we had a RIGHT to seagulls, but alas, no.
They are a rare sight and sound in our coastal quadrant.
I think they prefer bigger towns and harbours with lots more rubbish to pick over and argue about.
The noisy little divils.


I must go and set out the best linen, light the candles and put a perfect rose in a vase.
The honeymoon couple await their supper.

There will be a small, but perfectly formed prize for anyone who thinks of a suitable name for her.