Glorious Lives

The trouble with hens is that they die, often suddenly and unexpectedly.
We have, occasionally, had hens grow so old that I don't think they'd have recognised an egg if you'd thrust it under their beaks. The original Wilhelmina was once such. But more often than not, they are creatures that lead short - and in my orchard, glorious - lives.

We have lost two hens in the last month or so.
The first one just disappeared. With no corpse to mourn over, I suspected M. Renard, but our red-pelted neighbour always leaves a telltale pool of dismal feathers, and they were not to be seen. Definitely a point on the plus side.
However, there was no Bambina.


I was rather sad about Bambina. She wasn't my darling in the way that Napoleon, or the little Empress or Mrs Smith, the Golden Princess were - but even so.

We searched high and low and then went back to the beginning and searched again, but I didn't lie awake at night agonising over her vanishment. It was a shame, though, because she was actually Napoleon's granddaughter, given to us by our friend Colin, who'd had some of our eggs to hatch way back when.

Before I'd had time to get used to losing one little bird, Mrs Scissorhands fell ill.
When hens get that hunchy, huddled look, you kind of know it isn't likely to end well. I have tried various remedies, but rarely with success.
Once, years ago, I asked our vet - visiting a sick ewe - if he'd take a look at a 'hunchy' hen. An expression of sheer panic flitted through his eyes and he opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. 
'The average vet wouldn't know a great deal about poultry now,' he eventually managed. 'Generally...' He gave up at that point and ran one finger significantly across his throat.
I got the drift. 
I did take the Little Empress to (a different) vet when she became so poorly, but even though the vet knew what was wrong, there was nothing she could do.
So alas, it came as no surprise when Mrs Scissorhands - she of the most unfeminine spurs - died a day or two later, despite me hand-feeding her and coaxing her to get better.

Two hens in a couple of weeks. Not good.

But then, about a fortnight later, on my way back from the market a text came blipping into my phone.
I pulled over. It was the In-Charge.
'Hen and 10 chicks in turf shed', it said. (He doesn't waste words, the In-Charge.)
Oh joy of joys! Over the moon and back again.
What a clever girl - I've no idea how many times we searched that shed, and I don't know if she even came out to eat or drink in all that time, let alone how she managed to incubate 10 eggs - she's only a little half-pint.

Bambina is only a little half-pint

So what does that make these two?

Napoleon would be very proud - his grandchildren! One or two of them might even be chips off the old block.
We'll have to see.

Who does this remind me of?

A distinct top knot. Will it develop into a tricorne, I wonder?

But ten baby chicks aren't the only new kids on the block.
Two little beehives arrived last week, courtesy of our friend, the Artist-Extraordinaire. His wife, the Shiatsu-Queen was telling me that he wanted to split his hives, and I rushed in.
'Please, please, please,' I said. 'If you think they'd settle here.'
'Settle?' She laughed. 'They'd be moving to bee-heaven.'

The little bee hives arrive

They are, I think he said, Irish black bees, and they are sharing the hen's paddock, where the morning sun will wake them up, warming up their hives; but the whole property (and beyond) is, of course, theirs to share with the bumble bees that live here.
We haven't spotted them around the garden yet, but they're probably still getting their bearings and rearing a new queen, or whatever it is they do in a new location, but I can't wait for them to come over the wall into the flower garden like the cavalry.

Maybe we'll even get back to the days of yore, long ago when the boys were about eight.
'Listen, mummy,' my curly-haired son said as we sat on the bench together. 'That's the sound of summer.'
I listened.
Behind us, the fuchsia hedge sounded like a helicopter about to take off. It was, literally, humming with honey bees.
'That's the sound of happiness,' he added.
I couldn't have summed it up better myself. The sound of happiness. Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings.
But that was long ago, and the hedge has been silent for far too long.

In a few weeks, my curly-haired son will be back from a long sojourn in the far-flung antipodes.
I hope he will be greeted by the sound of happiness.

Dark and Delicious

Would you even recognise my rescued girls - clad in their chesnut plumage, they are quite beautiful

As soon as the In-Charge left for college this morning, I heaved a box load of oranges into the sink and left them soaking in a solution of cider vinegar while I went out to deal with the hens.
Poor hens.
My happy hens are not quite so happy as they used to be.
Their little paddock has turned into a marsh.

Lots of people's fields have turned into lakes - not just Somerset, where the In-Charge hails from, but many places in Ireland too - so I know we are luckier than some, but even so, there is something unbelievably depressing about walking through a paddock and sinking into swimming mud up to your ankles.
I would have knitted all the hens wellington boots - but with 20-something birds out there, all with different sized feet, it's not really an option.
Also, it's largely their own fault. They have trashed their little paddock - every inch of grass has been scratched up, and - even without the rain - mud prevails.

Trashed

In fact, it's so bad that I've had to give in - perhaps not gracefully, but at least with resignation.
I've opened the gate and let them into the beautiful green expanse of the orchard.
They are now busily trashing that.
The Great Escapees are the worst of all. So overjoyed are they at being able to use their feet as nature intended, they never stop.If this weather carries on for another month (God forbid), we will need mud-sledges, or flat-bottomed boats, or adapted snow-shoes.

The TeenQueen and I look on

The dogs and I stood in the orchard for a few minutes this morning and watched the hens gleeful surge through the gate. You'd think it was the stairway to heaven.
They were so busy rootling around in the soil beneath my lovely intact grass, that they didn't even notice the dogs set off on their daily death-or-glory-chase. One or two did scatter as the dogs hurtled past, but the Escapees were oblivious. I watched in awe as my two winged hounds skirted past them, narrowly missing one who shot sideways at the last minute.

The TeenQueen solemnly regards Florence, Constance and the YahBird 3 of the Escapees

Who would have believed it? SuperModelTeenQueen, Scourge of the Poultry Yard, named and shamed as co-respondent in the tragic slaying of the Golden Princess; the Biter of Goldilock's Bottom, the Tormentor of Ms Sussex - caught in flagrante delicto no less - that very same hound paying no heed to loose chooks, flittering and fluttering on her own private race track! What a student! What a girl! What a star!

Warmed to my cockles, I immediately promised them both an outing.
But oranges first. As soon as I'd squashed them all into the huge preserving pan and turned the gas on, I donned as many clothes as I could lay my hands on, including scarf, gloves and my woolly hat, and we set off to the headland for a brief encounter with the elements.
Goodness, was I glad of the hat.

The woolly hat - a picture taken at Christmas

Whenever he sees me wearing it (regularly these days) the In-Charge enquires when the Arctic Expedition is setting off, but cold ears are Too Much to Bear, and although today isn't particularly cold, down at the headland it was - well, invigorating. The howling gales of last night have temporarily  abated, but the tide was high and rough, the rain was starting to spit, and the wind coming in off the Atlantic acted perfectly as high pressure sinus douche.

The In-Charge had warned me that the sea has wrought havoc and he was right. Part of the road has gone and tons of stones have been flung up from the shore. The fairway has been cleared, but it looks a bit like a battlefield, and a few chunks of the headland have disappeared forever. The poor Connemara ponies looked a bit like my hens - not very happy. I can't help feeling sorry for them, even though the In-Charge assures me he's seen the owner feeding them and he and other horse-wise friends tell me that these beautiful, tough creatures are bred for just such exposed, inhospitable conditions. There is no grass for them, and certainly no shelter, but at least they don't look thin, and several beady eyes other than mine are on the lookout for them.

Headland horses

It was good to be blown around for a short while. The TeenQueen went mad as soon as she felt the wind under her and tore around, desperate for someone to chase her. She even swung past the ponies in the hope that they'd take the lure, but they know her well and were having none of it - they know how fast she is. Model Dog wasn't taking the bait either, and she and I pottered along the sea-edge, looking at all the stuff the waves have washed up. Stones, seaweed, hundreds of shells, unedifying bits of rubbish.

On the way home, thinking of my oranges simmering on the stove, I wished that my lovely Frenchman, Hugo was here. We made the marmalade together last year, the endless chopping and mess relieved by company and chat. Sadly he's not, but it's good to have memories. As soon as I entered the kitchen, my reminiscent mood and the sharp, lovely tang of the boiling fruit brought back other, older memories - of  the oranges of my childhood. They used to dip them in the sea, in the West Indies, and eat them while swimming, the salt mixing with the rich sweetness of the juice. I don't think I'll add any salt to my marmalade, it will perform its dark and delicious magic without saline assistance - but it made me smile nostalgically nevertheless.
My gorgeous son is in the Caribbean at the moment - he's been working there all winter.
I wonder if he dips oranges in the sea before eating them?

The marmalade making is underway

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.

Lions and Lambs

It's been a quiet sort of month.
A heads-down, getting into the rhythm of things type of month. And largely unsociable.
Some ups and downs - like my poor Mrs Smith - but a good month nevertheless.
A month of measured days and new beginnings.  

When we first came to Ireland, someone described March as 'coming in like a lion and going out like a lamb'. It wasn't an expression I'd heard before, but it described that deeply petulant month perfectly.
Twenty years later the climate has adjusted to a different set of rules, or perhaps no rules at all, and now it seems that February has taken on the mantle of March - and this year it did indeed come in roaring.

We didn't have the snow that much of Ireland and most of Britain had, we just had hail and gales and rain, rain, rain. Everywhere squelched and water poured off every inch of the land. But for the last two weeks it has been as dry as a bone. Oh blessed relief.
We've had thick white frosts some mornings, and often an easterly wind like a knife, but I have spent hours of every day gardening with great satisfaction, protected from the north and the east alike by my ten foot, 200 year-old walls

TeenQueenSuperModel likes gardening. In fact, she tells me it's her most favourite thing of all.
Except for racing in the orchard. And breakfast. And walks. And cuddles. And snoozing on the fluffy bed by the fire.

Snoozing after a hard day's work

But apart from those, gardening is what Tiggers like best.
Model Dog also likes gardening, but then she likes doing whatever I'm doing.
It's rather a case of 'Wherever I go, there's always Pooh, there's always Pooh and me,' and I wouldn't have it any other way. I'd be lost without my Model Dog.

So, a-gardening we have gone.
The herbaceous border is practically done. As are my back and general muscle-system, but nothing's free, after all - and the pleasure it gives me to see the bed looking spick and span far outweighs the minor inconvenience of hardly being able to straighten up.
Now I can re-plant the things that have been heeled in here and there around the garden, mulch it as soon as the rain returns (which it will, it will), and then stand back and watch it all burgeon.
I will keep you posted.

Unfortunately, TeenQueen's gardening means that the lawn adjacent to my flower bed (although 'lawn' is perhaps a rather a high-falutin' name for that particular patch of grass)  looks like a graveyard. Or perhaps a charnel house.
It is littered with bones. Mostly just the remains of bones, and there ain't many remains.
While I dig, the dogs lie on the grass and munch their way through any and every marrow bone that Paul, our lovely butcher, can throw their way.
Model Dog used to be happy just lying on the grass, but since the advent of the TeenQueen - with her sharp young teeth and adolescent attention span - it is necessary to keep her constantly amused so that she doesn't get into mischief.
Bones are definitely what Tiggers like best. She demolishes them with indecent haste, and prances with excitement when she sees the gardening bucket come out.

But it hasn't been all gardening this month.
I've been writing again - getting back into my book; and enjoying the last days of winter sunshine in the woods; and the crisp blue days by the sea; and helping a friend; and doing a bit of crochet here and there; and knitting my patchwork squares; and loving the lighter mornings, the longer evenings, the end of the snowdrops and crocuses, and the start of the daffodils, primroses and violets.

It's that moment of the year when the winter is behind you and the joys of spring and summer are all to come - all still to come.

A Heartbeat

Two days ago a close friend of ours had a car crash.
It was a serious accident, and as another friend, a New Yorker, said when she phoned me five minutes after it happened, his car was 'totalled'.
She would know. As lucky chance would have it, she and her partner - also friends of the victim - were in the car in front of the accident, so they witnessed it all and were able to rush to his aid and call the Gards.
Thank heavens no one else was in the car and no other car was involved, and apart from being understandably shaken and in shock, our friend seemed unscathed. The car had, as it were, taken the strain.

His wife was away on business, and the New Yorker was, literally, on her way to New York, so I hastened to the scene and being of a bossy disposition,  insisted on taking him to be checked over in A&E, or the ER as Americans would call it.
While I was sitting waiting for him, I couldn't help but reflect on the day.

Like the Curate's egg, it had been good only in parts.
It was, for one thing, Valentine's Day, but as the In-Charge was in Berlin and the first man I set eyes on during the day was a car park attendant, it had brought forth neither roses, champagne, nor fondly inscribed cards.


In fact my morning had been disastrous.
Knowing that I was going to Sligo's One Billion Rising to help the new PRO of Beltra Country Market - she who has so recently and competently taken over where I left off - I set out to walk the dogs before leaving home.

We got as far as the courtyard gate and the two dogs sat down obediently, waiting. I had their leashes in my hand, as I am very cautious - the TeenQueen has not proven herself trustworthy yet where the hens are concerned.  Only last week we had an Unfortunate Incident, when she pulled Marie Walewska out of the nesting box leaving her injured and nervous. Happily, my adolescent's reputation is taking longer to mend than my little white hen.

But then it happened.
I turned, for a moment only, to close the gate and in that second a distant hen must have scuttled across the drive, busy about its private morning routine, but it was enough to trigger the TeenQueen's inborn hunter instincts.
I didn't even know she had gone until it was too late, and although I yelled, called, ran, fell over, skinned both knees and hurt my wrist - it was to no avail.
Eventually, shaken and filled with dread, I caught up with her on the far side of the house.
Of all the hens, she had my beautiful, special Golden Princess in her mouth and it was snowing golden feathers.

It says much for Model Dog that through all the commotion and noise, she never left my side, or even considered joining in the chase, but seemed instead distressed by the whole sorry sequence of events.
And it was she who found poor Mrs Smith for me after we had grabbed the TeenQueen and locked her inside.
I searched and searched, dog-less, fearful that even the sight of a hound would send my traumatised hens into spin mode, but unable to find the poor little hen and in despair, I brought Model Dog out, and she found her straight away, tucked behind a bush that I had passed several times. She was almost invisible, camouflaged amongst the dead leaves. Model Dog didn't touch her, she just stood and stared until she'd given me the message.
We nursed the little Princess, cleaned and anointed her wounds and did everything we could. I was even hopeful when she seemed a bit.more like her old self yesterday, but this morning she is dead and the In-Charge's first job on arriving home has been to dig another grave in the orchard.
I am very sad.
And I blame myself - 

It has brought back all the thoughts I had sitting in A&E the other day.

I remembered Jeanette Winterson's words in her book The Passion: 'It is hard to remember that this day will never come again. That the time is now and the place is here and that there are no second chances at a single moment.'

On the face of it, it doesn't seem hard to remember that. But at the infinitesimal level, it is almost impossible to act upon it.

It seems to me that we measure life by major events, good or bad. And they take up acres of space in our heads, or our hearts, or our memories. But in reality few events are large.
It is the consequences that are large, but most of the key things in our lives hinge on a mere moment.
A momentary loss of control, a decision, an impulse, a flash of anger. Even a hand reached out, a hug, the light kindling in someone's eyes - or not kindling, when it should have done.
It is the tiny, momentary things that make or break the sequence, that knot the thread so that evermore it catches, catches....

It is sobering to reflect that we are never more than a heartbeat away from irrevocable change.

Bereavement

I have recently had problems accessing my blog, due to the disappearance of my Navbar.
Has anyone else suffered this loss? Is therapy available?
Life is fraught with difficulties and trip-hazards, but mercifully Wonder-Brother has come to the rescue once again.Thank you, dear Brother and may a thousand blessings shower through the leaks in your roof.
However, even Wonder Brother could not locate my missing tool, so if anyone finds a partially-used Navbar in their man-drawer, please post it back to me, the tooter the suiter.

_________________________________________________________________________________


But Navbars aside, all has not been well in the hen's paddock.

As you may know, Napoleon died two weeks ago.
It was a very sad day and the place is oddly silent. Considering how small he was, it is surprising that he took up so much room. I miss him. I miss him crowing all day, and answering to his name, his nodding head and his funny little ways.

Napoleon and Mrs Smith (aka Dolly)

I am not alone.
Mrs Smith took to her bed (which is, let's face it, an age old tradition with dowagers) on the afternoon of his death, and has remained there ever since, despite all attempts to coax her out. She even got quite cross and started biting me every time I put my hand in to lift her out.

I am ashamed to say that I hadn't thought how badly she might be affected by his going.
I suppose I presumed she would just muddle in with the other hens and carry on. I hadn't realised how much she would grieve.
I am quite shocked at how insensitive I was. I'm normally very tuned in to my animals.

Someone once told me that when an animal dies, you should leave it in its bed for awhile, for all your other animals to see, so that they understand what has happened. Since then, I have always done this, and it's true, they do all come and look and sniff and sit for awhile (or run away in some cases), but they do seem to understand. They usually attend the subsequent burial too.

I think it stops them searching for their erstwhile companion, wondering why they have disappeared and why they never return, although it didn't stop Under-Dog grieving when his mother died. For weeks he stood out in the yard looking haunted and distressed. But generally it seems to help.

A sad little Golden Princess

To my shame, I was so upset at losing Napoleon, I forgot all about Mrs Smith that horrible morning, and I didn't accord her that courtesy. He was ill, we took him away and she just never saw him again. That was it.
Perhaps she has been waiting all this time for him to come home. They were a couple after all, they spent all their time together. They had their own separate pen - Claridges.
Her obvious unhappiness has made me feel very guilty.

People tend to be slightly dismissive of animals, and mutter things about anthropomorphism.
How arrogant the human race is. As if emotions could only possibly belong to walking, talking, gum-chewing homosapiens. We have the exclusive ability to feel, the divine right to any sentiment that's going.
Perhaps it's because animals don't actually speak our language and can't put us right.
I have lived with animals all my life, and some of them have had a greater depth of feelings than many people I have known - and, even without human speech - a better way of communicating them.

Their emotions are straightforward - like a child's - but real nonetheless.

These last few days, I have been carrying Mrs Smith out to the orchard - a world she has never seen before - and putting her with the other hens. As we walk she is tense and anxious and constantly looking around, despite all my reassurances.
Is she searching for Napoleon or just seeing new vistas? Who knows.
I have also been apologising to her, something I feel is necessary, whether she understands it or not.
She certainly understands all about bereavement.

Hopefully Mrs Smith will soon join the daily race to the orchard

The Naming Ceremony!

First of all, thanks to everyone who read my guest's post this week, Pegasus Pedals!
If by any chance you missed it, please have a read - that man is going places on his bicycle.
Literally. And for a good cause.

___________________________________________________________________________________

And more thanks!
Thank you dear Readers, for the many and various suggestions you kindly offered when I appealed for help in naming the Golden Princess.

I have now had a long chat with her Imperial Highness.
We sat in the sunshine and discussed the matter in depth. Napoleon, who finds being an Emperor quite tiring, was having one of his regular naps nearby.

Napoleon gets very tired

'It's high time you chose your name,' I said. 'Everyone is waiting with baited breath.'
She looked unmoved by this admonition and ate some more grass.
She loves grass.

The Princess didn't appear to be listening

'Here is the list,' I continued. I wasn't at all sure I had her full attention. 'Eugenie, Zarina, Orianna, Sheba, Aurelie, Constanza, Beatrice, Christabella, Grace, Countess Markievicz, Cleopatra, Charlotte, Christina, Elizabeth, Orla, Gwendoline, Pauline, Gilda, Titania and Beauharnais. There's also -' I hesitated and then ploughed on: 'Chickadee, Edna, Dolly and Mrs Smith.'

I was slightly out of breath, but happy to see that she had stopped eating at last and was listening intently.

'Yes, those will do nicely,' she said and turned to walk away.

'You can't have them all!' I protested.
'Why not?' she asked. 'Princesses always have lots of names.'
'Empress...'Napoleon spluttered in the background. He had obviously woken up. 'Not just Princess. Empress. Always be an Empress to me...'
She ducked her head coyly at this tribute and Napoleon crowed loudly to cover his embarrassment. 'Dolly,' he squawked thoughtfully. 'Rather like Dolly.'
'Dolly?' I exclaimed. 'But what about Eugenie? Cleopatra? Something with a royal ring!'

The Princess started eating the grass again, and it seemed that as far as she was concerned, the conversation was over.
'Twenty four names is all well and good,' I said. 'But what am I going to call you every day?'
We had by now attracted an attentive audience.

An attentive audience

 

The Golden Princess thought for a moment, her head on one side.

'Mrs Smith,' she said at last.
Napoleon uttered a strangled noise. 'Mrs Smith?' He ran after her, frantically flexing one wing. 'But Empress...!' he repeated, faint but persisting, and then he stopped. 'What about Dolly?' I heard him say tentatively. 'Rather like Dolly,'

Napoleon ran after Mrs Smith

I left them to it. I know when I've been put in my place. Evidently we are not yet on first name terms.
Mrs Smith it shall be. And prizes will be awarded accordingly.
Perhaps one day I'll be permitted to call her Eugenie Zarina Orianna Sheba Aurelie Constanza Beatrice Christabella Grace etc etc...

However, in the privacy of the boudoir, it sounds like she's going to be Dolly.