Sussex Exclusive columnist, Dee Blick, on being henpecked!
It was after another blissful holiday in Devon when my husband announced he was building a hen house.
I shouldn’t have been surprised and to be honest, hens seemed an altogether more appealing prospect than the mooted pygmy goats and micro pigs. Of course, our two young sons were more than up for the hen project. Not in donating their physical prowess, to build the hen house, you understand. No, their enthusiasm was confined to naming the hens that would soon join us.
The hen house proved to be a time-consuming project for my husband. It required precise measurements, the creation of roomy sleeping and roosting quarters and the most essential requirement of all – proofing from the foxes. The wildlife camera had highlighted how mother fox and her entourage were looking fondly on our garden as fairground time for foxes.
Many hours, screws, odd bits of wood and rolls of mesh, later, an ample run was attached to our still sturdy garden shed, now repurposed as sleeping quarters.
All that remained was to find the hens.
Sable Poots, Old English Game, Wyandottes, Silkies and Pekins
My husband had a small, assiduously curated list of specific breeds that included Sable Poots, Old English Game, Wyandottes, Silkies and Pekins. Bringing this group of hens together was a task requiring meticulous planning. Well, this is certainly how my husband approaches projects, versus my alternative 900 miles an hour, make- it- up- as- you- go- along methodology.
His unerring focus delivered the goods. Within weeks we had the most gorgeous group of spirited hens. After covering hundreds of miles to find the girls, they adapted well and quickly established their own groups. The Wyandottes spent time together and as the largest birds, they ruled the roost. The Old English Game (think mini versions of an archaeopteryx) were incredibly tame, whilst the Silkie looked super cute, if not slightly absurd. With furry feet and an equally furry head, this bigger than average bird would not have been out of place on the Muppet Show. The Pekin was a happy little soul, content to join any group that would have him, without pecking at his glorious speckled grey plumage.
Uh oh!
Our naivety as hen harriers, however, was revealed when at 5am one morning we heard the unmistakeable sound of a cockerel piercing the silence.
What did we do? We did what any responsible, upstanding pillars of the community would do.
We ignored it.
Must be a mistake…someone else’s cockerel.
A few mornings later when our lovely neighbour knocked on the door, suggesting sheepishly that we may have a cockerel in the hen house and they were struggling to sleep beyond his spirited dawn chorus, we could no longer pretend the sound was the stuff of dreams.
The lovely little Silkie was not a girl despite assurances to the contrary by the owner, who at the time seemed quite giddy with glee to sell him to us. It also explained why in recent days, Mr Silkie had been strutting around, dominating the other birds, and rehearsing his dawn chorus, which we took to be a quirky little calling -not the launch pad for the full-on early morning throttle he was now delivering in stereo.
With heavy hearts, we took him to Carla Lane’s Animal Sanctuary. If we lived in a remote hamlet we could have got away with a noisy little cockerel but living among several houses, and in the summer months, when bedroom windows were wide open…. suffice to say, his time with us was brief but memorable.
A line in the sand
What really surprised me about the hens was how tame they were. They liked being handled, petted and spoken to as if they were members of the family, which they were in a funny kind of way. It became a habit, thanks to my sons, that every night two birds would invariably make their way into the living room. However, I did have to put my foot firmly down when one night, the two that were watching Emmerdale Farm, decided to christen my pale blue sofa, as only birds fed on a healthy organic diet can. Every woman has her line in the sand. Mine was two scoops of hen poo that took some time to remove.
To this day we still have hens, and I’m now going back 25 odd years since that holiday in Devon. In the end we invested in the skills and expertise of a hen house builder extraordinaire. Our birds now live in the hen hotel equivalent of The Dorchester. My little Grandson, Teddy has fallen under their spell. I reckon it’s only a matter of time before he asks Granny if one can join him to watch Wallace and Gromit. This time I will be prepared with hot cloths, disinfectant, and a plastic sheet!
In my next column, I’ll tell you about our ex-battery hens and how they fared as free birds for the first time in their lives. It’s as poignant as it is funny.
About Dee Blick
Local Horsham resident, Dee is something of a writer.
In fact, she has written 5 books of note, with her sixth now safe and sound at her publishers, scheduled for release in November. Her most recent book, The Boutique, is a collection of 9 gritty and moving short stories, with each character connected through their appreciation of a fashion shop. She has just finished writing her fifth marketing book – You’re the Best! How to build an authentic and magnetic personal brand. When Dee is not writing books you’ll find her writing articles like this one or heading to a local café to satisfy her desire for sourdough toast with marmite, accompanied by Pear and Apple juice.
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