Livestock chaos...
part 4 - the ex-convicts behave despicably, I have help moving the sheep but none at all moving their muck, plum blossom at last and friendly faces in the valley.
TUESDAY WEDNESDAY THURSDAY & FRIDAY : From inside the house it is impossible to hear any disturbance that may be occurring in the chicken field. Partly due to 300 square metres of barn with thick stone walls and partly, as if that weren’t quite impractical enough, because an acre of brambles belonging to a negligent neighbour. Hence I am not ready for the scene that greats me when I let out my ex convicts this morning.
Five hens fly out of the coop, squawking and clucking as they usually do but no curly cock. I peer inside and see nothing but chicken poo, one early egg and feathers - too many feathers! I poke my head further in and eventually see a distorted looking chicken leg poking out of a what looks like a pile of motionless, bloody feathers crammed into a corner under the nesting box. I turn to look at the hens,
“You horrible load of carnivore bitches!” I shout. They take no notice.
I can’t reach him without squeezing myself into the coop and crawling on my knees across the nesting perches. A truly unenviable task but I have no choice, dead or alive he has to be moved. Taking a huge gulp of fresh air before I go in, head first, hands and knees balancing on filthy perches. I desperately try to avoid at least the fresh chicken poop if not that which is dried up. The stench is terrible, I bitterly regret not having found the time to muck out. Just as I reach down to gather up the bloody, feathery mess, curly cock, apparently, not dead after all, gives a mighty screech and runs out under me and the perches leaving a cloud of foul / fowl dust and feathers behind him. I curse loudly and back out again.
Taking huge gasps of fresh air but relieved he is not dead, I run back to the barn for the anti-bacterial gentian spray I use on my sheep. I then run around the pen for the next 20 minutes trying to catch him.
A headless chicken chasing a tailless chicken…
Puffing and panting and losing patience, I manage to corner him and inspect his wounds. His tail feathers are gone completely, all that’s left is a raw stump of mutilated flesh which I spray liberally with the gentian. I wash the blood as best I can from his wings and check that nothing else is damaged but he appears to be otherwise intact. Male ego apart! With soaking feathers and a bright purple stump for a tail he looks rather like an alien from a 1950’s sci-fi movie.
I return him to his original coop with mum and two other very docile cocks and hope that someone back in the house has risen and that I don’t now have to battle with ‘stove’ as well - I need coffee.
Before I even get to the barn I hear a terrible screeching from the chicken field…
I run back to find my two usually very docile cocks have metamorphosed into two wild and violent pterodactyl like beasts. Neck feathers splayed, wings outstretched and claws bared fighting to protect their lady. I try to catch curly cock but after several attempts give up and throw a bucket of water over the lot of them. They stop immediately, ruffle their feathers to shake off the water and each wanders off. I’m hoping that’s the end of it and once again leave for the house and warmth and a hot cup of coffee - At this point, almost two hours after I got up, I think I actually despise chickens even more than I despise their eggs!
I spend the rest of the day tidying branches and leaves within earshot of the chicken field just in case of a replay but they have sulkily accepted curly cock’s reappearance and calm returns once again but there are no further disruptions.
The following two days I busy myself with my list. It’s not getting any shorter and the holidays are flying by!
I spend a morning fixing fences and gates, white sheet in tow. I drag sheep wire across the top of the lane and build a hedge of branches (saved from the plum tree sectioning) to block the entrance to the farmers field and the track through the woods.
A farcical escapade; flap the white sheet, grab a branch, run and repeat.
By lunchtime I am ready to move the sheep from their barren field onto the lane
I have help….
Which is actually no help at all…
Walking in the evening is my ‘me time’, no matter the weather, no matter the chores aren’t finished, I take 30 minutes for breathing, for wandering and wondering. This time passes quickly but it is all I have to take note of seasonal changes and occasional happenings on my hill. Really, just an excuse to escape.
Wednesday, just before the night closes deep indigo curtains on the day I take a quick hike to the very top of the hill to watch the last few minutes of an amber glow disappear below the horizon, a pastime I usually reserve for the summer months when the wind blows from the south and not likely to slice me up with icy fingers of north east meanness. Today it is a mean wind…
I obviously haven’t had enough punishment for one day!
As I zigzag up the hill - its so much less painful than climbing as the crow flies - I see three silhouetted figures walking along the highest point, the ridge you might call it although it’s far from that in reality, the descent the other side is too gentle. I am stunned, motionless! Never, in all the years I’ve wandered this hill, have I ever seen another living soul walking the slopes. I feel outraged… my escape time violated. I want to march up to them and demand what they might be doing at dusk on private land. But, of course, it’s not my land so I try to shrink into a camouflaged ball amongst the scrub and hope they don’t see me.
They do!
A silhouette, wearing a flash jacket - wise in these overly hunted parts - frantically waving multicoloured fluorescent arms, half runs, half staggers down the hill towards me. Her two friends, equally brightly clad in skin tight psychedelic ‘ensembles’, trudge after her. They couldn’t look more out of place if they tried. They are obviously cold, exhausted and, I guess, very lost. I let out an involuntary, exasperated sigh and walk towards them.
I form my face into a smile as they get closer, my precious free moments are about to be as lost as they are but I can’t leave them roaming the hill in the dark.
"On s’est perdue vers la porcherie en bas".
"Deux chiens nous ont poursuivis et on a dû courir très vite, puis les panneaux du chemin ont disparu".
Their story tumbles out… I know the two dogs they speak of, wretched thugs, I have been bitten once myself, the second time they tried I was ready with a stick, the stick won! They tell me they are trying to find Auzits, a small village 9 km away, less across the hills but not if you don’t know the way. They look cold and exhausted and so utterly relieved to have found someone, anyone.
Without even thinking, I offer to drive them home.
I should have taken a different walk…
Supper is going to have to be late.
Thursday afternoon is dismal. Cold, windy and dark. Now that the sheep have been dispatched to their temporary grazing, I have the odious task of raking up the liberally spread shitty mess of uneaten hay into a dung heap. My plan is to spread it over the vegetable garden.
Thankfully I can do this without prancing around the field with a white sheet over my shoulders. I am sincerely relieved because what I’ve neglected to calculate when moving the sheep is that I can no longer access the field, or my veggie patch with a wheel barrow. The whole rotting pile must be moved by hand with the pitch fork.
I begin; scooping up as much as possible on the prongs, walking the 141 steps - I counted - to the prepared beds and back again. It’s monotonous work, my back hurts, the muscles in my arms feel like jelly after the first 10 trips and I want to stop. Especially as the muck heap doesn’t appear to have changed size.
Where are the devil are the boys?
My legs join my arms but I am determined to finish. Three hours and countless trips back and forth later, the sun shines and the stinking job is finished.
In complete contrast to the day before, Friday morning is glorious, ‘stove’ puffs smoke into the kitchen but it’s a friendly puff, not the belching black sooty kind that fills the house with fumes for day’s afterwards.
I walk and walk, far longer than I usually would, never mind soggy socks and wet feet, the air, cold and fresh feels curative and up-lifting.
I even find a spray of early plum blossom nestled against a branch of the old oak opposite the château.
I return to my day, recharged with a mighty positive flow and the feeling that I’m capable of achieving just about anything. I love when nature does that!
I spend the afternoon in my garden. Still feeling hugely optimistic, and just in case we have perfect weather for strawberries in May and June, (which we never have before, not in my garden anyway) I split and plant out about 50 strawberry runners. Maybe this year will be a strawberry year? While I plant I plan a menu for friends who have returned to their valley house for a few days.
It will be the first time we have shared our table with anyone but family since Christmas.
To be continued, but heaven knows when!
Have wonderful weekend.
I really love your stories and your style of writing, Susie! 💗 It is as if I’m walking along with all you do and all your adventures. Though I definitely couldn’t keep up with your tempo! 😉
Such determination Susie! And I love how you describe how nature nourishes you...