Many people can't believe that I allow my chickens to run free, but in two and a half years the only fatalities have been from two aggressive dogs and, so far, the foxes have left them alone. I'm very safety conscious; they have a well defended chicken coop that they return to voluntarily every night and is then locked at every entrance and exit. They're nice and safe and I sleep well knowing that they are, but I don't restrict them during the day. That's their time to be themselves and live a full and varied life; living in a 'run' - no matter how big and expensive - is not an option for my birds. I live in the country and so do they.
Let's start with the biggest first. George is absolutely adorable. He's a buff orpington rooster, of unknown age or origin. He appeared in the garden of a 92 year old man who lives down the road from me. Alva came striding up the road saying,' I've got a cockerel in my garden, what should I do?' After some searching the biggest, orangest, fluffiest cockerel I had ever seen suddenly popped out of a hedge and into my life. It was love at first sight (for me, at least), and after three tries I finally grabbed him and brought him home. He's been head of the flock ever since, though he has a limp that gets worse when he's cold or damp - so I don't know how old he is. One of my favourite activities is to grab him and give him a massive hug. He's so big he completely fills my arms.
Kentucky, or Ken, is a tiny bantam maran hen and very, very broody. She's in this picture with a chick she was determined to hatch out and kept alive during the coldest December in 100 years. The chick is of unknown sex, but I've named her Betsey and she's seen here at four weeks old. She's now 12 weeks. Little Betsey is now the size of her biological Mum, Grace, and growing every day.
Ken is currently brooding again, and on her ninth day of sitting on another two eggs from George and Grace.
Grace lays an egg every day, even through the winter, whereas Ava is a shite hen who hardly ever lays and when she does her shells are so thin they're almost useless! Mostly she lets a soft-shell egg fall out of her arse when she's roosting at night, so it goes to waste. I'm in two minds about whether to dispatch her to chicken heaven or not.
Barnaby is a bantam (small breed version of a larger breed) Barnevelder, a hardy dutch breed. Up to the age of five months he looked like a hen, then he suddenly started crowing in a strange pterodactyl kind of voice, and within the next couple of weeks his cockerel spurs, neck and tail feathers and massive comb and wattle all grew. Since then he has created himself a position of Lieutenant to George's Colonel, and he does a fabulous job of guarding the flock and fighting off intruders - even my poor cat.
Like all bantams he has a massive personality. My Sussex's and Orpington are calm and collected, perhaps too much so when there are dangers around, but if you have a bantam cockerel in the mix they will always 'do their duty' and protect the group - whether they want him to or not. For that reason Barnaby currently has a place in my flock. No flock needs two cockerels and they rarely co-exist happily, but as George is so big and, frankly, lazy - he seems to be happy to let the little Pretender to the throne run around doing all the work. Chickens ain't daft - they just look that way :)
This is the Master Mouse-Catcher here at Chicken Cottage, Anya. She's also of unknown age and origin, but she's lived with me for five years and is my closest and most mucky companion. Those fluffy feet pick up a mammoth amount of mud and grime that gets liberally spread all over the house. Country living is pretty but ruddy filthy - especially if your cat likes to wander through the horse paddock on the way home from wherever she's been hunting.
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