Far Lands

On Sunday our white bantam, our very first chicken, died. Drowned in the bath / pond in the paddock. I buried her in the orchard. She was our first chicken, a present from Eva. Such a shame.         (The brown one went mad, and died 2 years ago, the black one never laid an egg and died last year. Our white superstar laid eggs, brought up two broods of chicks and gave as good as she got to the roosters.)

Build an ark . . . Or build a new feature for the garden on dry land. We went for the latter and on top of the septic tank in our front paddock, we installed our new feature. A rustic (ah-hem) wheelbarrow filled with geraniums. Anything to feel that we deserved to go back inside to dry out.

I recently wrote this article for the newsletter of the Northern Fruit Group . . . Propagation I have been a regular at the Dewhurst allotments for four years. Four long, hard winters of digging and mulching. Four summers of weeding.             I exaggerate. Dewhurst gets better weather than the Costa Del Sol, not that I’ve ever been there, or would admit it if I had. More importantly, I have learnt a great deal. Winter pruning of orchard trees, the modified lorette system for restricted forms, the difference between a minarette and a ballerina. How Hilary makes apple juice, what Peter eats for breakfast. The surprising science-art of grafting.             And I have caught the bug. The magic of working with fruit trees. Outside, in the air, in the soil. We need the trees, for our wellbeing, but what I also love, is that the trees need us. Mankind. Without human agency, the wonderful heterogeneity of fruit trees – over 2 000 cultivars in the UK, over 200 at Dewhurst – would be

The ban on the chickens' right to roam has been lifted (unless they live in a hotspot, and they don't), and they are out. Hooray! General relief all round - the chickens (especially the small white bantam who suffers from the disproportionate attention of the rooster, and as a result is 100% 'skinhead'), us and the grass. However, at roosting time, some of them were initially confused as to their whereabouts. Three of them on day 1, two on day 2 and one, the daftest presumably, on day 3. (I'll let you work out when this photo was taken.) By day 4, they had all updated their sat navs. (Which begs the question - who does the voice over on a chicken sat nav? Another chicken? A gruff rooster? Donald Trump? Fantastic Mr Fox? Suggestions on a postcard.)