You Cannot Make An Omelette...

 ...without breaking eggs. Not quite sure what that actually means but it came into my mind today.

Another thing I'm not quite sure about, even after nearly eighteen years, is Nelly's Garden a diary, or not? Because, if it is a diary then I should be making much mention of recent family visits from the Norfolk and Muswell Hill branches of the family. Both visits meant a lot to me but while they were going on I was much occupied and did not seem to have the time or energy to make diary entries. I will get back to that.

Instead, back to the breaking eggs thing. Some years ago we removed a number of overgrown conifers from the front of the house. One brute of a thing left a two-pronged stump which we decided to leave in place. I envisaged it covered in clematis and eventually one was planted (a viticelli) which took about five years before it blessed us with a few sparse flowers and then died. Today Bert decided to remove the stump.

Considering ourselves to be conscientious of the needs of wildlife our aim was to remove the decaying stump to another area where insects etc. could continue to enjoy it.

Ropes were attached to the tractor, and the removal was underway.

Then Bert cried, Oh SHIT!

A tiny egg had rolled to the ground.

A closer investigation found the little nest, six eggs one broken.

The eggs were cold and we hoped it was an abandoned nest.

Looking into it afterwards Bert reckoned it was a tree creeper's nest. The coldness of the eggs meant nothing as the birds had fled the nest as soon as he roped the stump. The eggs, being tiny, would have cooled rapidly.

Our only consolation is that there are at least three pairs of tree creepers breeding here and hopefully the pair whose nest we destroyed will go again. 

The moral of this tale is to avoid all kinds of wrecking projects in our gardens during nesting season.

Happier times fifteen years ago when the stumps were newly made. The girl is in her last years at grammar school. The boy (Ben) is in his twenties and the pup (Frank) is buried a few metres away.

Things Bees Know

 

I had a good weekend, busy and productive. Planted tomatoes and lettuce in the tunnel. Weeded like a demon. Prepared ground for new plantings, potted up my bay tree and planted another sumach. Did a lot of birdwatching. There are a lot of juveniles around. Ate a ton of chocolate, made carrot and coriander soup and scones and baked two cakes. Gave away a lot of eggs.

And speaking of eggs, we gave half a dozen to MM and he gave us 30 empty egg boxes and a jar of chilli jam. Even better, we gave another six eggs to EC and he gave us a nuke of honey bees.

And speaking of honey bees (and other pollinators) I found out from DR on Twitter that the reason the centres of some of those forget-me-nots are white, rather than yellow is because another pollinating insect has scoffed all the pollen. Bees know this, so they only go for the ones with the yellow centres. How did I get to the age of eleventy-bus-pass without this knowledge? 

Birds of a Feather

We have sixteen chickens now. Sadly, four of them are roosters which is three too many. The seven young ones (a gift from the ever generous Les) were kept apart from the others for about six weeks as the four roosters would have murdered them. When we reunited the flocks I kept two of the cockerels in the old run but their sister would not be parted from them and kept flying over the fence and lingering outside their gate. I gave in, let her join them. That group are known as the Hillbillies because of their incestuous lifestyle. And the female hasn't laid one single egg since she got there. I have to say that last year's egg hatching experiment, whilst exciting, ended in disappointment. Five chicks brought forth, three males and two females, then one female dispatched to Dr. Leitrim Sister's rushy fields whilst masquerading as a male. Our Dede didn't even want a rooster and, as it turned out, she didn't get one for Miss Rocky is laying well.

There are seven or eight eggs a day coming from the other lot, most of them from the young hens. They stick together and have adopted the young white rooster as their harem-master. They knock around together and roost in a row at night. Duke, the old rooster, makes do with the two old browns and the two old blacks. The two brown hens chum about and they hate the young girls. The black hens are pals too. Duke perches on another part of the roost with the black hens on one side and the brown ones on the other. Thankfully the run is big and they all have plenty of room but there is definitely a distinct pecking order at scoff time. The old browns are the boss hens and everyone except Duke gets chased off. When my lovely bantams were here they stuck together as well and did not get on with the others.

I'd love more Silkies and Pekins but I'm not sure I could cope with their inherent broodiness and too many boys hatching. Unless I can toughen up and turn the cockerels into a nice nourishing soup. Peter told me this evening that he dispatched his rooster for raping the ducks but hadn't the heart to eat him. I don't think I could eat mine either.

Honey and Flour

Our chickens took quite a scattering this summer. Apart from the depredations of the fox we had another one died last weekend, probably from some sort of a respiratory infection. The vet was in the yard on Friday morning and Bert had every intention of getting her to look at it after she had finished testing the cattle, but she started talking about trees and headed off to look at what Bert had available and by the time he'd closed a gate or two she was off and away.

My advice was that he should pull her neck, the hen not the vet, but he didn't take it as he is becoming soft-hearted in his old age. I think that might be the Martha and Evie effect.

She died without the benefit of Bert stretching her neck. That meant we were down to four hens and one rooster and an average of two and a half eggs per day. Definitely time to replenish the flock especially as Bert and Ben had spent a lot of time fox-proofing the run with heightened fencing, reinforced at ground level and, best of all, electric fencing top and bottom outside the perimeter.

I had promised Martha and Evie we'd buy them each a chicken. Evie wanted a pink one and I had to tell her that chickens don't come in pink. Martha helpfully suggested that we could get a white one and dye it pink and I had to disappoint her by telling her that dye would not be good for a chicken's skin.

It was obvious that bog standard hens were not going to cut the mustard with them so after asking around we went to a guy who breeds bantams and other fowl. His place was rather out of the way so I reckoned Bert should drive us as he is usually good at finding his way around. Our van is only a three seater so I had to sit in the back, in the dark as there are no windows. It was very rattly in there but I was just about able to hear Martha and Evie singing their current favourite song, our friend Rod's version of Willie Nelson's It's All Going To Pot. The girls have got it nearly off pat now. Imagine their childish voices doing sweet sister harmony.

All the whisky in Lynchburg, Tennessee

Just couldn't hit the spot

I gotta hundred dollar bill, 

You can keep your pills 

Cause it's all goin' to pot.

Despite my specific directions and a Google maps printout and a photograph of the house Bert still got lost but I didn't mind. For we found the place eventually and the girls were delighted with it. There were ducks, chickens and bantams everywhere. And, best of all, lots of cute little fluffy chicks running around. We had to be specific as to the type of bird we wanted as they needed to be able to cope with the chickens we already had so, guided by the breeder, Martha chose a golden coloured Pekin and Evie picked a white Silkie. They had both been clocking so we also got a clutch of eggs. Back into the van.

The journey home was a good deal shorter as Bert did not go astray. Just as well, as I was sitting in the back with two quiet hens in a box and eighteen eggs up my jumper. The girls put their favourite song on and sang along. I couldn't have been any happier.

There are no pictures of the new chickens just yet. They are in their own little house, in nesting boxes, sitting on their eggs and we don't like to disturb them. Maybe tomorrow.

The hens will be called Honey (the gold one) and Flour (the white one). Girls chose the names themselves. They are called after food. I hope no-one tells Foxy. 

Easter Sunday

There was an encouraging comment from Brighid about this series of posts on my Flickr pictures which was very much appreciated for I was beginning to think nobody cared. I will continue until the end of April or thereabouts.

Easter Sunday. Weather wise - not a bad day. I gardened a little (sowed Swiss chard) and entertained Swisser for a couple of hours. She gave Nellybert chocolate and we reciprocated with freshly laid eggs and a couple of bottles of dandelion wine. Those new hens have been a blessing. We can give everyone eggs and call it an Easter present. Too easy. Thanks chickens.

To Flickr then. They are good ones today.

That's Hannah in the middle on her First Communion day. She only got to wear one of her new white shoes as she had sprained her ankle a few days before. She made her First Communion using a little crutch. I like this picture because the little girls had already posed for dozens of photographs and now they were having some down time. I like that they are all looking in different directions and none are looking at the camera. Technically it is not that great a shot, too much bright but it is one of my favourites. It has had 1,386 views.

This picture, the fifth most interesting, was taken on a walk close to where we live. I liked the idea of a broken down recovery truck. 345 views.

Half A Dozen Eggs

How did it get to be Friday already? This week has been a funny one weather-wise. Divinely spring-like on Tuesday. I worked outside and discovered that Roy likes to explore. And that his exploring includes the road! We had to put a temporary gate up which displeased a number of callers. I felt a teeny bit bad about it but Bert enjoyed taking visitors out of their comfort zone. Roy is going to get extensive training regarding the lane way. He needs to know it is a forbidden area.

Bert and I also had a difference of opinion about egg donations. We like to give eggs to our friends yet I also like to be able to make an omelette or a cake using free range eggs. I was delighted to find, on returning from picking Martha up from the school bus, that my new Magimix replacement bowl had arrived in the post. Far less delighted to find that, in my absence, Bert had given away all the eggs. So, no point in keeping those leftovers for a Spanish omelette and out the window goes any plans for a cake. We had the same discussion a week previously but when I speak I hear sounds coming out of my mouth something like this,

Bert, I'd like you to make sure that there are always six eggs in the egg rack. More than that then give them away to your heart's content.

He hears this,

Drone, drone, drone, blah-blah-blah, yadda-yadda-yadda.

So that was the past few days, minding dogs, arguing about eggs, bit of gardening. I sure do lead an exciting life.

My Life In A Day

I've been trying to get up one minute earlier every day. I had just got to 7:03am when British Summer Time arrived. Today I got up at 7:59am.

First things first. Charlie goes out to pee and start on the many hundreds of 'rounds' he clocks up every day. This done I returned to bed with coffee and got up again around half-eight. The other two dogs got up and we all went out to sort the pigs and hens.

Charlie has taken a great dislike to pigs and would torment them given the opportunity. However I found a way to deter him when I picked up a length of alkathene piping. The minute he saw it he shot off and watched the proceedings from a safe and respectable distance. I think his previous carer must have whacked him with alkathene piping on more than one occasion. I'll not be doing that which I'm sure he'll soon discover and then poor Lily and Rusty will have to watch out.

I attended to Pearlie then breakfasted on a new-laid egg and some home made bread after which I headed to the poly tunnel to sow cucumber, peppers and okra.

New baby

Clint came to help Bert move the new calf and her mother to the meadow. He was back and forth all morning in a variety of tractors. Don't ask - it's a Clint thing.

Bert cleared off to deliver clematis and I had a light lunch of beetroot soup and sandwiches. I think it was beetroot soup but it was from the Polish shop and all information was in Polish. Maybe it was blackcurrant soup. It was very nice anyway and I ate it sitting in the sunshine. Young Rooney called. He crawled about under my car for a wee while and his long shorts slipped down and I saw his bum but I pretended I didn't. Bert returned and Clint arrived up in another tractor and a road sign that said Men at Work. He looked over at us and said,

Youse boys'll hardly be needing this then.

I said,

Did you not see Young Rooney under my car? He was working. For about a minute anyway.

Clint and Bert had a very boring conversation about manuring the meadow and Clint was whinging about the price of manure. I asked him if he couldn't just use shite and he said you need the artificial stuff to give the shite a bit of a push. I think he just wants the excuse to get out on his tractor. Young Rooney said he could get him plenty of horse manure but Clint said sarcastically,

Aye! If I wanted my fields to grow every weed under the sun I would!

Then Rod (and his mum) arrived with the fruit and veg for the pigs and we gave him six hen eggs and a goose egg and his mum gave me a pen which she does every time I see her.

When we got the yard cleared of folk I did a bit of weeding, bit of housework, started the dinner and made scones for Bert's music night.

In among times I kept Pearlie's fire going. Pearlie likes a fire no matter what the weather is like. Today, while everyone else was in tee-shirts and her carer had the top off her sports car, my mother-in-law sat there with a fire roaring up the chimney, all her windows and doors tight closed and wearing, on top of her normal clothes, two shawls, with two blankets over her lap and a hot water bottle. I'm afraid I was cruel come mid-afternoon and opened a window a chink and let her fire go out as I believed she was at risk of heatstroke.

Boys all arrived for music night and since then I've mostly been sitting here scanning photographs. I got a HP Photosmart from one of the boys as my previous machine would not work with Ubuntu. I've been going through Matty's photographs but I think I've scanned the best of them already.

Then I tried to take a photograph of the Moon, Jupiter and Venus. Sadly I couldn't find the important part of my tripod so it wasn't much good. As you can see.

Camera shake

My Eggs

I just got an email from the Egg Banking plc. My immediate thought was,

I'm way too old to be banking my eggs!

On closer inspection it turned out to be one of those banking scams.

So that's OK then.

The Joy of Chickens

The Hen House

The hens of Springhill talk to our reporter about their life in Cullybackey.

Reporter: So how long have you been living here ladies?

Attracta: Well Patsy and I have been here for yonks. Maybe three months now. Dympna came later and wee Bernie has been here a lifetime.

Reporter: And are you happy here at Springhill?

Dympna: Happy? Happy is not the word for it. Living with Nellybert here in Springhill is sheer, utter ecstasy. I was down with Clint for a while but to tell you the truth that crowd of fowl that he has there are a complete shower. They would have ate the arse of you as soon as look at you. And I mean ate the arse of you literally. I hadn't a tail feather to my name when I came here. But Attracta and the girls are lovely and made me very welcome. Plus the grub's better here.

Reporter: If you don't mind me saying you have a lovely set of tail feathers on you now.

Dympna: I have, haven't I? I'll admit I'm rather proud of my booty. Nelly calls me Dympna Fluffybum.

Reporter: Bernie you were here all along. What do you think of your new companions?

Bernie: Oh they're not bad. I'd been lonely for a long time ever since my sister Bianca died. Mind you they've short memories because when they first came I totally took them under my wing. They looked up to me. They had to because I was the only one able to roost in the rafters. But now they're more settled they forget that I'm the senior hen around here. But still what can you expect of hens brought up in a battery cage. No real refinement.

Reporter: So what is your typical day like?

Attracta: Nelly lets us out of the house in the morning.

Dympna: And feeds us. Yummy corn and stuff.

Patsy: Then we head off to the lawn.

Bernie: They call it a lawn. It's more like a rough field.

Dympna: But we like rough fields. We potter around the compost heap as well. We like our five portions of fruit & veg too y'know.

Attracta: Dympna or Patsy might lay an egg. I'm not laying at the moment. Bernie might lay one as well but she's very sleekit and you'd never find it.

Bernie: It's no business of yours whether I lay an egg or not!

Attracta: Well all I'm saying is it's not very loyal to Nellybert after all they do for us.

Bernie: Shut your beak!

Nelly's reward - a new laid egg

Reporter: Girls, girls! Calm down. Now Patsy you're very quiet. How have you found living with Nelly and Bert?

Patsy: I adore Nelly.

Dympna: She's Nelly's wee pet.

Reporter: Are you Patsy?

Patsy: I don't know. She is always picking me up and stroking me.

Attracta: That's because she can catch you easiest what with your gammy leg and all.

Patsy: Nelly was very kind to me at the start. When my leg was really bad just after I came out of the cages she'd hand feed me when youse ones wouldn't let me near the food.

Dympna: You soon learned to hold your own in that department you gorb!

Patsy: I need to keep my strength up.

Attracta: Then there's you sitting like a lady in the crook of Nelly's arm while she goes about the place lifting pots and stones to find you slugs to eat.

Patsy: Mmmmmm... slugs. So yummy.

Reporter: It sounds like you're all pretty spoiled here.

Patsy: Mmmm. Maybe. I heard Nellybert's friend Swisser saying that Nelly won't be happy until we're all roosting at the end of her bed. I'd like that.

Dympna: There's one thing I'd like.

Reporter: What's that?

Dympna: A Cock.

Attracta: Honestly Dympna!

Dympna: Pity to waste the best bit of booty in Cullybackey.

Reporter: Ahem! Well we'll finish here I think. Thank you ladies. I've enjoyed talking to you and I'm sure the readers will too.

Paddy supervises the chicken's breakfast

Bernie sneaks off

Chicken Rescue Update

I'm sure there must be many of you fretting about how our rescue chickens are getting along so I thought I'd provide a bit of an update for you.

Attracta: The one with no neck feathers. Attracta continues to do well. She lays an egg every other day and enjoys scraping and foraging for insects. She is the first one out of the hen house every morning. The piss-awful weather we've had this week has not deterred her from her adventures.

Dympna: The one with the sore arse. Dympna was bottom of the pecking order when she lived with Clint. Hence the sore arse. She chums with Attracta but has yet to lay an egg. Understandably.

Patsy: The one with the sore fut. Patsy is making slow but steady progress. In the past week she has ventured out a few times but continues to hover around the hen house door. She's a bit of a loner.

And what of Bernie the bantam? Pearlie the Pessimist thought that Bernie, because of her tiny size, would take a battering from the uncouth battery hens. How wrong she was! Bernie has proved to be a total targe and the boss of the hen house. And she has started laying eggs. Only about two a week but that's much better than none a year. She produced a double-yolker today. Go Bernie!

Meanwhile, down at Clint's place, Norris the Rooster is 'comfortable'. His appetite has improved a little but he still has a way to go.