Chickens in the orchard

Dark already! I went out to shut the chickens, and found the world enveloped in thick fog. What a surprise - the air wasn’t cold – over the ‘summer’ months it seems I’d forgotten the existence of fog. But autumn is building up to a crescendo, leaves swirl from the trees with every gust of wind, and the gorgeous russet of the oaks through the valley deepens every day.

Bang, bang, pop, pop! The pheasant season has opened, and between guns, careless drivers and stripy Old Brock’s midnight prowlings, the most gormless of the birds are soon picked off. Before long Mr Fox will come sniffing around the poultry, even during the day. The geese, protected by their threatening gander, Sam, should be safe enough out in the daytime, but at this time of year we move the chickens onto their winter quarters, within the fortification of a six-foot deer fence.

The top two terraces within the enclosure are planted with fruit trees - apple, pear, cherry, plum and quince. Rested over the summer to reinvigorate the grass and interrupt the lifecycle of parasites (the geese spent last winter there), the pasture had grown long. After harvesting the fruit, we strimmed the ‘flats’, leaving the banks wild and tussocky, as nature reserves (beyond cutting brambles and removing the seeds of docks and hogweed, these areas are never touched). A transformation, from scruffy and unkempt, the orchard instantly looked loved and tended. I raked up the grassy debris and carted it off to layer with straw – the resulting compost will be great to mulch veg beds next spring, and I don’t have to worry about depleting the orchard’s fertility as chicken droppings will amply replace the loss.

It took four of us to wheel the house up the hill and through the gate, rousing high excitement amongst the birds. The geese, hopeful at first, then honked disgust at not being permitted into their favourite paddock, and the chickens were delighted at the feast of tasty bugs and herbs, but then bemused as dusk gathered and they couldn’t return to their accustomed roost. Of course a house identical to theirs was in the new paddock, but it didn’t tally with their geographical coordinates, therefore it couldn’t possibly be home.

Despairing at such incredible lack of sense, I consoled myself that at least chickens cope with moving better than bees, whose hive can only be shifted less than three feet or more than three miles without major loss of life – at least chickens are easily retrained. I’d just wait until dark, find where in misery they had chosen to sleep, scoop them up and reposition them on the perch inside the house. Within a couple of nights they’ll know where to go.