This will be the last chance to post any news from the chook-house before I head south to Somerset for Christmas and the New Year. Shocked readers may come to the conclusion (at whatever speed they find most comfortable) that I shall not be taking the opportunity to spend my first Hogmanay in Scotland; well, there isn’t a pub in this particular village and I don’t fancy a four-mile walk down the main road in the wee small hours with a full load on board. Still, next year will be different with the Queen of the Chooks in the same nest as the reluctant poultryman. She and I have been discussing on the phone tonight potential improvements to the chooks’ habitations, which I fear will involve Her Maj directing significant groundworks to be undertaken by the contractor of choice, i.e. PTC himself. Still, the exercise will do me good and the end result will be of benefit to the chooks and geese.
Last night was exceptionally windy and an ornamental tree in the garden was blown over last night. The tree above the chooks’ pen lost a small branch and, with little cessation in the wind tonight, I was not at all surprised to find every last chook safely tucked up in the chook-coop. The geese, for some reason best known to themselves, were down at the pond when I came back about half-past-five, a time when they are normally in their pen waiting for me to shut them safely in against the predations of old Reynard. They soon scuttled in when I waved the torch around and illuminated their way for them.
My next-door neighbour, a chook-man himself, has kindly offered to keep an eye on the feathered sub-tenants over the hols. I could bring him back a flagon of best Somerset scrumpy (Wilkins of Mudgeley for choice) but I think a decent dram would be more in keeping with his tastes.
This would be the appropriate moment to wish the very best of the season to all our readers and particularly a prosperous New Year.