So that is how it all began, with the rescue of a hundred traumatised hens. But not for long!

       Amazingly, every one of them survived. However, we did spend a lot of time back and forth the vets, hens in tow, until health was restored. When this was achieved, we found a few ‘adoptive’ families, though we did keep a large number of girls ourselves, Sandwich and Featherpin included. I have to add that Featherpin’s journey was a long one and a story in itself.

       Although it was summer, some days were chilly and hens without feathers were at risk. They tend to get upper respiratory problems which are better prevented than the struggle to cure. An aunt of a friend of mine came to their rescue and kindly made a pile of coats. These were hand knitted and came in various colours. In many ways, these helped to save their lives. 

       Stepping out of their new home, and into a garden complete with grass and a pond, must have felt like a miracle to them. They had never seen grass, let alone stepped on it. Almost all of them hesitated and wondered what to do. But with our encouragement, they came out into the new world. It certainly seemed like a miracle to me and my kind and unassuming husband. I remember looking at him and wondering what he was thinking. He kept rubbing his chin and this he does, only when he is deep in thought and I mean very deep. It unnerved me!

        But I needn’t have worried, despite the fact our home was now under attack. It took a few days for them to settle in and when they did...Oh, how our lives changed. Even going to the shop took some preparation. You see, we weren’t fully fox proof at that time and I could only imagine what the gossip was in the beech woods close by. It probably went something like this.

         ‘Have you heard about the new superstore?’ 

         'Where?'

         'It’s the last building in the village, the one on the hill!’

         ‘Anything tasty on offer?’

         ‘Hens! Featherless hens, ready to eat!’

         So now you can see why my kind and unassuming husband continued to rub his chin. He was thinking fox!

        Time is a great healer, so they say, and it was certainly true for our new hens. So what became of Featherpin? Did Sandwich have a chick of her own? And who on earth was Gilbert? And what about the posh chicks, already installed on the far side of the pond?

         So many things to do today at our home for waifs and strays, so will continue again tomorrow. Thank you all for reading my tales...please call again!

We never planned a big rescue. In fact we hadn’t planned a rescue at all. It just happened after dark one summers evening.

     ‘The kill is set for tomorrow,’ said my cousin anxiously, ‘300,000 hens are to be slaughtered. There’s no time to waste!’

     I looked around our home which wasn’t quite ready for the amount of waifs and strays she had in mind. But we did have a couple of outbuildings, enough to house a few hens. I wasn’t quite sure how many she had in mind and it was just as well. But I would get enough food in ready for the poor and unsuspecting creatures. My mind was made up. ‘Count me in,’ I told her.

      ‘It’s better we don’t mention it to my kind and unassuming husband,’ I said to my cousin. ‘He would never agree to do anything so wrong even if it is the right thing to do...in our eyes!’ So my kind and unassuming husband was totally unaware of the major rescue operation we were about to undertake.

       The following evening, I met my cousin in a quiet lane near the battery farm. She had a friend with her with plenty of experience.

       ‘We can take the two cars!’ said my cousin, and if anyone asks, pretend we are there to help with the clear up. It’s all arranged.’

        My stomach began to churn and my sweaty hands slipped on the leather steering wheel. I felt like a criminal. I guess I was, at that moment.

        As I followed the car in front, I wondered what my kind and unassuming husband would think of my behaviour. I have done many things in my life, like working illegally in places abroad, sometimes with fake work permits. I was very young and the need for survival was great. But that was a long time ago and just one of the thousand lives I once lived. I’m now an above board person helping others to survive, with the help of my kind and unassuming husband. And that’s what I was doing, helping others to survive!

        We pulled up in the shadows of a huge windowless building which had the makings of a jail.  It was a jail! There were a few people about but my cousin didn’t seem at all bothered. Her friend had everything in control. Then it happened...from that moment on, my life was never the same again.

         It happened so quickly. I will spare you some of the details but some you have to know.

          A man in overalls and a flat cap greeted us coldly. He was the jailer. My cousin’s friend seemed to know him which helped somewhat. He opened the large door to the jail. I Froze.

         There were cell like cages, millions of them (that’s what I remember thinking at the time) all piled on top of each other and the smell.....Oh the smell! But this wasn’t the time to be sick. This was the time to get what we came for and run for it.

         The jailer opened up some cells and told us to hurry. He threw boxes on the floor and left us. The light was dim but enough to see the debilitating state of these innocent hens. Hens that had never known what it was like to see daylight, nor stretched their wings or had a dust bath in the sun. They had never teased a worm from the earth or a snail from its shell.

          ‘Hurry up!’ my cousin hissed or they’ll all be dead in an hour and so will we, if we’re caught!’

          I didn’t think for one moment that I would be killed for saving the lives of ill treated hens, but who knows!

          I placed my hands around the first hen, touching the stubs where feathers should have been. Into the box it went, then another and another. Slow to start then picked up speed. The noise was eerie, almost as if they knew that death was coming.

          ‘I’ve got you,’ I whispered to each one reassuringly. ‘You’re safe now.’

          I could feel their muscle wastage, due to lack of exercise. Remember, that these poor creatures had a space the size of an A4 piece of paper, or less. Some of their feet were so lacerated that we had to ease them off the wire floors they stood on.

           For many, it was too late; they lay dead, beneath their surviving house mates. A release from the pain and suffering there was no need for.   

            When the boxes were full we placed as many hens as we could into our cars, with little thought of how we would drive them away. And when it was over, it seemed such a small amount to the thousands we had to leave behind. Each inward breath fuelled my anger.

            The jailer came back. He asked us to leave but I couldn’t. I ran back and tore open a cage. I will always remember that moment. I wrapped my shaky hands around an unwilling hen. She didn’t want to leave. ‘Come on girl,’ I tried to coax her but she cried and clung on to the wire with her claws. Then I saw the egg rolling away. I grabbed it.

             ‘So this is what you want?’ I said through my tears. ‘That’s not a problem. ‘One day you shall have a wee one of your own, I promise!’ And I tucked her inside my jacket with the egg (which surprisingly, never broke).    

             ‘Why, there’s more meat on a sandwich than on you,’ I whispered. And that is what I called her, Sandwich! Her story is on my ‘small tales’ page.

              Just as I was about to be dragged away by my cousin, I saw her. She had lain beneath Sandwich, bloody and close to death.

              ‘Leave her!’ said my cousin firmly, ‘she’s almost dead.’

               But I couldn’t. I picked her up gently and held her close to me. That is how I drove home, with Featherpin on my lap, bleeding and almost unconscious and Sandwich, still tucked inside my jacket.

               I can’t remember a time when I cried so much. The pain of leaving so many hens that had never known kindness was overwhelming.

               I needn’t tell you how my kind and unassuming husband greeted me, because you should know that already. Shortly afterwards, a hundred bewildered but very lucky hens were sleeping on a bed of straw for the very first time and when they awoke in the morning, it was to the sound of birds and a sun shining through the cracks in the wood. They were safe in the home for waifs and strays.....to be continued!

P.S

 I would just like to add this quote, from a study done at Bristol University on hens and other farm animals.

“Farm animals feel pleasure and sadness, excitement and resentment, depression, fear, and pain. They are far more aware and intelligent than we ever imagined... they are individuals in their own right." On chickens specifically, Discovery Magazine explains research from the University of Bristol: "Chickens do not just live in the present but can anticipate the future and demonstrate self-control... something previously attributed only to humans and other primates..."

The Time Snatchers hit me hard today. So many things to do and people I needed to see. And when I eventually sat with the hens for awhile, I could see that they also suffered the time problem.

     Taking a break in our garden for waifs and strays is usually the kindest part of the day. I wondered down, with my cup of tea, to the pond where the cherry trees bloom. I sat on an old seat that once belonged to a very dear friend and I waited for the girls.

      Staring into the clear water, I saw a floating city packed with tadpoles and newts. All were vying for food or a place to bask in the sun speckled water. Pond skaters whizzed in and out the lily pads like mini space ships. It looked hectic and not at all laid back like one would imagine

      Then along came the hens, chuckling all the way. I sighed, a sort of comforting sigh as I always do when they’re close by. I noticed that Twilight was missing yet again and guessed she was brooding on her nest. If this continues, then I guess we could quiet possibly see at least one new chick in three weeks time.

       As I sipped my sweet tea, I studied these little characters and it soon became apparent that just like the newts and the tadpoles, hens vied for time.  They squabble over worms and snails in an attempt to fill their bellies before the golden hour that stalked us.

      The only animals that weren’t vying for time were our three fat cats. Or were they? They had come down off their 4 o’clock bed and were stretched out on the porch. There was nothing unusual in this, I must tell you, as they seem to do it every single day at the same time. Within minutes, they head for the gate and wait for my kind and unassuming husband to return home.

      So the time snatchers enter the lives of most of us animals. We try to out beat them, and sometimes we succeed and sometimes we don’t. I succeeded today but I almost didn’t!   

When I went to lock up our girls for the night, one of them was missing. This always makes me anxious! I counted them over and over again. One had definitely gone astray and it was young Twilight.

       Many of you, who follow the tales from our home for waifs and strays, will remember Twilight. She was the day old Pekin Bantam, we adopted and put under ‘Big Baby’ who was desperate for a chick of her own.  Now Big Baby, as she was known, was a large and rather elderly Buff Orpington, eight years old in fact, who woke up one morning to discover she was a new mum.  

       Big Baby carried ‘Twilight’ around on her back until she became too heavy. It was wonderful to watch them.

       Well sadly, Big Baby died of old age just a short while ago. She will always be remembered for the amazing mother she was. Meanwhile, Twilight has become such a character. Being small, she can get everywhere, even into places she shouldn’t be. It was no wonder, she was missing.

       I searched all the sheds and even the old summer house down by the pond but she was nowhere to be seen. She loves to dust bath in the greenhouses but she wasn’t there either. I called to my kind and unassuming husband. It was getting late and the foxing hours would soon be upon us.

      We moved everything on the porch, thinking she might have gone to sleep there, but again, we didn’t find her. We searched in the log house and the straw shelter, we checked behind the row of compost bins and we even checked the house but the poor little hen just couldn’t be found.

       I stood very still in the early evening light and thought carefully about where a little hen would go. I thought, if she were human (which I sometimes think she thinks she is!) what would she do. She would go home, if she could.

       Now obviously, Twilight’s home is with us at our home for waifs and strays, but in the beginning, when she was with her mother, her home was a safe house, a small and secluded hut with its own little garden.  Why hadn’t I thought of it before?

       The little safe house is a short distance away from the big house (which is home to all the hens) and so I headed in that direction.

        I opened the side door and with my heart in my mouth (excuse the expression) I peeped inside.

        A mother’s intuition is usually right and my intuition was perfect this time, for there she was, cwtched up on a nest of straw. She had gone home because she was broody. She wanted to make a nest so that she could have young ones of her own.

        When she saw me, she puffed up her feathers, making herself twice her normal size (hoping she would scare me off)and grunted at me.

        ‘You’ll have a little chick all of your own one day,’ I said, smoothing her silky soft feathers, ‘but not just yet.’

        I picked her up gently and took her back to the big house where she ate her late supper before joining the others for bed.

        It is my guess that she will go back to the safe house again tomorrow and tomorrow I will consider the possibility of adopting another day old chick. But it’s late in the evening now and as my father once told me, ‘don’t make any important decisions after 4pm!’ So I shall continue this story tomorrow. Until then, I wish you all a goodnight!

As I sit at my desk and start to write to you, I am so distracted by an owl right outside my window...It’s hooting away in the darkness and I’m just mesmerised. I’m so delighted but too afraid to move from my position for fear I should frighten it. So I shall pause for awhile, switch off my lamp and just enjoy the moment....

A moment later...

That was magical....and when I switched the lamp back on, who do you think I saw? Slip the slug! ‘Out you go young Slip,’ I said gently, and opened the door and sent him on his way. Now back to our evening tale.

The visitors have gone and the home for waifs and strays has a strange sense of loss about it. But they’ll be back again soon, so no time to waste and lots of work to do in preparation for summer.

     My kind and unassuming husband and I spent the day organising the allotment part of our home. Potatoes and onions were planted and so were lots more vegetables and herbs. Wild flower seeds were scattered around the pond and paths were checked over and cleaned. But before all that, there was an awful lot of preparation. Now this is something my kind and unassuming husband insists upon. If it was left to me, then I would surely cut corners.

      Over the last few years, we’ve been composting every single thing suitable and it’s paid off. The door was opened on one of the three large containers (compost bins) and the black rich compost was dug out. This black gold restores vitality to depleted soil and it’s a wonderful alternative to chemicals. So for those of you who are interested, I shall soon post ‘how to compost’ over on my grown from home page.

       Having a rest from all the digging and planting, we took a look at an old summerhouse near the pond. It has a tiny fire inside and a pile of old furniture and books. It’s in need of repair and a good coat of paint I thought, and at the same time I imagined all the things I could turn it into. It could be a room for doing my art, or writing, or sewing, or reading, or meditation. I almost forgot about my kind and unassuming husband.

         ‘We could turn it into a beach hut,’ I said excitedly. To which he replied that I should think about it over the next week or two because I was sure to change my mind.

          So I will think about it and let you know what it will eventually  become. But for now, it is later than you think, so I’ll say goodnight and hope to see you here again tomorrow.