June 22nd 2021
The first beanpods come off the bush, like a tiny green Dachshund, viridian bright and furry. Just two, a check and measure. Tomorrow, the harvest begins.
6 eggs, 2 Aquadulce beanpods
June 23rd 2021
Bright day with our kids and the Woods’ at the Allotment. We scrub out part of the old brassica bed, where the beans are, and put in rhubarb and asparagus plants, with strawberries on the border. We finish the current crop of French Breakfast radishes (with more in succession), the last of the Gem lettuces, and a lot of beanpods.
As we are tidying to leave, Helen follows an odd sound and
discovers a feral chicken (one of our neighbour’s flock) nesting under a piece
of metal siding leaning in one of our nettle banks; there are at least two
visible chicks. A very good mother – most domestic chickens, especially layer
hybrids, have very weak maternal instincts. If you wanted more robust and
independent flocks, you could do worse than see which hens hatch eggs and which
don’t.
5 eggs, 9 French Breakfast radishes, 4 Gem lettuce heads,
5lbs Aquadulce beanpods (1/2 lb shelled)
June 24th 2021
Helen reports – with photographic proof – that the feral bantam has 11 chicks, many days old at least. This actually is a concern; if there is any sort of reasonable survival rate, they will predate our crops. Consideration must be made about either corralling them or getting our neighbour to take them back. Technical difficulties present themselves, though. Our able mother hen has found a safe spot in amidst nettles, and heads back into cover when she sees humans – so we would either need to destroy her habitat and hope she doesn’t flee in time, or somehow trap her outside.
On my way to the shop from the allotments, I pass through a
small estate. A lurcher cross launches itself from its garden through an open
gate from a ragged garden, barking warning at me. After a moment’s decision, I
shout at it to “get back yourself” – and it, after a moment’s hesitation, flees
back to its garden. We tamed the wolf; we’ve let some of our own people go
feral from want.
Whilst putting the chickens to bed, we scrape out parts of
an old weedy ridge bed, and add a few inches of homemade compost. Radish seeds
and courgette seedlings (small plants, really) go in.
4 eggs
June 25th 2021
Rain. Particular species of English summer drizzle that is persistent, not over-cold, but eventually drags on your morale. First proper rain in a month or more.
One of the feral chicks may be missing this morning. Then, when
herding them away from our rhubarb, one gets lost and walks into some long
grass; I rescue it and return it to mother. They don’t have very high chances
as it is, but it seems chivalrous to give them “hints and tips”. We discuss a
plan to use one of our spare cages to trap them when the mother is sleeping,
and either raise them or transfer them back to our neighbour. Last night she
slept outside in the rain, brooding the chicks beneath her wings.
8 eggs
June 26th 2021
Hen and chicks back off at seeing us, disappearing into the nettle bank and perhaps the field hedge beyond. Young rhubarb and asparagus plants displaced, perhaps some asparagus eaten – we’ll need to net them or put a run cage over. Our visitors are, in essence, pests – the trick is to efficiently and amiably isolate or remove them.
I put a portable chicken run over the asparagus in the
evening, and a small dog cage over some similarly disturbed radish seedlings.
8 eggs
June 27th 2021
Sunday School after church, out at the allotment. 7 kids aged 0-9. We connected Bible stories (Solomon’s foxes in the vineyard, Jesus teaching about the birds of the field) to our wandering bantam and her brood. They are foxes eating our produce, in our view; but they are provided for bountifully by the Lord, whether from our patch or the hedge, with very little worry on their part. How to marry careful protection of our land’s provision with unanxious trust in the Lord – that’s the trick.
No sign of the bantam and her chicks all day, though. Very
likely have headed off into the hedge or field beyond. There is some
disturbance amongst the courgettes not under a cold frame – pigeons, we
suspect, as Helen had seen some landing in and around. The rain will have
brought more invertebrate food to the surface. The plants themselves are partly
scattered but seemingly undamaged. I put a tatty low tunnel over the repaired
bed for now. I reflect again on the virtue of getting an air gun and
discouraging foraging pigeons in a different and tastier manner.
8 eggs, 1 French Breakfast radish
June 28th 2021
A late evening session at the allotment. No sign of our chicken guests all day. Watered everything, including the potatoes – about 15 main crop plants are now showing well above ground, with presumably more to come. The earlies are in flower, with some white blossoms looking like a cross between bluebells and roses! All running late, of course, but that was the work of our spring.
The Beauregard lettuce is going beautifully, and I see lots
of pea pods on the Dwarf Meteors. Both the peas and the beans will crop more if
we pick, so we can afford to be vigorous in our harvest. I plant out some spare
cauliflowers from our friend’s Nursery – mostly for children, but it’s an
outdoors/play-focussed nursery so they grow vegetables there.
As the twilight falls like a deep lavender blanket, my
neighbour turns up, and a mystery is solved. The hen and her chicks had
returned to my neighbour’s gate, and he’d taken the chicks then, and the bantam
a bit later. I now am forced to wonder: would it not have been better for the
bantam to take her chances and get a few chicks through to adulthood, breaking
the cycle of bred-in cretinism.
6 eggs, 2 Beauregard lettuce heads
The first beanpods come off the bush, like a tiny green Dachshund, viridian bright and furry. Just two, a check and measure. Tomorrow, the harvest begins.
Bright day with our kids and the Woods’ at the Allotment. We scrub out part of the old brassica bed, where the beans are, and put in rhubarb and asparagus plants, with strawberries on the border. We finish the current crop of French Breakfast radishes (with more in succession), the last of the Gem lettuces, and a lot of beanpods.
Helen reports – with photographic proof – that the feral bantam has 11 chicks, many days old at least. This actually is a concern; if there is any sort of reasonable survival rate, they will predate our crops. Consideration must be made about either corralling them or getting our neighbour to take them back. Technical difficulties present themselves, though. Our able mother hen has found a safe spot in amidst nettles, and heads back into cover when she sees humans – so we would either need to destroy her habitat and hope she doesn’t flee in time, or somehow trap her outside.
Rain. Particular species of English summer drizzle that is persistent, not over-cold, but eventually drags on your morale. First proper rain in a month or more.
Hen and chicks back off at seeing us, disappearing into the nettle bank and perhaps the field hedge beyond. Young rhubarb and asparagus plants displaced, perhaps some asparagus eaten – we’ll need to net them or put a run cage over. Our visitors are, in essence, pests – the trick is to efficiently and amiably isolate or remove them.
Sunday School after church, out at the allotment. 7 kids aged 0-9. We connected Bible stories (Solomon’s foxes in the vineyard, Jesus teaching about the birds of the field) to our wandering bantam and her brood. They are foxes eating our produce, in our view; but they are provided for bountifully by the Lord, whether from our patch or the hedge, with very little worry on their part. How to marry careful protection of our land’s provision with unanxious trust in the Lord – that’s the trick.
A late evening session at the allotment. No sign of our chicken guests all day. Watered everything, including the potatoes – about 15 main crop plants are now showing well above ground, with presumably more to come. The earlies are in flower, with some white blossoms looking like a cross between bluebells and roses! All running late, of course, but that was the work of our spring.
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