Tears on the Tinyholding.

The formidable Miss Pecky, centre stage.

It was a tragic and sad day on Friday. Here on the tinyholding we have had a fox strike the egg laying committee.
Around 1.30 am Friday morning I heard a small kerfuffle in the garden. Quite a small argument that I put down to one of the birds having a strop because one the others had shuffled onto her perch and woken her. It was not the giant cacophony you would expect from fox strike. I lay there, in bed, weighing up the idea of waking DD and getting him to go and look. I decided that if there was one more squawk I would do so. There was just the sleepy silence of another tinyholding night. And so, I drifted off to sleep with the idea that all was well.
I don't think I will ever forgive myself for my complacency.
Upon Friday morning DD went to do his usual head count while letting them out and feeding them. He was horrified to find the door of the coop open and Pecky mauled at the back of the garden. The other birds were visibly shaken and subdued. They were crowding around him for comfort and safety. None of the usual exuberance or chatty bocking. He did a head count and couldn't find Darcy. It was only then that he realised we had not been woke by Darcy's enthusiastic morning glory. His usual dawn call of  "these are all my girls and this is my garden!"
Further investigating found a subdued and heartbroken Steve the Duck. Splodge, his Mrs Duck was also absent.

DD meets Darcy.

All the other birds were present and correct but clearly terrified.
DD came to me wanting to be proved wrong. Wishing that Pecky had died in her sleep and been pecked by distraught siblings. Hoping and Praying that Splodge and Darcy had gone to ground for some reason. I took myself to the scene and confirmed the worst. We had a fox!
The tell tale scattering of feathers in a quiet corner showing where Mrs. Fox had enjoyed her Pecky themed meal. Then taking Darcy and Splodge to her hungry cubs.
Poor Darcy was probably trying, with his diminutive stature but enormous character, to protect his girls. He was a dainty young man and no match for a hungry fox. Indeed, in Mrs Fox's eye he would have been a perfect meal from the children's menu.
Splodge was a dopey, loveable and curious duck. She wouldn't have stood a chance. Steve, however, upon closer inspection had not allowed his wife to be taken without a fight. He had sustained bites about his neck and his wing had clearly been injured.
He must have put up a brave fight. We have watched him since the incident and he seems to be recovering. Upon the first day I was very much in two minds about a cull.
The decision we now need to take regards this brave little soldier.
We cannot allow him to free range with a garden full of hens and no duck for company. Drakes and Cockerels are build differently and a Drake showing too much attention to a hen can damage her.
Do we bring him a wife or do we rehome him? If he does not recover fully the decision to cull may yet come to pass.
The Boglin child has pleaded with me not to let him die or to cull him. Therefore, I am trying to keep my word. The jury is, sadly, still out.

Bless you and rest in peace our absent friends.

Worthy Causes and Armchair Dictating

Before DD and I consolidated our lives I had the privilege of residing in Sunny South Wales. I love the area and all it has to offer. I lived just a couple of miles from the sea, and some times I miss it.

Tythe barn, Henry's and herb garden

However, most of my time that wasn't spent at home with my cubs, I was in the employ of Cosmeston Medieval Village.
It was a fascinating, rewarding and often exhausting job. I loved it!
I personally bred and loaned the Geese (embdens), Chickens (Dorkings) and Ducks (Calls) to the village that provided the often ear shattering background melody to the village. The Call Ducks did an excellent job of drowning out the volume from the passing, unauthentic traffic from the adjacent road. The chickens provided the local youngsters with the "ahh" factor each spring, as they would proudly strut from their recent hidy hole, with a fluffy mess of chicks about their feet. The geese made sure the staff were kept on their toes with the occasional nip. Perhaps, in retrospect, the geese shouldn't have been encouraged to forage in my pockets for tasty treats as youngsters. A full grown embden with a mission to get it's obnoxious beak in you trews is not something to be taken lightly.
Then there are the gardens.
They were the passion and handy work of Mistress Angharad (the character I portrayed)
It was here I found my green fingers and love of herbs.

The Village itself is a reconstructed village, circa 1350. During the 70's there were plans afoot to place a car park upon a site known as castle field. This was to service the newly made lakes and conservation area that had been formed on the site of an old quarry. While clearing the field it was discovered that just below the surface lie the foundations of a building.
Enter GGAT (Glamorgan and Gwent Archaeological Trust). They went about excavating the site and soon found that many more buildings lay about the area.

William and Pip

The first building to be reconstructed was the byre. Initially this was nothing more than an experiment by the archaeologists. Rebuilding the structure upon the foundation. Using the evidence in existence at to how it probably would have looked. Evidently, this was such a success that in time we were to see a small village emerge.
The birth of Cosmeston as we know it.
This village, for the last 20 years has been a site of special interest. It has provided the Vale with a worthy tourist attraction. It has also run a very successful and worthwhile educational tool to schools from as far away as France and America.
It has been staffed by both paid staff and volunteers for many years. Providing informative tours in a first person capacity while costumed in authentic clothing. It really is a gem! Is it viewed as the jewel in the Vale's crown?
It is not!

Although it is a wonder to behold. Staging popular history themed evens through out the year. Populated by staff, actors and re enactors from every walk of life. Ranging from babes in arms to elderly enthusiasts. Providing a wealth of knowledge and amusement to the public.  It now seems that it is time to close the chapter.

 It is believed that the council can no longer fund the site, due to council cut backs. Declaring it is run at a deficit. It has been decided that it is time to change the face of the village.

The village itself will still be there. However, there will be no costumed guides, no rare breed animals and no events.

The two managers who have worked tirelessly on the project for over 20 and 30 years respectively are finding their jobs are among those being cut. The 20 strong staff are being informed their services are no longer required. Subsiquently, the village will become free to the public to enter and view to their hearts content.
However, they will no longer be able to participate in a vibrant taste of the fourteenth century. Experiencing the sights sounds and, yes reader, scents of the bygone era.

noisy calls

The cottages will no longer swell with the sound of laughter and no one will bid you a "Good day madam or a Bless you sir" as you cross the hearths of these inspired reconstructions.
There will be no fluffy chicks or ducklings to lighten the hearts of youngsters and ruffty tuffty gents alike.
There will be no opportunity for a shy school child to throw the pig an apple, and see her ambling along with snuffles and grunts of gratitude for her tasty treat. Last but not least, no more gambolling lambs come March and April. Heck, even the passing walker will miss this sight, surely?

Let me tell you a story of how important this village can be.
During my time as a guide I had the pleasure of escorting an enthusiastic primary school group about the village. I always enjoyed touring the "littlies". Taking just as much joy from the experience as the children themselves. Teaching them about our rich heritage, along with a large and hearty dollop of laughter. During this particular tour, I led the children through role play. Acting out a manorial court. Of course, as the conclusion neared it became obvious the villainous gossip would find herself in the pillory.  I encouraged the children to shout out and act as if they were boisterous village children. Well one young lady (who had not left her teaches side all lesson) screamed the loudest. A picture of sheer joy at being involved.
During the tour she had been eager to answer a few questions, but when given the opportunity, she hid her face in her teacher's arms. The other children seemed to cope with this young girls evident crippling shyness and compensated by giving the answers she wanted with a nod from her.
When she cried out I noticed the teacher wiping away a few tears and a grin as large as the youngster's. I thought little of it.
After I had escorted the group out of the village and bid them "farewell and God speed", the teacher caught my eye and asked for a "word".
I must confess I wondered what it was that I had done wrong.
I was then told that this special little girl was an elective mute. She had not uttered a single sound of her own volition in 5 years. Until that day!
I would like to say it was my doing. I am, however, aware that in her own or any other familiar environment there is no way I would have coaxed a single squeak from her. It was the village and it's magic that had done this for her.

This, dear reader is what we stand to loose.

I have never really been one to begin to rock the boat. Certainly, I am apt to voice my opinions over wrong doing and poor ethics if I fell it is necessary.
I seem to have found my voice in this instance.
There will be a peaceful march from local one council office to another next week. I am, as yet, unaware if I will be able to attend.
I am, however, co ordinating it from my pc.
I have started a facebook petition that will be delivered alongside and existing petition signed by locals.
I don't expect it to make the council change their minds.
However, maybe there can be some sort of compromise so this gem and resource is not lost forever.

Dickens' Chickens and the Great Escape.

*an escape tunnel?

As the weather has warmed up the egg laying committee seems to be forming itself into a Dickensesque criminal gang. They seem to be taking on the persona of a stereotypical Victorian underclass. I must say, they have gone about the garden in a most efficient way. Turning a lush, verdant jungle of naturalism into the slums of a the criminal underbelly.
They have successfully prevented any regrowth of grass and the ducks have enjoyed making the garden path into a thick swamp. Perhaps if you listen carefully at night you can hear the cries of Able Magwich? Struggling in the mire of the once, clean and functional garden path.
In good time shovels and brushes will be deployed, and it will be restored to it's former glory. Then it will be covered in fetching pea shingle. Just right for bare tootsies. But, for now, the gang can enjoy the haven of scratchability they have bestowed upon the grounds for just a little longer.
Due to this lack of green stuff they have spent a week or so gazing through the fence with desire dripping from every feather. Next-door's unsullied lawn taunting them with it's fresh growth. Clearly, the cabbage, sprouts, lettuce, broccoli, and other sundry good they are presented with is unacceptable. They will deign to present us with regular eggs but we do not, at any point, feel the look of longing is for the benefit of anything other than our own guilt. Surely if they look at it long enough we will put in a small chicken sized gate to allow them access to such superior pasture?
Well, they have given up waiting! Late at night they gathered around the brazier outside the egloo. Warming their wings and listening intently to the master plan.
Pecky has assumed the roll of Fagin. She is, and always will be the leader of this motley crew. Commanding her minions to do her bidding. Egging on Poppy to mob DD as he kindly takes their feed down to the feeding station. Taking advantage of Poppy's placid nature. Clearly the Nancy of Pecky's rabble of Molls. She is a sweet bird, never any trouble and always clean and tidy. She never seems to get into any scrapes and shares her food with the smaller girls.
"They willl never expect you to come flying onto the bowl and scatter the grain far and wide while they are carrying it. Then they are silly enough to refill them! Two meals for the price of one!"
Violet and Rosie are being instructed in the ways of the street urchin.
"Look cute girls! You know the silly male food provider cannot resit letting you hitch a ride upon his shoulder. Make sure you come running to his feet in an endearing way. Fluff your feathers and take on the cuddleablitiy of a loved and cherished bear. Then, when you have gained his confidence, check his pockets! There may be tasty treats within. Utilise the shoulder ride. I feel sure one of these days you will find grain in his ears. Be thorough!. Rest assure, he is soft hearted and will think it is a friendly nuzzle" 
Then there are Snowbell and Gwynn. The hardened ladies of the night. Selling their favours to any passing crow, for the right price. Tail feathers in the air and a confident swagger.
 I am sure that they are saying "'ere lovey, Fancy a good time? Just one fist of grain will take you halfway to heaven" I wonder if I check their privet hidy hole I will find the tools of their trade? lipstick, perfume and white stilettos?
Of course there is Darcy to contend with. Ever on the scene, "protecting" his girls. Come too close or ruffle a few feathers and he will fix you with his steely eye.
"One false move, mister and I'll cut ya!" He has attempted to enlist Georgie Pup as "Bullseye" but she just doesn't cut the mustard as the ferocious hound.
Enter the Ducks, stage left. Our ever present, ever pious missionaries. Sent into to slums to "improve the souls" of the underbelly and low lives.
They have little interest in the Garden of Eden next-door. As if they know it can only lead one astray and into the path of evil. They try to show the chickens the error of their ways. They are clearly leading by example. Splashing in the puddles and making mud pies is a far more wholesome activity. "My dears, look not to greener pastures. Have joy in the mud the lord has provide."
Yesterday saw The Plan come to fruition. They Have dug their tunnel and found a path to Eden. You could observe them scratching at the lawn and shuffling their feel. Distributing the soil dug from the tunnel about the garden. The Human Beans will never suspect a thing.

Then came the knock at the door. "Your Cockerel is in the garden"

So, I hotfooted it into the garden next door to retrieve Darcy.  Imagine my inner smirk at the "towny" as I chased down Gwynn. I feel certain being thought of as a lad will do her trade no good. What self respecting crow would want a dalliance with a transsexual chicken?
We played around and around the garden for a good few minutes until she decided her home turf was the place to be. Silly bird. I now observed the escape tunnel and went about blocking it up. Grasping her firmly I lobbed her back over the fence. She shook herself off and all too soon returned to Eden. This time taking Poppy, Darcy and Snowbell with her.
This time it was Teenbeast and DD who did the honours. I had been excused due to a booking of Taxi of Mum. 
Upon my return from Boglin's horse riding lesson I asked DD why he had so many scratches. Through gritted teeth he said "they got out again"
The breech is now blocked sufficiently by DD and all secret alternative routes have been hunted down and blocked.
The one joy in all this was the donating of the two eggs laid in Eden. Happy neighbours. I only hope the next eggs the consume from the committee comes via a glut not an adventure.
* not one of our birds, but this photo struck a chord.

Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow......

our glorious view.

Here at the tinyholding we have been waiting with bated breath for the snow to reach us. It seemed like everyone and their dog had snow except us. We just had ice and drizzle.
Late yesterday afternoon if finally happened. The Somme has turned into a winter wonderland. Crisp white and pure. Not a sludgy puddle in sight. It's simply beautiful. Our spectacular view now sports acres of blue sky over acres of white field. It makes you blink in it's brightness. The view cannot fail to be breath-taking but extremes of weather make it more so.

The tinyholding cubs have had a marvellous time. Snowball fights happened (Poor DD got in the way and found himself a target). They built a snowy shutter over the front window to make it look like we were trapped inside from the living room. Steamy jacket potatoes were requested. Hands rewarmed under cool water.  Soggy gloves, jeans and socks steaming gently on the bathroom floor (for the laundry fairy to pick up of course).

However, the egg laying committee are not so enthralled. As usual the naughty ducks met us at the back door for breakfast but we had to go and hunt down the chickens after they had been let out.
Darcy was the first out. Obviously doing the macho "I'll see if this white stuff is safe, ladies!" fluff, fluff, strut!
Then followed Snowbell. After all nothing a silly as this white stuff will keep her from the choicest picks of breakfast. Maggie saunters out second. The baby of the bunch this is her first snow. She lifted one foot after the other like a cat on a hot tin roof. The others followed suit, slowly but surely. Eyeing the ground with suspicion.
All bar the two banties, Rosie and Violet, seemed to be tucking in. Fearing the worst DD went to investigate. He had nothing to worry about. Passing Rosie on the path after she had plucked up the courage. DD gazed into the coop. There sat Violet. Her feathers fluffed. If she could she would flap her wings about her in a chilly arm flapping way. She eyed DD and seemed to convey, "Brrr. Do you think I'm stupid enough to go out there? Bring me my breakfast Jeeves, and be quick about it!"
She finally decided to give it up as a lost cause and went to get her own.
Wandering barefoot back down the path. DD stopped to give Rosie a stroke and tickle her neck. She almost climbed him. She made it quite clear that his arms was where she was supposed to be. After all, he was warm, up of the ground and willing! He obliged and picked her up. Gave her the obligatory cuddle and tried to put her down. She was not having it! In his arms was clearly the place to be and that is where she wanted to stay, thank you very much. After doing the "get the chicken off me" dance she finally found herself back in the snow. I'm sure she gave him a *look*
Well, they had better get used to it, because it seems it's in for a while. Personally I'm quite happy with it. However, I don't have to go anywhere. No doubt after a week or so I will feel the same lack of patience as the birds. But for now...
Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.....

The Taming of The Shrew

 *a Cuckoo Maran

Here at the tinyholding we have taken possession of a new hen. Due to the passing of Ollie; Rip, a true Gent of a cockerel and a beautiful boy, we had room for one more. True we are at the limit but we have no intention of getting any more and restricting their space. We were quite happy to just keep to the egg laying committee we had, but the opportunity of a beautiful Cuckoo Maran came up. She had be raised from egg by a good friend from the land of Downsizer.The chance of chocolate brown eggs was far too good to pass up.
And so.....Enter Maggie.
In true style she was going to be name Daisy as most of the girls have flower names. She is not a flower! Oh no!
She may well be the devil herself!
I was warned that she was a little, ahem, feisty. She sat in her box all the way home from Welshpool like a veritable angel. She was brought into the house, sweet as a kitten. Then DD said "let's have a look at her then"
I merely opened one flap of the box and all hell was unleashed upon us. She exploded into the living room with a flurry of claws, beak, feathers and squawking. It is safe to say DD was afraid, very afraid. Possibly wondering what I had done to unleash such a fury upon him. She was chased down and tucked safely under my arm. I tentatively tickled her chin (fearing for my fingers). A sure enough, given a couple of minuets she was all gentle cooing and fluffiness. We popped her back into her box with a drink and something to eat after allowing her a ten minutes wing stretch. It was, after all, 10 pm.  There she spent her first night at the tinyholding.

The following morning came around and DD did his usual round of feeding and watering the demanding crowd. Again lifting the flap and expecting docility. Silly DD! Chickens don't have a lengthy memory. I was summoned with the slightly worried. "MD, she's OUT!" She was making eyes at the gecko, no way was she going back into the box.
Now, I have integrated many a chicken to a new flock. I isolate the new girl leaving them with the ability to see each other. When the mutual running at each other has stopped within a couple of days they get to play together but sleep apart until I sneak out at night, and put new hen next to big boss hen on the perch. It has never failed.

Having a slightly new set up since settling in at the tinyholding I would have to rearrange some sort of run.
DD says "Let's just pop her out and see how they get on". I, myself was more than a little dubious but thought, we can alway intervene if needed.

Here is how it went. Darcey (the cad) grew a couple of inches. I am sure he was standing on tippy toes. You could almost hear the spirit of Leslie Phillips emanate from him "Hell-o". He promptly popped his step ladder under his wing and went in hot pursuit.
Pecky eyed her with some distant speculation. Biding her time to show her who really governs around here. After all, she does have the Thatcheresque barnet. All other hens have been allowed to *think* they rule the roost and she will casually let them stretch their proverbial wings. But, get too full of themselves? Not on Pecky's watch!
Gwynn and Snowbell trotted ever so slowly up to her. She pretended to mind her own business. Scratching for grubs. Slowly, slowly, catchy Maggie! Shuffle, shuffle, peck, scratch, look the other way. Closer, closer until, wham! feather and wing at the ready. Who's the biggest? Well, after around 4 seconds, clearly it was Maggy. Gwynn was shown what for. She did not pass go she did not collect her hundred grains.
The frat-house hazing that Snowbell had clearly put her up to had failed. Gwynn is still  the new girl! Snowbell takes one step toward Maggie. Intent on sorting this issue out herself. Maggie looks at her. I must say, I have never seen a chicken shuffle backwards before. Her wings metaphorically in the air "Okay, okay, every-thing's cool here. It's your garden now."
During the kerfuffle Rosie and Violet raised the sweet little heads and started their turbo chicken decent of the garden. About a third of the way they stopped dead in their tracks and beat a hasty retreat.
Then comes the surprise. After her five minute affirmation of the garden she spent the rest of the day perched upon the old garden bench, with the other girls exchanging coos. She has settled in as if she has always been a part of the gang. Even Snowbell seems to be happy with her company.
This, however is not the end of her tale. She is clearly a wanderer. The very first evening DD went to pop her away. She had not, after all, been shown her accommodation. The Bell boy and chamber maid had been a little lax. She was nowhere to be seen. DD hunted, I hunted. We then hunted together. Nothing. Damn it!
We decided to leave it for the night as she may have gone to ground under the shed or some such thing. Around an hour after their bed time there was knock upon the door and the time old question "Have you lost a chicken?"
"Yes", we yelled in unison.
Fortunately she had decided to pay a visit to the local animal fosterer. The lady (and grandmother of the cubs friends) who takes in every waif and stray. We were told we could pick her up in the morning as right now "she was sleeping". I'll bet she was! She had made it across around 20 gardens to get to her destination.
She has now been returned to the garden and her new joint committee members. One wing clipped and happy.
In all the handling over her first few days she has become quite docile. She now will be picked up, with a small amount of persuasion and given a chin tickle. Always handy for mite and foot checking.
In all the adventures we have, indeed, Tamed the Shrew.
Many thanks to Pookie for our latest girl. She is delightful!
*photo yoinked from  The Devonshire Traditional Breed Centre
for beautiful cuckoo maran pullets contact Rosie Pointer

Hen Party

DD's kind folks have some grand old fruit trees in their garden. They generously share their bounty with us at this time of year. The intention is to make mountains of yummy apple sauce and other products for the freezer. A few remain as eaters and perhaps some could become cider.
The reality is that they end up fermenting in the bag in the larder. We become alerted to the process by the tiny black fruit flies taking up residence.

Darcy the Cad!

Personally I cannot stomach the scent of reasting fruit or veg. It makes me heave. Due to the warm autumn we have had, the shelf life of the fruit has not been very long, and at the first whiff of suppurating apples I was on to DD to dispose of the offending items.
Now, we both know how the egg laying committee love an over ripe pear. There would be Chicken crimes perpetrated in the garden for the possession of such a treat. Indeed, I believe if I only put one out we would see the beady, psychotic gaze of a pear crazed Pecky on Crime Watch. So the obvious answer, in DD's opinion was to give them to the girls (and the boys)
The problem was the advanced fermentation of the apples.
Happy reader, lend me your imagination for just a wee moment.
We have all been witness to the stereotypical image of teens on the loose in clubbing central. The intoxicated image of a rowdy crowd of otherwise sensible and responsible twenty somethings. Not to mention the WI on the sherry!
Now transfer that imagining to the hen house. Olly and Darcey with their wings flung about each other. All prior competition forgotten. The words slurring from their slackened beaks, "you're my best friend, you are". "I'll never have another friend like you. Let's never let the girls come between our friendship again"
Rosy and Pecky meanwhile, have climbed on top of the coop. Lifted their frilly leg feathers and are treating the others to their interpretation of the Folville Follies.  Meanwhile Snowbell looks on with disdain. Listing precariously towards a comatose Gwinn. "See, I always said that Pecky was a slut!"
Off in the distance we can just see the frilly, feathered knickers above the spallyed legs of Violet as she lays, hiccoughing with her nose in the dirt.
The following morning they come staggering out of the coop. Little chicken shades over their reddened eyes. Heaving at the sight of copious amounts of poultry corn. If you listen closely you can hear the whisper from Violet "I will never drink again!"

In truth, however, they wouldn't touch the apples and they have since dissolved into the veg bed! But, let's face it. That is nowhere near as funny :)

bock bock bock....

chickens and ducks are installed. After a two week false start where they lived just outside the backdoor. The egg laying commitee are now safely and happily installed down the end of the garden. There they can scratch round in the leaf mould under the conifers. There is room to dust bath, sunbath and do their chickeny thing. Within seconds of their home being scrubbed, shiny and relocated they went to investigate. Soon enough though they were hanging out at the back door like a bunch of hoodies. Beware the back step you may be mugged for your corn! Ah well, at least DD has made them a nice blank canvas to decorate with their highly scented splats.;)