Ratatouille

Hello and Welcome back, its been a while..

Without beating around the bush, lets get straight into the crux of this month’s matters: ratatouille. EEKKs.. not cute, bluish-hued, Remy from the Disney classic. I mean more hardcore, real rats!

Not wishing to feel left out by our urban cousins..

**insert title of very interesting article about the positive correlation between rising urban rat populations and increasing length of UK’s lockdown in months **

.. it seems our rural rat population has seen more light of day in these last few weeks than in the whole enigmatic empire of Chicken Corner all together. Now readers, as loyal companions throughout this reign, you’ll be well aware of current affairs and by this I mean of course the rat residing under the duck house (and that’s just one!).. It lazily moves across dried, mud-cracked terrain and squeezes through panel dividers for opportunistic surveying of next-door’s feed container. Luckily the occupants of this enclosure always finish their food good and proper, just like their mothers taught them and I always like to think, strategically to ensure the fat rats grow no larger. To lower my vocabulary standards if a little, but arguably to retain the true essence of this creature for my readers, this rodent is ‘ratty’ looking!

I will admit, witnessing this in reality, I lost my cool ever so slightly – I know, I know, this could have been detrimental to my blossoming career as director and manager, but at the end of the day, I am only human. Rats just ir-‘rat’-ate me (pardon the pun.. my career has just been saved by that one though!) In accordance with the Telegraph’s sound points, rat poisons are not as effective as they once were. Saying this I therefor did take matters into my own hands, BUT, although slow – I would argue that rat poison has worked a treat.

Rat by rat, both myself and GJH reduced the rat population using a variety of methods, some more medieval-like than others.. WARNING: the next passage will cause to you conjure up distressing images from the start.

1. Rat under the duck shed was shot

2. Rat in the stable (actually turned out not to be the rat in the stable) so I will rename this. Rat in the food-store was bludgeoned to death with a broom handle.

3. Rat in the barn was mauled by a sheepdog.

4. (Much to my surprise) Second rat in barn was poisoned and found in ditch.

5. Rat in shed overdosed on rat poison, no body found but must be dead under the floorboards.

6. Rat in chick shed, again, must be dead under floorboards judging from the trail of poison leading to its rat-made hole in the wooden floor.

It is of course difficult to read the mounting death toll but the rats were striking back at times. Three of the young group of 18 pullets were killed. The latest was lying headless in the corner of the enclosure with its living cohort crowded in disbelief at the opposite end. These occurrences suddenly explained to plop sound Izzi and I had heard on separate occasions. Without clear sighting of this mysterious plopper in the drainage system, left of the stable where the chicks were (assumed) safe and sound. I’d thought it was a lizard, Izzi.. not sure what she said again.. yet well well! .. turns out ‘twas a rat! A hungry rat at that, a killer rat, a rat that had blood on its tiny paws.

Taking an objective stance as any leader must and just as the Telegraph’s article had suggested, firstly people in urban areas have seen more rats during lockdown. Secondly, the rats are more aggressive towards people and eachother. The obvious cause: food. With the restaurants and takeaways closed for months on end, what are these starving creatures meant to do? Instinctively, they are going to migrate from the local McDonald’s to the next source of easy pickings – your residential housing.

Likewise at Chicken Corner, by reducing the food availability at mealtimes, there is less remaining for our ratty acquaintances. Unfortunately, this led to hangry rats turning to a far meatier equivalent, chickens.

I think I’m right in thinking, the plopper has also died from poisoning.. body not found but no more disturbances to date.

A ‘Roman’ Tragedy

With a brand new logo to spice up all our lives (created by the wonderful @heytherefarmgirl – my sister, Izzi) and latterly, with a host of new Chicken Corner fans, I thought why not push the boat out, go crazy even, and tell another tale from the orchard.. After all, double-bank holiday May deserves a double-dose of Chicken Corner antics surely?

Met with critical acclaim, some pretty cathartic stuff occurred this week, so anticipate Shakespearean-come-Sophocles standards of revelation (only without the old-English and Ancient-Greek theatrical masks). “Hold on a minute! Not so fast!”, some obnoxious critic shouts out in the hope that their virtual screen will dissipate and suddenly find themselves (sitting awkwardly on their dedicated ‘work’ chair) in the middle of the orchard with chickens wandering around, so that they can finally get their “valuable” point cross. (AND BREATHE!) *Now insert a less than strong pun making reference to COVID-19 and our - now essential - use of masks* Not to worry if I lost you halfway through there, but as a round-up, masks may well be included in this cathartic tale.. but no old-English thankfully!

For those who have just joined and equally for those who have (unforgivably) forgotten the tragedy back in October 2019 – i.e. the missing case of Caesar (Buff Orpington Cockerel) I have done the hardwork for you and sourced the relevant excerpt from Feature Post “A Nostalgic Summer’ -

“.. one afternoon it came to feeding time and Caesar didn’t show. Stinking with denial, I searched all over the farm, hoping I would find him, alas without success..”

Those with the capacity for empathy and a progressive ability to read-between-the-lines, will understand the painful lack of closure and sense of finality connected with an unsolved case such as this. I speak on behalf of my team, (basically me as director and manager), when I say I’ve never felt I could properly move on.. well, that is, until now.

To continue painting the vividly vibrant picture in your minds, lets hark back to the day little Ruby (featured in last week’s post) was first brought in for feeding. Izzi, GJH and myself, all stood around the cattle enclosure gazing at Annag and Ruby, when I heard a violent trickling to my left. The water trough was overflowing, so I ran into the barn to turn off the hosepipe. A sudden scuttling came from under the right-hand cattle feed storage container, then stopped. I caught (unusually long, I might add) eye contact with the cause of this sound - a rat - and began to subconsciously project my inner insecurities onto it.

To cut a long story short, I was face to face with the culprit that knew the exact location of an Araucana hen's nest and as punishment for my ignorance in not knowing this location, each and everyday the rat discarded an empty green shell in the middle of the barn! Call it frustration, call it anger, call it despair – all emotions I associate with this (most-probably) absent-minded creature.

I’d moved physically closer to the rat which had shuffled out of sight into the hay bales, when I noticed something rather intriguing. What came into focus was a bundle of orangey feathers wedged in the gap of a collection of hay bales, three levels up (just below my eye line). Slightly unnerved yet extremely curious, I thought of the unsolved mystery immediately. Could it be Caesar?

I ran back to Izzi and GJH shouting the news and they reciprocated with excitably screams (mainly from Izzi) of “ohh, really?”. We went back into the barn and I began to unstack the hay bales. Removing the final bale, it revealed a mummified corpse of Caesar (not in exact Roman burial style, if only he’d been called Marc Anthony, it would have all had much more sense).

The preservation was outstanding, and upon archaeological examination (chicks, don’t worry, I’m a trained professional![First Class Honours Archaeology & Art History, University of Nottingham, 2018]) of the position of the body – I deduced that it had simply been the unfortunate case of getting stuck. Caesar had got himself into this little tunnel but sadly couldn’t and would prove to have never wriggled himself out. His legs were completely tucked under his body and whole head intact, suggesting there had been no savage hit and run, nor murder and dump, whatever you might call it..

No, Caesar’s fate perfectly encapsulated Shakespeare’s King’s Lear - ‘As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods, they kill us for their sport’ .. (Ok, I couldn’t help myself, just a little Shakespearean rhetoric to enhance the minds of our Chicken Corner readership). Additionally, like all great Shakespearean tragic heroes, they must have a tragic flaw. Caesar’s was being a bird – where upon once plunged into darkness, and unlike humans whose imaginations continue to run wild, birds’ minds simply go blank, thus rendering him immobile. But on the other hand, CBBC’s Horrible Histories’ ‘Stupid Deaths’ scenes come to mind as well…

If that’s not the new Oxford Dictionary definition of Catharsis, then blow me down! Seriously you couldn’t write this stuff, its all too real at Chicken Corner. Now may you all go in peace in the clear knowledge that “Caesar [..] had joined his imperial ancestors amongst the gods”.

Goodbye Chicks, until next time! x

Lost & Found

This week, we’ve seen the birth of many farm friends of all shapes and sizes, feathers and fluff, two legs and four legs.. its been a whirlwind adventure and I’m here to carry you on a magic carpet over those thermal winds!

The incubator had a 90% success rate with 18 out of 20 eggs hatching. N.B. 1 chick had a dodgy foot so its chances are limited. As manager, I would normally receive many letters and flowers through the post (properly sprayed before opening – no offense!) but in a moment of confession, I can’t take any congratulations regarding Chicken Corner’s mega fertility rate this season as these eggs weren’t produced by the orchard community. No, instead they were an external purchase and I’m not entirely sure of the breed types, only the chicks had the fluff of white, partridge, black, brown varieties. They’re a very charismatic group, confident and dumpy, in contrast to their older counterparts: 7 white chicks that hatched 6 weeks earlier (also external). They are a flighty bunch! Having previously sexed them as 6 cockerels and 1 hen, I now think there are 3 cockerels and 4 hens. It’s all in the way the comb and wattles develop... they haven’t magically trans-gendered..

Part of the clever ‘Lost and Found’ title theme.. and easing readers’ anxiety over April’s edition, I have finally found both broody hens around the farm! The Light Sussex in the barn by the granny mobile and the Pekin X Araucana under a bush, where we had been clearing lots. How we missed her I do not know. The pekin hatched 6 chicks (4 black, 2 partridge), unfortunately, due to a rather stressful catch and re-release mission, (maybe more a by-product as I didn’t want to move them sooner), both partridge pekin chicks have disappeared.. there are a few culprits I’ve got my eyes on. Suspect A. Mr Rat living under the duck house. Suspect B. Mr Magpie hanging around a lot. Suspect C. Any random crow.

I’ve moved her and her remaining cohort into the shed – she’s still rather frazzled and very aggressive. This is good against predators but not when I’m trying to give her food, which if she didn’t have, her chicks would die anyway. Something for her to work on: Prioritisation. It’s a crucial skill as a career woman and even more necessary for career women who are also (single) mothers! Think of all that balancing!... massive tangent there, yet a very important social issue that should not be merely applicable to human societies, but Chicken Corner as well.

Right, so that family took top bunk and the light sussex and her 2 chicks (least she’ll get government support for both I guess), are in the cage underneath. Both her chicks have fluffy feet, that shows Big Brahma was doing his job.

Further up the yard, its been touch and go (mostly ‘go’ thankfully) as I watched from the carrel side-lines (and occasionally actively helped) a four-legged buddle of fluff take her first steps into the world. Ruby is newest arrival to Izzi’s Bates Moor Farm cattle circle, and she exemplifies it very well being in fact a Highland X Lincoln Red (the two native beef breeds here on the farm).

If you don’t have the honour of @HeyThereFarmGirl’s quotidian updates, then I’ll quickly give you a run down on the story so far. Ruby was born with disfigurement to the nose and mouth. From a portrait photograph it is easier to observe how the left nostril (her perspective) has failed to join and so the jaw juts upwards at an angle. To our relief, she does have a top mouth palette so she will, can and IS eating A LOT. The hungry, Lincoln Red side of her comes out at feeding time, this currently being twice-daily with Izzi’s helpful assistance.

Only a week-old, Ruby is slowly gaining control of her tongue as a muscle and definitely knows milk comes from her mum, Annag’s, udders, but its just the getting-it-in-the-mouth that’s she’s currently struggling to grasp (pardon the pun). As a result, she’s started to associate long ginger hair with feeding time (this is Izzi, and as I look the same, she thinks I’m also Izzi). With that physical characteristic in mind, if you happen to be strolling passed their pen, I guarantee you’ll hear a mighty, little ‘moo!’.. maybe more like a lamb’s ‘baa!’.. but anyway, its Ruby announcing its milkshake time!

Hope everyone is staying safe!

Until next time Chicks x