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Category: chickens

Mad Morag and the Perils of Livestock Auctions

Mad Morag and the Perils of Livestock Auctions

It’s been an awfully long time since I wrote. While I wish I could say I’d been doing something terribly exciting, like leading an expedition to chart a lost underground world inhabited by Flumps. Or perhaps had been kidnapped and forced to slowly eat my way through nine hundred pounds of cinder toffee in order to save the world from an alien race intent on crippling the planet with overwhelming dental costs. Unfortunately, no. I’ve just been really really busy…

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Hasselhoff and the Chicken Conservatory

Hasselhoff and the Chicken Conservatory

It being New Years Eve today, naturally the missus and I decided to spend some quality time with the chickens. These ladies have been popping out eggs all year and with the weather turning Canadian-nasty over the last couple of weeks, they’ve been packed in tighter than Germans at a Hasslehoff concert. We’ve been employing the deep litter technique for their bedding which sounds like Middlesbrough Council’s approach to inner-city¬†street cleaning but is in fact a bona-fide approach for keeping…

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Filthy Lucre and the Lost Art of Chicken Herding

Filthy Lucre and the Lost Art of Chicken Herding

For as long as I can remember, I’ve liked money. To be more specific, I’ve liked being given money. Now of course, everyone likes being handed cash.¬†Unless you’re Richard Pryor in Brewster’s Millions, there aren’t many people who would say “oh no, I’ve actually been trying to get rid of a stack of fifties for bloody days. Can’t seem to give it away, mate. Pray keep your money, for I need it not.”   Unfortunately, I’ve done some fairly embarrassing…

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Ten For That, You Must Be Mad!

Ten For That, You Must Be Mad!

It’s a deal, it’s a steal…it’s the Sale of the fucking Century! A whole side of pork for how much? That’s bloody amazing, I’d like to buy ten. No, shit, make it a round twenty and I’ll throw a party in your name. That’s pretty much the reaction I want when offering our pork, chicken, eggs and honey for sale. And if you’re lucky enough to be invited to buy some, then I expect you to be forever grateful to…

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Free and easy

Free and easy

OK people. It’s been forever since I wrote, so I’m merging two posts into one monstrously long one. You may need a comfort break around the paragraph about druidic rituals. Stretch your legs, that kind of thing. So, here goes: Anyone that knows me will attest that I’m not a man to say no to something free. Especially when the freebie is 30 laying chickens, delivered in the back of a truck no questions asked and they’re able to pay…

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When Chickens Turn Bad

When Chickens Turn Bad

Now I love chickens as much as the next man. Not in a creepy way; I don’t have knitwear with pictures of chickens on them or even any amusing chicken ornaments. But as you know, I’ve put a lot of effort into building the Celestial Coop and optional run, so much so that it’s starting to resemble Gormenghast. That’s ok because the Ladies Who Lay have been delivering the goods. Unfortunately and with great sadness, I have to say that…

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Tractors and Tornados

Tractors and Tornados

It’s been an odd kind of day. My eldest son turns 6 this week and we’re planning him a birthday party on the land. But since we don’t really have a house yet, Emma had the imaginative idea to make it an adventure party. After all, what good is 100 acres if you can’t use it to occupy twenty kids under six? The big “bottom field” on the land has been used for hay in the past and is really…

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Real Men and The Chicken God

Real Men and The Chicken God

As a boy growing up in the 70s and 80s there were certain indicators of a privileged life. The first was that you had a Tonka toy. Not one of the modern mostly-plastic jobs. No, we’re talking the steel-plate, scaled down construction-grade dump trucks, diggers or cat-tracked beasts. Real toys for real men’s sons. But now I’m a father, I know the truth. Those toys were bought not just for their earth-trembling awesomeness in the sand-pit, but because as Dads,…

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Chicks and hogs

Chicks and hogs

This weekend was supposed to be all about the chicks. Last time I said that in any seriousness was back in ’94 at university and if I’m being honest, both my best mate Stephen Hayward and I knew we were most likely going to finish the evening unaccompanied at 3AM, walking home via the 24hr petrol station to buy a jumbo packet of onion-ring flavoured crisps, two Gingster’s pies with dubious meat fillings and 40 Marlboro Lights to chain smoke…

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