Easter Chicks..... (not for those who are sensitive about religion)

Once again our two cockerels have stepped up to the plate and performed their cockerelly duty so we have three new chicks. One black and two yellow ones that look like Easter chicks.

We decided to give them names that are synonymous with Easter so I give you......

Jesus

Mary and Joseph!

It's not that easy being 'Green'

It's one of those once in a lifetime, rare, natural (or maybe unnatural), phenomena. A Perfect Storm of sorts.

The offspring are both on a sleepover tonight and the CH is on the same landmass!

"What shall we have for supper tonight, beloved?", I asked (because whatever it is, you'll be cooking it)

"I was thinking that as the children are away, perhaps we could go out" he replied

'Out? Hmm, what is this place 'Out'?"

I looked at him quizzically then rushed inside to consult the oracle.

I thumbed through the dictionary.

"M, N, O....ob......op.....ot.....ou........out. OUT"

Blimey, apparently it means that I leave the homestead after dark (and it's not to collect the offspring from one of their many social events) with the CH on my arm and we go 'somewhere' and be all grown up. Out.... we're going OUT!

How exciting. Where shall we go? Good point, where shall we go? Living in the deepest, darkest France Profonde and it being November, that's drastically reduces our options. No gourmet food markets where we can sit under the stars on a balmy night munching on some local delicacy (like the unmentionable parts of a goose) or going all 'foreign' with a Paella. No open air concerts around the lake watching shooting stars and listening to Country and Western, or maybe a bit of Country and Western, or even some Country of Western.

Still, our local cafe is open and it's also very good. Occasionally in these little villages you find something quite surprising, like a chef who trained with John Burton Race and worked for Rick Stein and at the River Cafe.

This is such a rare event that I shall have to brush up on 'things to talk about' but hey, at least I won't have to watch 'Children in Need'. I'm not being uncharitable. We always give money but do I have to watch it?

I've just checked the calendar of events and, thank goodness, they don't have a 'Soiree Anglaise' tonight. That would really finish me off. I shall report back later on the success, or otherwise, of this leap into the unknown.

In an effort to reduce our carbon footprint/electricity bill* (*delete as appropriate) I've replaced all our bulbs with energy efficient ones and even poor Prudence, our golden non-Retriever, is no longer allowed to have a nightlight on. She thinks she's afraid of the dark so think of this as aversion therapy.

The only trouble is that our light switches seem to be in the wrong place. Come bedtime, I have to turn off the light at one end of our lounge then make my way across the room to get to the bedroom. How difficult can that be, I hear you ask. Normally not very, but with the arrival of autumn and chilly nights all the livestock (chickens excepted of course) are now spread out on the rug in front of the woodburner, a living, breathing assault course.

On the first night of our new energy saving routine, I make a mental note of where each little body was before I switched off the light. Dark here is really, really dark. There's no light pollution to help you out.

Off went the lights. I negotiated the sofa successfully, before stepping into the void that is the rug in front of the woodburner.

Step 1 Miaaaaaooooooooo! Ooops, a tail

Step 2 Yeeeelpppp! Damn, that was the dog

Step 3 Oowwwwwouuuuuhhh! A hatrick!!

Three out of seven animals trodden on in under 10 seconds!

I've also invested in some Washing Nuts (quiet at the back!) Anyone tried them? I don't know what I was expecting, but they really are nuts. Brown, sticky things that stink of vinegar but apparently very 'green'.

For those that don't know about them you put a small handful in this little environmentally friendly unbleached cotton drawstring bag. Put in your washing then bury them in the middle, turn on and... voila!

Your wash ends, you spend 20 minutes searching around in your wet washing for the tiny drawstring bag mumbling "bugger this Green nonsense, next time I'm buying a big box of Fairy" (I've found our little bag under the washing machine, in the garden, in my knickers - not while they're on me of course) then another 20 minutes trying to prise open the wet drawstring bag - major design fault - to change the nuts. Exasperated, you stick the bag in the tumble dryer, thus cancelling out any benefit you've gained from using a 'green' alternative. Your average time spent washing has now increased by about 50% but at least you're saving the planet.

The CH is busily building an extension. Those that know him, pick yourselves up off the floor, it's for the chicken house. He busily sawing and screwing and even has a pencil behind his ear.

I built our chicken house out of reclaimed wood, (very green!), having baulked at spending 400 euros on a purpose built one. I mean, they're chickens for heavens sake. They don't stand around with their wings folded saying "well I'm sorry, but it's just not as des res as Martha's down the road", do they? (Do they?). It's the first thing I've successfully made since domestic science days at school - and thinking about it, my successes there were few and far between. I'd never get a job as a carpenter's mate and the slight Leaning Tower of Pisa effect probably can't just be put down to the slope in the garden but I was so proud of it that I even shed a tear.

Unfortunately, our chicken population has increased and so it's now time to build a small extension. It also had a couple of design faults in that the sliding panel at the back through which you collect the eggs, swells up in the wet and you can't open it to reach them. I had a mini EU egg mountain in there last week.

So, the CH drew up plans, discussed practicalities, site visits were made and eventually a design was agreed and approved. He's been working on it day and night (well, day at least) for two days now and it's nearly finished. Watch this space. (Not this one..... that one!).

Well, I'm going to sign off now. By the law of Sod, I have a nagging pain in my head, I'm typing words backwards and have the vaguely nauseous feeling in my stomach that often heralds a migraine. Just my luck. I want to go OUUUUUUUTTTTT!

We are a Grandmother......

Finally, Daphne, my lovely Phoenix bantam, has successfully hatched an egg. Only trouble is it wasn't hers but she doesn't seem to mind.

Meet Denis (or possibly Denise - only time will tell)

Denis/e has a little naked neck so she's clearly not Daphne's own offspring but then the lazy old hens just nudged her out of the way, laid their eggs in her nesting box and she went 'Thanks very much' and tucked them under her. She started off sitting on 4 eggs but she's now up to 10. Unfortunately they were all laid while we were on holiday so we couldn't take them away. The original 10 are now marked so we can take away any others she eggnaps.

Poor girl looks a bit like a hen who's been melted. She's spread out over so many eggs she's practically flat!

What I have discovered though is that I'm more Margot from 'The Good Life' than I am Barbara. I've no idea what to do with our new chick. Any advice gratefully accepted!

A social occasion.....almost

Yesterday was my day for manning our local cat charity's shop in our village so I thought it a good opportunity to ditch the housecoat and wellies and put on heels and a decent set of clothes and scrub myself up a bit. You never know who might walk in. We're not short of celebs in our neck of the woods... Windsor Davies, Roger Whittaker.. jealous, eh?.. so it wouldn't do to be caught naked from the neck up just in case a passing paparazzi happened to want to catch a quick shot.

I do actually have experience of paparazzi, it may surprise you to know. Back in the real world, before kids and chickens and rural life in France, when my shoulders pads were for power dressing rather than pain relief from 'axe swingers shoulder', CH and I were invited to the Irish Derby as guests of Guinness. As CH was, at the time, working on Ballykissangel, the stars of which, Dervla Kirwan and Stephen Tomkinson, had just got engaged and Ballykissangelmania was at its height, their appearance caused something of a media scrum. Word had also leaked out that day, that Dervla's character was going to be killed off. I think our chauffeur's words were "I hord they's gonna fecking fry ya" (she was killed by a faulty fuse box - quite possible that I'll go the same way too!)

I spent the whole day being told to "move out the way, love", "can you just stand aside", "we only want Dervla and Stephen in the shot" until in the end I was forced to point out a) I was with child so would they be a little more respectful and b) we were the guests not them. They were only there because we'd asked them. Despite it all, we had a lovely day and they were a really charming couple.

On a brief aside, I just Googled Ballykissangel to double check that it was a faulty fuse box. Have you any idea how many fan sites there are? There's even a heartfelt Tribute to Assumpta Fitzgerald. You can leave you own tribute (mine would read something along the lines of 'You do realise she's not real, don't you?) but sadlythe Tribute Page wouldn't load.

Anyway, I've digressed for long enough. So, I carefully chose my wardrobe, not too smart, not too casual, and put on my heels ready to face my public. I'm a recent returnee to heels, having not found them useful in rural France where I left more of them stuck in the mud than on my feet. Unfortunately, I've now got fallen arches which my mother blames entirely on 3 years of welly wearing, and she's encouraged me to buy something with 'just a little heel'. This is a woman who never let a flattie on her feet until after her 70th birthday, when advancing age and gin and tonics took a toll on her balance. (That's a gross misrepresentation of my dear old Ma, of course!).

I picked up my trusty Mulberry bag and headed for the door, on the way checking my reflection and thinking "Hmm,not bad. Not good, but not bad either". I didn't notice one of the cats sitting in the doorway, and unused as I am to my heels, half tripped/half jumped over him in the style of a three-legged steeplechaser taking Bechers in the Grand National and dropped my Mulberry bag in an inconveniently placed pile of chicken poo.

For the second time in two days I was forced to reflect on whether I really am cut out for rural life.

A chicken success story....

Today was market day and I'm pleased to report that I'm now the owner of possibly (or maybe even probably) the ugliest chickens in Christendom (no, hang on, France is a secular country so we can't use any religious allusions) erm... in the Northern Hemisphere.

I set off for the market with high hopes only to find the hall empty except for two old farmers and 4 chickens. Still, I only want two so I wasn't put off.

I approached the first farmer who had a couple of fine birds tied up at his feet and in my best French asked "are these laying hens or meat hens" - it's important to make the distinction, you know. He looked at me wearily, rolled his eyes ever so slightly and replied "Madame, these are cockerels". Oh well, what do I know about chickens, I joked. "Evidently not much, Madame" he answered politely.

The next farmer is one I know well from our village market. He sells the best onions you'll ever taste and he's was, until we got our own birds, the main supplier of delicious eggs to our household. He also sells some seriously ugly chickens. This poor pair were tied together with an old pair of Madame's support hose and looked thoroughly miserable. I asked if they were layers and were told (I think) that they were point of lay chickens and eggs would abound in the very near future. To be quite honest, with his strong accent, he could have told me that I was looking at the original goose that laid the Golden Egg and I'd have been none the wiser.

Madame insisted I held them by their feet to be assured that they were indeed, fine birds. It was then that I noticed their featherless necks. They are 'Cou Nu', literally Naked Necks, a breed that originated in Hungary and has a dominant gene that means they have half the feathers of a normal chicken. (God, I can't believe I'm writing this. I used to have a career, you know! Note to self.. you must get out more).

They are possibly the only type of chicken I can't stand but I felt so sorry for the poor things tied and trussed and probably with only the pot to look forward to so 20 euros poorer, I left with my hens in a cardboard pet carrier that I'd got from my local vet. M. Le Vieux Fermier must have thought Christmas had come early when he pocketed my money - more than I'd paid for my pair of purebred Peking Bantams but he wasn't prepared to haggle.

Time for a coffee. In France you can take dogs into most restaurants but I'm not sure about the rules for chickens. My mother, a farmer's daughter herself, but who escaped the muck and wellies at 17, wryly commented that this was the first time she'd been out to coffee with a couple of chickens!

I smuggled them onto the terrasse and pushed them under the table in their box. It was a lovely sunny day and it was very pleasant to sit watching the world go by with a (shock, horror) half decent cup of coffee in front of me but after a while I thought the chickens might be feeling the heat so it was time to go. I reached under the table and surreptitiously took out my box of birds. As I walked to the door there was a sudden thud and the box felt suspiciously light. Sure enough, the bottom had dropped out, depositing my two very ugly, very bewildered chickens and a pile of straw on the pristine terrasse of the cafe.

M. Le Patron was far from pleased and blustered around telling me that I couldn't bring chickens into the cafe. Me? I was standing with my legs crossed laughing so hard I thought I'd wet myself, looking at these poor, mangy looking birds who'd be so unceremoniously dumped on the ground. A bit of borrowed parcel tape later and we were safely on our way again.

The chickens have now been named Deirdre (after her of the famous acting neck on Coronation Street. If you saw a photo of her you'd see a definite likeness) and Agnes, just because it's a stupid name for a daft looking bird! I think M. Le Vieux Fermier was a little bit economical with the truth as, once we'd untied Madame's support tights it became clear that apart from being ugly, Deirdre and Agnes were also very fat. So fat in fact, that they kept falling over. A sure sign of a bird that's been bred for the table but hey, I couldn't eat anything that ugly so they are safe for the moment.

But now of course, I have questions like, do they need sunscreen in the summer? Will they need scarves in the winter? Would it be feasible to make them feather boas to hide their naked necks? Will I escape from rural France before I lose my mind...........?

It wasn't so long ago that I'd look forward to my subscriptions copies of 'Ideal Home' and 'Vanity Fair' dropping on the doormat. Now it's the latest issue of 'Poultry' that has me listening out excitedly for the arrival of the postman. How did this metamorphosis happen? How did the townie become a 'nouveau paysan' and will it be housecoats and wellies for me this time next year? You'll have to keep reading to find out.

Anyone for chicken.........

Being as this is la France Profonde, no self-respecting person would be seen dead without chickens. So, thanks to a friend who was moving back to the UK I became proud owner of Three French Hens and a stunning cockerel, a huge mass of black and white Brahma. Well if you're going to have a cockerel why now have one that's a statement?

My three French Hens and one French Coq lived in blissful harmony until a 'fouine' (stone marten) came a-calling and brutally murdered two of them. Bloody thing only bit off their heads and left the rest. What a waste.... although I did briefly think about whisking them down to my fearless French neighbour Chantal so she could do the business and we could all enjoy a very large chicken curry... but in the end I couldn't do it so they were rather unceremoniously dumped in the large poubelles at the end of our lane.

Two weeks later and M. Fouine came round again. He hid under the henhouse and ambushed my poor cockerel as he went to bed for the night. Off with his head, leaving me with about 4kgs of dead cockerel. Now I felt that M. Le Coq deserved a better burial but being as we are on bedrock, the chances of digging him a grave without the aid of either dynamite or a rock breaker were minimal so after much deliberation I opted for chucking him in the woods so the local wildlife could dispose of him.

I lugged all 4kgs of him into the woods in my trusty Tubtrug, selected a spot on the edge of a steep drop, said my fond farewells and threw him down the slope. Thing is, I nearly went too. The only way to stop myself was to let go of my Tubtrug and hope for the best. Poor M. Le Coq cartwheeled down the slope in his 'coffin' before coming to rest against a tree with his big yellow feet sticking out!

So, I set off in search of new chickens. You'd kinda thing that this wouldn't be too difficult living as I do in the middle of the French countryside.

I'd been reliable informed that a local market was a good place to start and on arrival I was faced with two benches of old farmers facing each other like some sort of avian standoff, clutching baskets of eggs with cages of rabbits at their feet and piles of chickens, all looking like they had seen better days, with their legs tied together to stop then escaping.

I hung around a bit to see what the form was. An old boy arrived, selected his chicken and was handed it, legs bound, whereon he hung it from the handlebars of his bike and wobbled off into the sunset with the poor bird swinging. All a bit too 'paysan' for me I'm afraid.

I didn't fancy wandering round the market swinging a chicken 'handbag' so I beat a hasty retreat.

Oh well, there must be somewhere else I can get them.