This afternoon I caught a young woman dropping a container of cooked pasta over the field gate.
I didn't recognise her, as she is new to the village.she's divorced, lonely and perhaps somewhat depressed I thought
The hens love spaghetti she told me rather guiltily....I warned her that Irene the sheep loves pasta too!
I love that people " adopt " the animals on the field from time to time...they all do rather secretively , as if what they are doing is wrong which is rather sweet......i think
The bachelors seems to have endeared themselves to many of the locals, which is a common thing for tiny birds to do. They bring the underdog support nature of people.
It's a British Thing, I always think
I was reminded of my old broiler birds The Ghost Hens because of it all
Now, for those that don't know, the Ghost Hens were five genetically fucked up broiler hens that arrived at the Ukrainian Village as brainwashed , psychologically damaged little pullets. Designed to eat themselves fat in a matter of weeks, these sad little hens had been brought up in a massive barn of a building under artificial lights with thousands of other little fuck ups .
They had never seen the sun, never ate a blade of grass and had never had the room to scratch their own arse without getting battered by another goggle eyed clone.
Faced with their very own warm hen house and a miniature run, these sad little characters continued to eat themselves fat in silent desperation, but they did eventually react to their brave new world, and calmly and very slowly they started to turn their faces into the sun to live a little.
Surrounded by animal drama and chaos, The Ghost Hens always looked unflappable but their inactivity was just a useful way of coping. They were too big and too comical to run around in silly chicken circles.
They just couldn't do it.
I remember taking the above photo very well.
It was approaching dusk on a summer's evening and the rest of the field was in constant motion.
The other hens were mooching homewards to roost, the geese were bickering over a patch of grass like they do and the hysterical runner ducks were being , well, just hysterical.
Only the Ghost hens remained still. Sitting gently and serenely in the evening sun until their white plumage tinged pink..........in the warm evening light