|The hens are all sat in the sun on the other side|
of the patch of nettles( middle of photo)
He gets them from time to time, and the only thing he can really do to get rid of one is to go to bed.
Subsequently the cottage is quiet and rather still, which is blissful as all that afternoon shit from tv ( the sort of stuff that Chris uses to wind down with over a mooching sort of weekend) has been switched off.
The weather is kinder today, though not warm, and as the invalid sleeps, I have bathed two dogs who have been rolling in chicken shit, cleaned windows, weeded "Bosoms" and cut the lawn.
Now I am sat at the cottage window listening to the sound of Trelawnyd at it's best.
There is the distant and forgettable hum of a jet circling towards Liverpool airport and the occasional sound of a car on the main road, but for the most part all I can hear is the wind in the Graveyard trees and the cluck of the hens as they fight for the most favourable and sunny spot out of the cool breeze.
Across the valley at Marian Mawr ( a farm) I can make out the buzz of trial bikes scrambling through the fields, but because of the wind, the sound is ebbing and flowing, so it is almost as though I am listening to bees around a bee hive.
The sound is not irritating at all, and for the most part is masked by the rustle of a million leaves
Serren, the welsh Terrier puppy from down the lane barks sharply at something or nothing and from the kitchen Albert farts gently as he walks though the door, he has been eating rabbit again, they always seem to give him flatulence.
Quiet in the country?
Not a chance................