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Fifteen years ago to the minute, I would be opening the field gate for the last time in the day . 

In small groups of threes and fours the hens would already be  making their way to the eight hen houses that made up the Ukrainian village, the fat bottoms of the buff Orpington’s swinging like the hips of buxom Italian field workers.

The runner ducks stood in a large almost hysterical group by the duckhouse, all drumming their feet on the ground in nervous excitement. Two steps forward and a quick raise of an arm , and they would chunner loudly and dive into their house in a blind panic 

The Geese knew then it was their time for bed, and would extend their necks and unfold their wings  at me in feigned protest but that protest was never too marked , for minutes later they were seeking the softest part of the goose house floor in which to nest for the night.

Boris and Gloria follow. Boris puffing and blowing like a freight train and galleon in full sail, Gloria limping like the fat old lady she is

They have to be escorted more slowly as, rushing a turkey always makes them fall over

They don’t roost quickly, but watch me carefully as I walk away to sort the last of the birds 

With the latch on the turkey house firmly locked the last of the long lines of hens weaved their way homewards, most overseen by a protective cockerel with his head raised high and weaving in between them but moving towards the graveyard came the rugby ball shaped guinea fowl, all running low to the ground . They were off to roost in the Elm trees and they called to each other in clicks and tuts, like humorous clockwork toys as they fled to bed.

The pigs snort loudly and sigh in their straw beds, as the light finally changes to a colourless grey and finally the last of the hens tiptoe to bed. I lock each hen house door in turn, and smile to myself as the birds bicker and squabble for the best perches inside. 

Left outside on the field is Albert ,and perhaps George who is tottering behind , quite happily. 

The three of us amble for home as the sheep kneel then lie in the grass border under the hawthorn and the lights from the cottage suddenly fall across the lane , leaving a path for us to follow, 

As night falls at last…….