Home to roost

When I was a teenager living in Wateringbury, Kent, we kept chickens. We had a moderate garden behind the house, which I was proud to have helped to plan and build (I designed the curved patio area – to this date probably my only piece of landscaping), and my mum and stepdad set up a chicken house alongside it. At any one time, we had up to six chickens – I’m fairly sure we lost several along the way to foxes and dropsy, but I remember we had them for a good few years. They had free run of the garden and, if the bottom part of the kitchen door was left open, they’d wander in and investigate the house. I don’t remember having any real responsibility for them, other than a bit of cleaning and feeding; the clearest memory I have is of chasing them down as they ran, single-file, out of the garden gate and down Pizien Well Road. I don’t know where they thought they were going.


Now that, after twenty years, I’m back in the countryside, I have a hankering to get back into chicken-keeping. I miss building things with my hands. I miss learning and applying the lessons and experiences of nature, growing things. So I’m going to build a chicken house, firstly, and see where that goes. I’ll post my progress (assuming I make any).



2 thoughts on “Home to roost”

  1. Our friend Heather would like us to name them all Heather. I think this has the potential to be confusing, especially when talking about both friend Heather and chickens Heather. “Hey, Heather finished watching Game of Thrones the other day, she really likes it” “Yes, but friend Heather or chicken Heather? BE SPECIFIC.”


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