Chickens, Mules and Two Old Fools

by Victoria Twead

  When dusk fell, we were still in the orchard, still fascinated. Instincts kicked in and the girls started craning their necks, looking for the highest place to roost. Mala was the first to fly up to Paco's makeshift perch. The others followed gradually, bickering like schoolgirls about who was going to sit next to whom.

  The next morning brought a huge surprise. It’s strange how you can wake up and sense something is wrong, something is different. Our bedroom was a cave room dug into the hillside with no windows, but when we woke we knew instinctively that something was awry. We gasped when Joe opened the shutters in the living room to a white and silent world.

  The chickens! They’d never even set claw outside before yesterday. We’d plucked them from their indoor security and exposed them to the harshness of a snowstorm. Their shelter was makeshift and inadequate. We were desperately worried.

  There was no denying that the mountains looked awesome. Like a monstrous dazzling duvet, the snow blanketed every contour, ironing out all familiar landmarks. But there was no time to enjoy the wonderland. Fat flakes of snow were still falling. We didn't know it then, but this was to be the heaviest snowfall for sixty years. Snow was rare in this part of the world, we lived on the edge of Europe’s only desert, for goodness sake. Paco had told us that occasionally a light dusting might fall, but never more.

  There was no time to lose. Joe dressed himself warmly in army boots and several jumpers topped by a thick jacket. He opened the front door. Or tried to. The snow had banked to chest height and blocked the door completely. Never mind, we could use the back door. Luckily it faced a different direction and could still be pushed open. Just.

  It was bitterly cold. He surveyed the scene outside. “I'm just going outside and may be some time,” he said. It wasn't really funny but very apt. Captain Oates would have understood.

  The orchard was just a few steps away, the chicken coop a few steps more. But reaching it was tough. The drifts were deep and hid the track. Alonso had used the orchard as a dump and so had we. Obstacles were strewn everywhere. Coils of wire, rubble, the yellow sofa, all smothered and concealed under thick snow. Every footstep was taken warily, like a soldier walking across a minefield.

  To Joe’s horror, the chicken shelter was one enormous snowdrift.

  Warming Winter's Brunch

  Desayuno

  This is a very traditional Andalucían breakfast, typically eaten by farmers, shepherds and workers during the winter months.

  5 - 6 cloves garlic

  1 red pepper

  1 jar white beans (or chickpeas, or baked beans)

  3 or 4 sweet chorizos

  Olive oil

  Peel and roughly chop the garlic.

  Remove the top and seeds from the pepper, chop into bite sized chunks.

  In a large frying pan, heat the olive oil and add the garlic and peppers and fry until slightly coloured.

  Chop up the chorizo also into bite sized chunks and add to the pan, cook for a few minutes on a high heat.

  Add the beans and than lower the heat, cover and cook gently for 20 mins.

  Serve with thick slices of fresh bread.

  Tip: Instead of sweet chorizo you can use the picante or hot variety for extra bite.

  CHAPTER 15

  ...AND MORE CHICKENS

  Joe approached the snowdrift with a sinking heart. And then he noticed the drift had a dip in the middle. The ends of the perch disappeared into white, but, locked on the perch, soaking wet and huddled miserably together, were all eight chickens. Their body warmth had melted the snow around them.

  How do you dry a chicken? We didn’t know. We did the only thing we could think of, which was rub them briskly with old towels. Joe cleared as much snow out of the coop as he could, uncovering their food and water. Luckily, it stopped snowing and a watery sun peeped out, providing much needed warmth.

  Chickens are amazingly hardy creatures. They can survive the furnace of an Andalucían summer or winter temperatures below freezing. Even snow. Our chickens, young as they were, were absolutely fine.

  On that first day, we had no electricity, telephone or water. There was nothing to do but sit in darkness as close to the fire as possible. The village was cut off, no traffic could reach us.

  On the second day the water returned. Just as well, as our bottled water supplies were low. Geronimo knocked on our door to check if all was well. He unwound the Real Madrid scarf from around his neck and stayed for a few warming brandies. We were relieved to hear that Marcia and Old Sancho had left before the snow to stay with their daughter in the city. Uncle Felix was warm and cosy with his mule.

  On the third day, electricity returned. Hooray! Now we could boil a kettle and use the microwave.

  On the fourth day, the council ‘snowplough’ (mini tractor with improvised scoop) made the hazardous journey down to the village. It pushed the snow into great dirty heaps, making the road passable.

  On the fifth day, the hordes descended. Except for the very old, none of the locals had seen proper snow before. They poured into the village, marvelling and wondering at the phenomenon. Judith’s village, only a few kilometres away, had hardly suffered at all, and everyone was keen to visit snowbound El Hoyo. Paco, Carmen-Bethina and Little Paco arrived.

  Paco banged on our door. “English! Come out for a snowball fight! Come on, Spain against England!” He was more of a child than his nine year old son. Spain won.

  A week later, the snow was a distant memory. The landscape greened as tight buds unfurled. Wild flowers of all colours turned their faces to the sun. Bright poppies flapped their papery petals in the breeze. The first cuckoo arrived, echoing round the valley like a demented Swiss clock.

  The snow had actually done us a favour. The village square, old and not designed for extremes of weather, disintegrated. Huge cracks formed, and slabs of stone fell away. That spring, Geronimo and his colleagues built a spanking new square and to our relief, constructed a new fountain to replace the one we had damaged last summer.

  The chickens had settled in well. They had grown in confidence and strutted around the coop happily. We felt they were ready to roam the orchard, so we opened the coop. Mala led the way, followed by Ginger and the No-Name Twins, then the rest. It was more entertaining than T.V.

  Chickens are as inquisitive as small children and everything was investigated, even our shoelaces, as we sat on Alonso’s yellow vinyl sofa watching our flock. When we brought scraps, they hopped on to our knees and ate from our fingers.

  Late in the afternoon we decided it was time to lock them up in the coop for the night. Not an easy job. We herded them and succeeded, a few at the time. But as fast as we caught some, others would escape, squirting back through the wire into the orchard. It took half an hour and left us breathless and panting.

  “Can’t put up with that every night,” said Joe.

  “Absolutely not!” I said. “But what choice do we have? If we leave them out at night the foxes will have them.”

  All the next week we went through the same fiasco. Mala was the most cunning. She would wait until we crept up on her, then she’d bolt flapping and squawking across the orchard. We chased chickens round trees, over old furniture, across piles of rubble ... they ran everywhere except back into the coop.

  “Quick! The No-Name Twins are coming your way!” yelled Joe. I hurled myself at the nearest Twin and succeeded in grabbing one small tail feather and a mouthful of grit.

  “I’ve got one!” shouted Joe, triumphantly carrying a protesting, squawking Blanca over to the coop. It was inevitable that an old coil of wire would trip him up. Blanca struggled free and bolted to the far side of the orchard.

  “Well, the foxes can bloody well eat you! I don’t care!” said Joe to all chickens in general. However, in spite of severe sense of humour loss, we persevered and every last chicken was eventually caught and shut in the coop.

  One memorable night we were late. The sun had already dipped behind the mountain and the street-lights had
flickered into life. Fully prepared to repeat our usual frenzied chase, we looked for the chickens. There was no sign of a single chicken in the whole orchard.

  “Where are they?” said Joe, peering into the twilight gloom.

  “The fox has had them,” I said, guilt washing over me in painful waves.

  The sky was turning inky pierced with pinpoints of starlight. The village rooftops were mere silhouettes and the trees and bushes blurred shapes. The unearthly bark of a fox ricocheted around the valley.

  A chicken coughed and we swung round. In the coop, on the perch, like a row of naughty schoolgirls, sat eight chickens, six brown and two white. The saying ‘chickens coming home to roost’ became evident. And so it was, as soon as the sun set, the girls would put themselves to bed. No fuss, no chasing. Another chicken cliche nailed.

  I never dreamed that chickens were interesting, but I was wrong. Each individual developed her own personality, comical to the extreme. Fraidy was the coward of the bunch, setting off alarm calls if a beetle crossed her path. Shawly (so named because of her darker head and shoulders) was the kleptomaniac. Slowly, stealthily, she would sneak up behind the others and launch a surprise raid, whipping juicy morsels from under their beaks. Then she would dash away like an Oxford Street mugger and gobble her spoils in a hidden corner. Ginger was the boldest and most sociable, the first to greet us at the gate, the one to stay and chat if we sat on the sofa.

  We were utterly hooked, these silly birds so delighted us with their funny ways. For example, when we came to the orchard empty handed, we were ignored, except, of course, by Ginger who met us at the gate and told us all her news at great length.

  However, if we were carrying the blue plastic treat box containing kitchen scraps, their welcome was very different. Eight chickens charged to the gate, some flying like feathered bricks, some running, heads down, legs pumping like pistons. They would arrive in a heap, disentangle themselves and press against the fence. The excitement was intense. Necks became elongated as they craned up, desperate to see what the treats box contained. They wound round our feet, tripping us up. So we’d throw a few scraps as far as possible and they’d all thunder to the spot like rugby players. If we threw more in a different direction, they’d all abandon the first scraps and career over to the latest offerings. Another rugby scrum, until all scraps were exhausted. If the scraps contained spaghetti, two chickens might grab either end of a strand. They would suck in their end until they finished up eyeball to eyeball - unless Shawly sneaked in and stole the middle section.

  Dust baths were another source of amusement. The first time we saw a motionless chicken lying in a scrape in the ground with her feet in the air, we thought she was dead. However, after careful scrutiny, we saw she was not dead, but in some kind of trance.

  Chickens take dust baths very seriously. First they find a patch of soft ground and scratch at it until the soil is loose and crumbly. Then they lie in it, using beak, wings and feet to shower themselves with the earth. Somehow, they manage to separate their feathers so that the soil invades every crevice. This continues for maybe half an hour, the chicken resting every few minutes, eyes glazed in ecstasy. They lie on their fronts, sides and backs so that every feather becomes coated in dirt. Finally satisfied, they climb out, and this is when the wise stand back. Like a dog after a swim, chickens shake their bodies and rattle their feathers to dislodge every speck of dirt. The result? One shiny, clean, parasite-free chicken. It was a sight to behold, particularly with the white girls, Mala and Blanca. Before our eyes they transformed from mucky chimney sweeps to snowy angels.

  We grew ridiculously fond of our girls. Sometimes we talked about the horrible chicken shop and I suppose it was only a matter of time before we found ourselves there again.

  This time, the cages contained some young black chickens and some ravishing grey and speckled ones. As before, the stench and noise was overpowering. It was even more distressing to see the unfortunate chickens packed together in tiny cages now that we understood chicken behaviour so much better.

  “¿Cuantos quieren Ustedes?” asked the assistant. “How many do you want?"

  “Two,” said Joe.

  “Eight,” I said.

  And so ’Ello Vera, Little Grey, Speckly, Bugger, Fuck and the others entered our lives. We couldn’t wait to get them home. In the jeep, we told them all about their new home and how they would be able to scratch in the dirt and spread their wings. We told them all about the chickens already there. We warned them about Shawly stealing their food, and told them to take no notice of Mala and her bossy ways. They were quiet in their box so we assumed they were listening carefully to our advice.

  In the orchard, the older chickens were consumed with curiosity. They circled the cardboard box, chattering amongst themselves.

  “We've brought you some new friends,” said Joe, gently upending the box. The new girls slid out, blinking in the sudden light. We were about to learn a huge lesson in chicken politics.

  Attack! With squawks of rage, the original girls set about the newcomers. The air turned thick with chicken swear words and insults. The little ones shrieked with terror and cowered as the big girls pounced. Beaks stabbed, feathers were wrenched and became airborne before drifting back to ground. It was World War 3, and then some. The new kids in the flock fled, scattered to all corners of the orchard. Total disaster. Our visions of one big happy chicken family sadly dissolved.

  The original eight, now known collectively as ‘The Mafia’, were relentless. Even gentle Ginger revealed an alter ego we had never suspected. The new girls hid under bushes and behind trees because as soon as they were spotted by the Mafia, they were hammered. Doing great impressions of Road Runner, they fled to escape from their bullies. In Britain, the Mafia would all have been served Antisocial Behaviour Orders.

  We were at a complete loss. The new girls were uncatchable, scattered to all points of the compass.

  I wondered if the Internet might help, and typed in ‘introducing new chickens to an existing flock’. The results were varied.

  The first advice page adopted the ‘No Nonsense’ approach, as follows:

  ‘Introducing New Hens to the Flock

  Where new birds are introduced to an existing flock, there are always problems because the natural pecking order is disrupted. A hen spotting a newcomer will utter a single warning croak that alerts the rest of the flock. It then becomes fair game to peck at and chase away the stranger.

  If it is absolutely necessary to introduce new birds to an existing flock they should be penned in a temporary area next to the run so that they can be seen but not harmed.

  Birds can also be beak-trimmed so that they are less able to do damage to each other. The procedure is to trim the pointed tip of the upper mandible of the beak.

  Once the birds are taking each other for granted, they can be amalgamated, but a careful watch needs to be kept for potential problems.’

  Well, it was much too late to erect a separate pen and introduce the new ones slowly. And there was no way we were going to catch the Mafia and trim their beaks. Unthinkable. I sighed and pulled up another poultry advice page.

  This one was … well, frankly, ridiculous.

  ‘How to introduce new chickens to an existing flock

  Allow the new bird to roam around a bit in your kitchen (where the inevitable poop won't be too difficult to clean up) or bathroom while you croon SOFTLY to it and feed it little bits of cheese, lunchmeat, diced grapes, raw corn, etc. Sit down on the floor so you aren't towering over it and give it a good 20 minutes to get to know you, and realize what a TERRIFIC person you are. Pick it up and pet it, talking softly and cooing to it all the while. Keep your voice GENTLE, soothing and quiet. Watch your birds' eyes--you may see the pupil expanding and contracting rapidly. This signals excitement, in a GOOD way, for birds. It means that they REALLY like what you are doing to them. Continue to coo at it and praise it for the good little chicken it is. Chickens LOVE to be talked to in a lo
ving tone.

  Pick it up and take it into the yard during the day. Hold it tucked under your arm and call your flock. Continue to hold and PET the new bird as you talk to the flock and walk around the yard a bit, showing the new bird around. Walk in and out of the coop. View the nest boxes. Point out the food and water dishes. Give 'em the two dollar tour.

  When everyone is ready, go ahead and put the new bird down slowly and stand next to it. Warn them off with a firm, "NOOO--!" and take a step towards them if need be. You may need to chase off aggressors a bit.

  YOU are the TOP HEN! Remember, and what YOU say, GOES! Praise GOOD behavior. After a while, your flock WILL remember they have better things to do, lose interest and wander away. After that it's safe to go back inside the house, leaving the new bird to its own devices.’

  Oh, please! Our Spanish neighbours already thought we were insane, sitting on the yellow sofa gazing at our flock, letting them hop onto our laps, talking to them. Even if we could catch the newcomers, taking eight chickens, putting them into the bathroom and whispering sweet nothings into their ears was bordering on complete lunacy.

  When night fell, the Mafia went to bed and the little ones regrouped. They found the grain feeder and water and gorged themselves while the coast was clear. Finally, they too went to bed, on the floor under the Mafia’s perch. It was an uneasy truce.

  Chickpeas and Chorizo

  Garbanzos y Chorizo