We have hens, we have geese and we have ducks.
The last thing I wanted was an egg, even if it was chocolate with bon-bons.
Most mornings, some time after dawn, I go down to the boot room and slip on my wellies. When doors are unlocked I march out, in all weathers, to let the hens peck around in their extensive and safe, free- range area.
Living in the countryside is glorious although occasionally there is danger. We also have foxes. Although our wildfowl collection is fenced in, the foxes are crafty sneaks. They dig under and around. They jump in to the secure bird zone and manage to take out everything in sight. I have pondered as to whether there is a supplier of shovels for foxes out there or perhaps courses in how to demolish tame birds at ten paces.
Having let the hens out of their wooden shack, clucking and chirping, I add clean water to the feeder and ensure there’s enough corn, layers’ pellets and the occasional sprinkle of oyster shell. Without oyster shell, we do get a rather soft shelled egg. So soft, it disintegrates on touch.
This winter was quite harsh and we’d read a story about porridge. So porridge it was, every other morning. The hens were supposed to stop laying from Bonfire night to Valentine’s day, but no one told the hens and I guess they don’t read the books.
Our eggs are dark brown, speckled brown, pale oyster and blue. The bantams and Pekins lay small eggs, the Burfords and Legbars lay large eggs and as for the ducks, well, it could make your eyes water.
So when it comes to Easter, not more eggs. Let me wear ducks or pheasants. No more eggs. And actually could I pass on the omelette for a weeks too?