My Stories || The Field Maple

After the first winter of living in this house I knew a windbreak of trees was absolutely necessary. For months a breath-sucking, bone-tingling north/north-easterly wind had sped over the farmer's field and hit our house, along with the chicken area, at full force. It was soul-sappingly bitter.

Spring broke through for a while. We were joyous. I love winter, but after months of that wind, a cold wind that had started in late autumn, I was ready to feel some spring sunshine on my face. Underneath bright blue skies we introduced some new chickens to our flock. They were about fifteen weeks old. Ready for the outside world. Ready for their forever home.

But then winter decided it hadn't finished with us. That aggressive wind came back. And sadly one of those new chickens was just not hardy enough.

Needs must. I started to research trees. I knew absolutely nothing about them. I could probably point out a horse chestnut but that was my limit. What I did know, however, was that I wanted a tree with leaves that transformed from green to red to yellow throughout the autumn months, before falling gently to the ground.

After some reading about the subject I also knew I wanted a mixture of evergreen and deciduous with the majority of the trees we planted to be native to the UK.

The Field Maple has leaves that turn red. It is also the UK's only native maple.

I bought many trees in my first tree project purchase. And the Field Maple was one of them. It now stands proudly at the bottom of the field, in direct eye line from the house. The leaves are just changing from green to red.

***

My Chicken Story Stories is snippets of my thoughts as I pull together the first draft of my memoir.

October

The mist clung to the field in the distance. My feet, encased in impractical pink plastic shoes, became cold and wet as we walked on the dew laden grass. I had my iphone in my hand, ready to take a picture of a bird or an animal, or the way the mist floated particularly prettily around a tree. But then my hands started to tingle with a sharp chill that had arrived overnight. I had to stuff them in my cardigan pockets. The pheasant I'd heard whilst I was at the back door, putting my shoes and cardi on, was there, jet black, walking away from us quickly in the distance.

There was a call of the buzzard. One behind me, one slightly quieter, returning the call in the distance, over the farmer's field. And then it flew over the top of me. It's wings spread, following the noise of his mate.

The leaves on the trees are just starting to change colour. Not those on the larger trees, but the younger trees. The field maple, the poplars, the silver birch. And the young horse chestnut leaves are curling at the edges; brown and crinkly.

At first I think I've missed the sunrise. The sky is fairly light, as though it had already been and gone. I turn my back to the east, focusing on the black bins where I store the chicken food, and busy myself with the layers pellets. But, as I turn around, it is there. A thin slice of orange, layered above the mist and the hedgerow. I stare. I can see it moving in front of my eyes. Getting higher in the sky. Melting and merging yellows, oranges and wisps of pink.

"I'm so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers." Oh Anne of Green Gables, yes, so am I.

No Place Like Home

Lying on the beach, costume wet from jumping the waves, digging my feet into the softest of sands, grains clinging everywhere; which I know is going to mildly irritate later when I walk back to the hotel, I finally relax. This is utter bliss. The temperature is a warm thirty degrees, a wind coming off the sea cooling my skin. Later, mild discomfort from the sand aside, we'll be back at the hotel, maybe having a coffee by the pool, listening to music on my iPad (thanks to the brilliance of Spotify and decent wifi) then walking down to the local town during the evening for a pizza, a glass of cava and a raspberry ice cream from the parlour.

I'm sighing as I write that. Oh to have one week out of fifty two that doesn't involve the school run, cleaning out chicken houses, clearing up after mucky ducks, cutting the grass, deadlines, the ongoing and never-ending admin...It's, well, weird. Relaxing, joyful, wonderful. But weird. It takes a few days to fully relax and by the time I am fully relaxed it's time to pack the suitcases to head back home.

But you know what? I'm ready to go home. Those eight days were amazing. But I missed home.

Yes, I missed the animals. Their noisy morning clucks when they've laid an egg, the way the ducks try and charge me when my back is turned, my dog's wet nose nuzzling my hand, and the cat coming to sit on my bed during the evening (she's here purring away on the edge of the bed as I type). I missed the green. The bird song. The distant fields changing colour.

Going away on holiday is fantastic. Returning home, seeing everything we've worked hard on through fresh eyes, is joyful.

A very British Summer

I feel sorry for the British Summer. There's so much pressure on it to be blue-skied with unlimited hot sun. Day after day. Or at least at the weekends. Then, when it offers something different: perhaps rain, or sunshine and showers, or just cloud, one question echoes loudly across the land. Where is summer?

Yes there is something restorative about feeling the sun's warm rays on your face. On your shoulders whilst you walk around outside. Having the sun merrily encourage you to get together with friends: to eat barbecue, to drink prosecco. I get that.

But I also think summer can be found elsewhere whether it is boiling hot at the weekend or not.

It's in the fields as the crops turn from muted green to gold; wheat rustling as you walk past, barley rising and swaying, like a yellow ocean. The earth cracking underneath your feet. Bees buzzing on the flowers that are popping up everywhere. Pink and yellow grasses catching the sun; glinting in the evening light.

The British Summer is changeable. Unreliable. You can have three or four types of weather in one day.

But I feel, that's what makes it so special. And I'm going to try and find the joy in every day.

And yes, I did get soaked on a dog walk the day after I took this video. It was fine and sunny when I set out...

Seasons Outside My Back Door || May 2016

Mid to late spring has brought with it an abundance of jobs outdoors that has kept me from writing a weekly update of the seasons. It's our busiest time of the year: chicks, nettle taming, grass trimming, planting, weeding, composting, mulching. All alongside the new chicken run we built to keep the chickens safe from predators.

But finally, we are coming up for air. Taking deep breaths and looking around us in wonder.

There is so much green out there. The mature sycamore and ash trees we have in our field seem huge this year. They loom large, creating a beautiful canopy with much needed shade underneath. Around them, in the sunshine, patches of buttercups create beautiful pools of yellow. Often, if we cannot see the ducks in the field, it's because they're hunting in these patches, searching out insects, camouflaged until a head suddenly pops up.

The grass is being fed on a perfect diet of sun and rain. It is long, our mower is only just coping with it. I come from the field to the back door with mounds of cut grass stuck to the bottom of my shoes, damp from the dew.

Driving through the country lanes everything seems to be pushing inwards. It's the cow parsley. Majestic, copious and swaying in the wind.

Back in the field the hawthorn trees and hedges have been wonderful this year. Gleaming brightly, clouds of white at the edges of the field, they're now changing to a beautiful pink. Hawthorns are so common that we barely give them a glance but I think it's one of my favourite sights in spring. And I adore seeing blackbirds and smaller birds swoop down and enter the safety of the hedge in order to reach their nest.

Speaking of nests. We have a great spotted woodpecker nest in one of our mature silver birch trees. The woodpecker has made holes in various places; the tree, and surrounding birches, looks like it has been splattered with a tommy gun. But now the baby has hatched and it squeaks loudly all day long. The parents dart in and out with food but it never seems to be full. A bit like when my son was a baby.

And finally, the wildflowers. I went on a hunt around the field to see what I could find. It's tempting to look out and assume it is just green out there. But, as you take your time and properly look, there are all sorts of treasures to be found: Ragged Robin, Common Field-Speedwell, Germander Speedwell, Ground Ivy, Forget-me-not, vetch...Beautiful, delicate colours that are adored by insects.

Such a lovely time of year.

Seasons Outside My Back Door: Week 19 || May 2016

This mini-film says all I want to say about this week. It has been glorious. Yes, with torrential rain for a few days; but the results of this rain has meant a vivid burst of green and colour.

Glorious May from Helen || a bookish baker on Vimeo.

Seasons Outside My Back Door: Week 18 || May 2016

Wow, what a difference a fortnight makes. Just over one week ago we were still having log fires in the evenings and in the last few days I've been outside in a sundress. I've heard comments that spring is a little topsy turvey this year. I have to agree. Some things have come out early, others have come late. Almost as though Mother Nature realised everything was happening too fast a few months ago and slammed on the brakes. Only she pressed a little too hard.

But the grass is lush, the nettles are growing fast, the celandines have given way to buttercups and finally my native bluebells are looking glorious.

In the field we have dots of forget-me-not, some tiny pink flowers, white and purple dead nettle and ground ivy. I rather like ground ivy but prefer the other names it is known by: creeping charlie, alehoof, tunhoof, catsfoot, field balm, and run-away-robin. Rather charming.

The blossom on the apple and pear trees are telling me we're in for a bumper crop of fruit this autumn. More than the thin branches of my young trees can take, probably, so I'll have to thin them out.

I have wild garlic! Okay, so it's in a tub outside my back door, but it is flowering beautifully. I've already made a wild garlic soda bread with the leaves and this week I'm going to make a pesto. I'm going to transplant it, once the flowers have finished, down the field under the trees. I'm looking forward to seeing it come up in a natural setting next year.

I've seen the swallows darting in and out of the stable. Not seen any signs of a nest yet but have seen lots of activity. I've also seen four goldfinches feeding on the dandelion seeds and a male and female wild duck sitting on the pond island asleep. The buzzards are busy; even now as I write I can hear their shrill call. And a few days ago I heard a loud tapping right next to me. It was the woodpecker furiously tapping away up the large ash tree.

I'm sure I've seen and heard many other birds but I'm still learning their calls.

One thing I haven't seen is the fox. Long may it stay that way.

The Seasons Outside My Back Door: Week 16 & 17 || April & May 2016

It has been rollercoaster of a fortnight in the world outside my back door so I'm combining the last two weeks.

We've had the arrival of the chicks last weekend. Seeing the first one breaking through the shell was amazing. Then, yesterday they went outside for the first time with their mum, Wincey. It's been incredibly heart-warming.

Especially considering the darker side of the Spring months, which also arrived in the back garden in the last week.

"Mummy, I thought Spring meant new life," said my daughter a few days ago. We'd just found a small bird dead on the floor. I suspect the glass window of my shed. But that wasn't the only thing that had happened.

This is what I wrote on my personal Facebook page:

Yesterday a duck went missing. Fearing the worst we immediately put everyone on lockdown and got them all inside the fencing and inside their runs. All safe.

In the last hour I just caught a bright red fox with Barbara the chicken in its mouth. I shouted at it. (I actually said 'hey' as if I was saying hello which is weird) and the fox dropped Barbara. So I got the dog to chase it. It was caught inside the electric fencing. I chased it, too. Then I came face to face with it; which quite honestly petrified me, I'll never forgot those teeth (my pink plastic shoes would have stood no chance) and it finally tore a hole through the fence and ran off.

I picked up Barbara and gave her a cuddle. She's now in her coop. But shock is a real risk.

The whole area smells of fox now. I've strengthened the defences - it got though a small hole in the run where the clip had come off. And yes, I had a little cry.

It was so sad. Initially we'd hoped the duck from the day before had gone off to create a nest and gone broody. But I knew, deep down, what had happened. Seeing the fox the following day, in broad daylight, confirmed it.

I feel worse when we have a predator attack than if we have to put one down ourselves. The loss weighs down in my stomach. And I feed so guilty. Guilty for not taking better care of them. But also guilty for locking them in their runs now, too.

Spring is the season of new life. But it is also new life for the fox cubs. They need feeding, too, and my chickens and ducks were easy targets. The electric fence has been eaten away by rabbits and wasn't working. We've now ordered an extra large coop for the chickens. That arrives a week today. In the mean time, they're only allowed out their runs when we are outside too.

Still, we have the chicks. And, the other exciting news is, Vicky, Wincey's sister, also went broody. So we bought her six hatching eggs. They went under her the same day the duck went missing. Let's hope something good happens from that day.

Ready for three minutes of cuteness? This is the film I made of them yesterday, coming outside for the first time in their lives. They're one week old.

Wincey & the Chicks (first time outside!) from Helen || a bookish baker on Vimeo.

Music: Saturday by Josh Woodward

The Seasons Outside My Back Door: Week 15 || April 2016

I'm celebrating all things trees this week. Each morning I go out and see what progress has been made in the last twenty four hours. Leaves unfurling. The pinkness of the blossom buds opening to white. It is joyous. And contrasts strikingly with the loss of my favourite chicken. Yesterday morning I went outside with my iPhone recording the trees and the new life on their outstretched branches. Many of these trees we have planted ourselves. I couldn't help but feel a certain sense of satisfaction that our hard work planting well over 100 trees was starting to pay off.

But in the afternoon we had to dispatch Henrietta (Mark 2). She was the chicken that would peck straw off my cardigan. Fussing about the untidiness like a grandma would do. If she could I'm sure she'd have spat on her handkerchief to wipe the dirt off my cheek.

Losing her feels wrong at this time of the year. When new life is colouring the landscape. As I was editing this film together I was influenced by losing her and was choosing some dreary music. But spring is about new beginnings, fresh days, colour and vigour. So I went with Spring by Vivaldi instead. A cliche, perhaps. But far more fitting.

The Seasons Outside My Back Door: Week 15 || April 2016 from Helen || a bookish baker on Vimeo.

Music: "Spring Mvt 1 Allegro" by John Harrison with the Wichita State University Chamber Players (http://www.johnharrisonviolin.com/)