Hens' Visit to the Polytunnel Spa

The big chill had swept snow and swathes of ice in a freezing blanket across the UK, causing temperatures to plummet and sales of wild bird seed to soar. Even Newhouse Farm had received a liberal dusting of snow and ice that had transformed it into a picturesque winter wonderland, despite being in close proximity to the sea which usually prevented the snow from settling. The morning round of letting the animals out of their houses and feeding them now involved bashing and breaking the thick layers of ice that had formed on the various water containers during the night.

The snow-covered ground was soon covered with the tracks of the various animal residents of the farm: some pawed, some clawed, and some that were trottered or webbed. The tracks meandered their way across the snow in a manner reminiscent of the weasels and woozles that perplexed Winnie the Pooh, and revealed the many different journeys that the animals of Newhouse Farm habitually made throughout the course of each day. Nigel the depressed Muscovy Duck's webbed-footprints were the easiest to identify: each shuffling step was placed closely one in front of the other, and his tracks led to his favourite tree where he spent most of each day snoozing, or to the back door where he had a habit of pooping and pinching the dog's dried biscuits.

Inside Newhouse Farm the mission was on each morning to get the fires blazing and raise the temperature within the house above bitterly cold. Soon the sweet smell of woodsmoke surrounded the farm, adding to the crisp fresh scent of the wintery countryside. It was colder than I could ever remember the winter to have been, but the clear blue skies, frosty landscape, and phenomenal sunsets more than made up for the bitter temperatures. What's more the wintry weather necessitated me piling on the many layers of thermals, hand-knitted woolly jumpers, and fingerless mittens that I'd received for Christmas.

The ducks and geese seemed to be oblivious to the cold, jumping into the pond for an icy dip each morning as soon as I'd opened the doors to their houses to let them out. But the pigs weren't at all fond of the icy conditions. They'd spend even longer snuggled up together inside their house having lengthy afternoon naps, until the evening came when they tentatively stepped across the frozen muddy ground to eat their dinner. We made sure that they had plenty of straw inside their house to keep them cosy during the long cold nights.

One of my first activities of the year was to prepare the polytunnel and greenhouse for planting. The beds were still littered with skeletal tomato plants and a few limp rows of baby leaf salad, which needed clearing out and tidying ready for me to dig in a load of compost. As I was clearing the polytunnel of last year's plant detritus I suddenly remembered what James and Dick had told me about the hens. They'd said that each year they put a few hens into the polytunnel to help clear it of slugs and snails that might be hibernating in there, waiting to munch their way through any spring seedlings, plus any fallen fruits that had gone mouldy. I particularly love it when I discover that the animals at the farm can be used to help with tasks and chores, such as the pigs who are natural rotivators and geese who are nature's answer to the lawn mower. So without any hesitation I headed straight over to the chicken run to grab myself a few hens.

Trying to avoid encountering William the cockerel who would be bound to object violently to me stealing his ladies, I snuck into the hen house and as stealthily as possible, grabbed a hen and carried it over to the polytunnel. I repeated this procedure several times until I'd assembled a small gathering of hens. After providing them with some corn, and making sure there was enough water in the pond to quench their thirst, I sat back in a wicker chair in the polytunnel, put my feet up on a stool and waited to see what would happen.

Because the polytunnel was enclosed and protected from the chilly elements outside the ground was dry and dusty. As soon as the hens were placed in the polytunnel they immediately made a bee-line for the dustiest spot and started to take dust baths. First they'd lie on one side and vigorously scratch and flap so that dust would fly all over them, and then they'd repeat this process on the other side. James had told me that dust baths are very hygenic for hens, as the dust helps to kill off any parasites and mites. The hens clearly seemed to be loving the opportunity to pamper themselves, as soon they were all scrabbling around kicking up the dust into clouds, rolling from one side to the other as they preened themselves.

Although there was snow coating the exterior of the polytunnel, the bright wintry sunlight caused the temperature inside the polytunnel to feel quite mild. It suddenly occurred to me that this visit to the polytunnel dust baths was the poultry equivalent of a trip to a spa, and I vowed to treat all the hens to this luxurious experience the following day. After a lengthy session in the dust baths, the hens soon got to work scratching at the earth in the raised beds that lined the polytunnel, pecking at any hidden grubs that they uncovered. They were doing a fantastic job and saving me a huge amount of time and effort by digging over the beds.

The following morning I caught the hens one by one and carried them to the 'spa', putting half of them into the polytunnel and the other half into the greenhouse. Within no time the hens were busy bathing and scratching around for bugs, whilst the cockerels remained outside in the snow looking a bit perplexed. Every now and again the cockerels would emit a plaintive "Cock-a-doodle-doo" as if to say "Where are youuuu?", but the hens weren't listening. This was a girls' day out at the spa, and there was going to be no interference from pesky males to spoil their fun today!

Once I was happy that the hens were content and had plenty of water and corn available I went inside to check my emails, only to laugh out loud at one that I received from a close group of female friends in London. These friends wanted to know if I fancied meeting them for a girls' weekend outing to Bath, where the plan was to spend time pampering ourselves at a spa. The comparison between me and my friends nattering away on our girly spa weekend and the group of hens clucking away in the polytunnel 'spa' was just too funny, and I quickly emailed my friends to let them in on the joke.

Shortly before sundown I returned to the greenhouse and polytunnel to provide the hens with their transportation back to the safety of the henhouse. This meant catching the hens and carrying them one by one, but did the hens want to be caught, oh no they did not. They'd all clearly had a very pleasant day at the 'spa' and they didn't want to leave. Hens can run pretty damn fast when they put their mind to it, and I had to dodge and dive in the dirt in an attempt to get my hands on them. There was a lot of clucking, flapping and swearing as we all charged up and down and around the polytunnel as the sun gradually sank lower in the evening sky. Eventually, dusty, angry, and with a very sore back I managed to return the final hen to the hen house. The hens had clearly had a great day's respite from the wintry weather, and had thoroughly repaid me by eating up lots of hidden grubs, but from now on only one us was going to be visiting a spa and that was me!

(Pictured to the right: Hobbes the cat having a sneaky afternoon nap amongst the clucking ladies.)