Seagulls in the Attic Read Online Free PDF

feathers on her neck and tail. I’ve learned that these Sussex hens were bred white so that no dark quill marks showed up on their skin when they were plucked. Her eggs are pale brown, not like my other replacement, the Maran hen, whose eggs are a rich dark chocolate colour.
    While my hens cluck and peck at the corn I’ve tossed them, I check the nest boxes to see if they’ve started laying again. They stopped over winter, and then with the move to their new home, they’re a bit slow getting started again.
    I put my hand in the straw. The first box is empty, but eureka! The other one has a single egg in it. I peer at it and see that it’s one of the brown Rhode Islanders. I’m so tempted to run home with it to show Ben, Amy and Will, but I know I have to leave it there. Even when there’s no need, when there’s no cockerel around to fertilise a hen’s eggs, she’s still massively protective of them. If I take this one away, whoever did the laying will decide the nest box isn’t a safe place and take her future eggs somewhere else. I don’t want them to start laying all over the orchard.
    I go out and croon over the hens. ‘Wonderful job, girls, you’re brilliant! Great start, whoever it was. I’m sure you’ll all be laying before the week is out. I can’t tell you how we’re all looking forward to fresh eggs for breakfast again.’
    They cock their heads to one side as chickens do, looking at me with one beady eye, following me around. As I walk through the old orchard, I feel, as I do each time, that I’m in some kind of fairy tale, an eerie yet benign story of ancient elves, sprites and spirits. The pear trees mixed in with the apples are old, gnarled and well past their prime. Emerald green moss grows up the battered trunks and on the odd rocks strewn seemingly randomly here and there. Branches have broken off throughout the years and been left to lie where they fell, some beginning to rot and split. From here you can see neither the road nor any house other than Poet’s Tenement, which, from this side, looks like a whimsical castle fit for a magnificent Elfin king.
    With great satisfaction I once again head towards home, stopping on my way to pick the tops off a bunch of nettles growing at the edge of the lane, making sure I don’t pick any leaves dog-pee height as I learned from the Truro lady in my food-foraging class. I’ve been reading up on how to find and identify food that can be picked for free. Apparently the early spring nettles are the best, and there are masses growing now. I pick enough to steam for our dinner tonight, wearing the thick gloves I bought especially for this purpose. Last time I picked nettles I wore my yellow Marigold gloves, learning the hard way how painful nettle stings can be. That time I obviously steamed the nettles too lightly as they were still a bit tough and stingy. Will and Amy will groan when they see me walk in with this next batch but I’m ever hopeful. Nettles are supposed to taste a bit like spinach when cooked properly. Trial and error, I decide, though this year might be more error as it’s my first attempt.
    Back home, Ben has made a delicious stew from cheap but nourishing cuts of lamb from the butcher at St Geraint, potatoes and veg from local producers. The gravy is his own perfect blend of herbs and spices. We’ve both learned how to make tasty meals at half the cost of our London meals, back in the days when we bought any ingredient we fancied no matter what the cost. None of us would say we enjoyed our food more in those days than we do now.
    To top off our meal I steam the nettles to go with the stew. This time I only picked the top leaves as I was supposed to, and steamed it until it was just right. To everyone’s surprise, it’s delicious, a bit like spinach only with its own distinct taste. This food foraging does pay off, I decide. I vow to carry a basket or rucksack with me everywhere I go from now on, along with some thick gloves.
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