In the capital a visit, from a neighbour, inevitably signalled a blocked drain (ours was the “end of the run” and our vigilant – retired – neighbour closely monitored any variations of depth of water), a community protest to the council or the handing over of a package from Amazon. Not so in the country. On Saturday, the visit, from a neighbour, heralded the intriguing mystery of the unexplained presence of a brown hen. An interloper had been found in the hen house and a neighbourhood trawl was underway to re-unite the girl and her owner. Our five were quickly counted and returned to their foraging and disastrously broody behaviour. (One black hen is determined to hatch an egg and pays no attention, whatsoever, to the cautionary tale of Jemima Puddleduck.) The quest, however, went on. The hawk who, ten days ago, calmly butchered then brazenly consumed a wood pigeon in our back garden, has not returned for dessert. But Solomon, the squirrel, is disarmingly persistent in his determination to bury every horse chestnut, from an adjoining plot, (Why grow inedible horse chestnuts rather than succulent, satisfying, sweet chestnuts?) in our lawn. One peers through windows with some trepidation, each morning. Pheasants, squirrels, doves, wood pigeons, hawks, nomadic hens – they are all passé. There is a very real fear that we may become a “must be seen” holiday destination for flamingoes, llamas (from the field up the road) or “a herd of wilde beest stampeding across the plain”. It truly is a jungle out there!
