So Jim blasts his horn to maintain his social distance and let me know he is delivering near enough 3 tonnes of horse muck to the top field. I dash out and open the gate. He backs just inside the field gate and tries to use his hydraulic tipper. No way. Far too heavy.
Realising we are both literally in the sh1t, I run to get wheelbarrow and shovels so we can remove some of it manually. The side of the truck goes down and we start to dig this towering heap of muck.
However, our chickens have seen the thousands of worms in the manure and are milling around our feet in great danger of being stood on or otherwise consumed beneath a landslide of poo. So we wheel some poo to the back of the truck and try to encourage our chickens to hunt there. Eventually the tipper creaks into action and we need to get those chickens away from the back of the truck fast.
Now the chickens are full of hunting adrenalin and not appreciative of our arm-waving tactics. And the gate is open! Then began the great chicken chase as they darted down the main road – do you know how fast chickens can run?
After evading all human efforts to catch them and displaying body swerves that even Barry John could only dream about, they both decided they would be safer in the eight foot tall, eight foot wide hawthorn hedge (interspersed with bramble, holly and dog rose).
In the meantime, Jim had tried to drive off the field but found his rear tyres had dug into the soft earth.
A few hours of struggle ensued…..
The chickens were retrieved only after we all had surrendered chunks of our dna to the hedge in the form of blood and torn hair. I fired up my little tractor and when I finally worked out how to put it in 4 wheel drive it helped pull Jim out of the mud.
I love retirement. It’s so relaxing.