One thing as is certain as certain, and that is - when the maize is due to be harvested on the Wattlebury Estate - it will rain. Today is the day that the tractors are moving in - we have already heard them rumble past - and through the morning fog the rain has arrived. Steady and rather determined-looking rain too.
Dad is helping out at our local Poultry Show sale today. He has taken a quartet of Silver Sebrights and a pair of Black Orpingtons. Sylvia was very proud to see the latest generation of fine Silvers loaded into the car with two of Gareth's youngsters. Dad assured us that he will find them suitable and kind new owners.
And Mum, Kizzie and Harvey had a trip to the seaside yesterday! They walked along the promenade in the sunshine and met lots of fellow hoomans and their dogs doing likewise.
Dad is helping out at our local Poultry Show sale today. He has taken a quartet of Silver Sebrights and a pair of Black Orpingtons. Sylvia was very proud to see the latest generation of fine Silvers loaded into the car with two of Gareth's youngsters. Dad assured us that he will find them suitable and kind new owners.
And Mum, Kizzie and Harvey had a trip to the seaside yesterday! They walked along the promenade in the sunshine and met lots of fellow hoomans and their dogs doing likewise.
One of our favourite books in Harvest's Library is called 'The Miseries of Human Life' written by James Beresford in 1806. It reminded me of a comical quote from the fellow -
'After going down to the beach, lingering and shivering about the sands for an hour till you can snatch courage to make your own attempt to be drowned, with a choice of pitching yourself headlong into the raging deep, or crawling down the steps and making a low bow to the first wave that you can catch in the humour to swallow you up and wreck your breathless carcase against the shore. Then, on regaining land in your new character (that of a bruised and bleeding cripple), you discover that your towel is safely locked up at home.'
I think you can appreciate why us chickens and the sea don't mix.
'After going down to the beach, lingering and shivering about the sands for an hour till you can snatch courage to make your own attempt to be drowned, with a choice of pitching yourself headlong into the raging deep, or crawling down the steps and making a low bow to the first wave that you can catch in the humour to swallow you up and wreck your breathless carcase against the shore. Then, on regaining land in your new character (that of a bruised and bleeding cripple), you discover that your towel is safely locked up at home.'
I think you can appreciate why us chickens and the sea don't mix.