It’s a fine thing to keep free range hens if they can be kept out of the flower beds and safe from foxes. They make soothing clucking noises, lay eggs and look decorative.
As a business proposition they are dicey. You may remember an early PG Wodehouse, Love Among the Chickens, originally published in 1906 and subsequently revised, that tells of Stanley Featherstonehaugh Ukridge’s travails rearing chickens and his friend’s travails wooing Phyllis Derrick. It is far from one of the Master’s ripest efforts. In those early years he was just getting his eye in.
But I digress. My mother kept chickens at Barmeath. They were delivered in cardboard boxes as day-old chicks and were deposited in a corral under a warm lamp. Their survival was rather Goldilocks. If the lamp was too hot they burnt to death, if it went off they froze to death. They had a tendency to peck each other’s bottoms, especially if they were a bit overcrowded. Anyway most of them seemed to pull through and were released into an old walled drying green. It was divided in two by a wire fence with the new comers on one side and the old guard on the other.
There are plenty of ways to amuse oneself with chickens besides hunting for eggs. A favourite was catching them and putting their heads under their wings: then rocking them in my arms until they fell asleep. I could then arrange them, fast asleep, in an appropriate pattern like a big C. My mother asserted, probably correctly, that this stopped them laying. There were too many eggs in the summer and not enough in winter so the summer surplus were put in big crocks and covered in isinglass for use in cooking over the winter.
The old guard had more or less stopped laying and were destined for the pot. It may not have adhered to the highest standard of animal husbandry but the drill was to put the victim under an upturned tea chest for about a day then, when its insides were cleansed, kill it.
Let’s move on to something more agreeable. An old broiler boiled slowly is full of flavour and eventually becomes tender. With lashings of parsley sauce it became a favourite. Other special requests on the last night of the holidays were pigeon pie and stuffed marrow. As I got a bit older our neighbour, Miss (Barbara) Smith, took my mother and me to Paddy Donegan’s pub for dinner. I remember enjoying Irish Coffee to round off the meal. The pub’s real name was The Monasterboice Inn and its proprietor a local landowner. Paddy Donegan hunted with the Louth and was a TD (member of the Dail). He rose to be Minister of Defence, Lands and Fisheries. He needed a big horse to carry him out hunting and in all respects was larger than life – a much-loved local figure, who often got into scrapes.
I had suspended my frequent urge to perpetually comment following my surprise guest appearance. Finding oneself elevated to that prestigious company of Guest Bloggers it seems somewhat uncharitable to continually critique and pooh-pooh my compeers. However, resistance is futile.
We used to frequently call at the Monasterboice Inn when making the old road trip from Dublin north. Now we scurry up the M1 bypassing all these places of interest. Happily the Inn is still operating, and when I called in a couple of years ago was pleased to see it had been extended and refurbished, they always produced a rather good steak.
Walking through Drogheda recently I was intrigued by a large sign on a building which simply read ‘Bru’ (a quick google will confirm). Stepping inside I found a chic modern bar & bistro, and thought by Jove, could the authors brother have exchanged the pulpit for the pub and set up shop in the county town?
I note that the spelling is Brú, referring his Norman ancestry perhaps. I like the sound of “Traditional Bacon & Cabbage” and “Creamy Seafood Chowder”.