Stromness Dragon

On moving to the islands we set about trying to provide as much of our own food as we could, on the basis that if we could make our own food then we would need less money to buy food, and if we needed less money to buy food then we could exist on a smaller income. And work less. We got an allotment which is fantastic at providing the veg stuff, and I began to think about chickens. The Stromness garden was quite sheltered but the logistics defeated me, and I had visions of a repeat of the 1952 gales when half of Orkney’s hen houses blew into the sea. I like to imagine that somewhere there is an island where all the hens landed, and have gone on to live a life blissfully free of human intervention. Hentopia. It’s somewhere in the Pentland Firth, not far from Swona, where there is a herd of feral cattle, left when the last inhabitants moved off the island in the 1970s.

However, there lurked in Stromness a band of intrepid souls who decided that there was no earthly reason why hens shouldn’t be kept in the town. After all, it was only a couple of generations ago that just about every garden in Stromness had a chook or two in the yard. There was a bit of land, up behind the kirk, owned by a local councillor who shall remain nameless (hem hem). He was very supportive of the Stromness hen co-op and offered his patch of ground, generously at no charge. We joined the hen co-op in its second year, and shared responsibility for 9 hens with 3 other couples. We took it in turns on a week-by-week rota to feed and water them and clean out the poo (superb manure). The eggs would be distributed equally amongst all, every 2-3 days. We all lived within close walking distance of the run, so it was all terribly eco – the egg miles were minimal. It was a great system.

Then one day I had a knock at the door. On the doorstep stood aforementioned councillor. ‘Are you one of the chicken people?’ It was a strong beginning, I’ll give him that. I admitted my connection, and then sensing something was not right, I went on to add that it was not our week for it. He shuffled his feet and looked at the ground and informed me that he had had a complaint from one of the residents about the hens. A complaint? We looked after them well (in fact they were spoilt rotten), we cleaned them out almost every day. We put them in at night and let them out in the morning. What could anyone possible complain about? Oh, our councillor said, it was the noise. The NOISE? By this point we had 6 hens, and at no time did we ever have a cockerel. How could anyone POSSIBLY complain about the noise? Well, apparently they could because this resident claimed that the hens woke him up too early in the morning. It was on the tip of my tongue to ask how the hell this man was going to shut up all the rooks that nested in the trees, and the gulls that screeched above his rooftop. Instead I glared at my councillor who muttered something about how this put him in a very awkward position etc etc (shuffle shuffle). It was hopeless, I could tell. ‘When do you need them to go?’ I asked. ‘End of the week’. So that was that. A home was found for them and the co-op was at an end.

Then we moved to the wilds of the west mainland, to a traditional-ish cottage and enough land to bear a garden, a greenhouse (only hypothetical at this stage) and a hen run!

There are some pretty fancy hen houses out there, and they can cost you a lot of money. But I figured that we had a lot of scrap wood, and Mr Dragon is pretty handy with a hammer, so we decided to build one ourselves out of whatever we could beg, borrow or steal. We got fence posts from one friend, chicken wire from another, sheets of tin from the Stromness coop, and then got offered hens too! We had to buy a couple of boxes of nails, and I had a rush of blood to the head at the mart garden sale and bought a fancy food hopper. Our expenditure in total has been less than £10.00.

On Monday night we took possession of our lovely lavender bantams (two hens and one feisty little cockerel) and they are settling into their new home. Here are some photos of the hen house being built, the little ones looking round their new place, and the very first teeny tiny bantam egg!

Building inspection

A bit of shelter from the northerly winds

Dusty investigates

Whose more freaked out?

Lavender bantams - two hens and one cockerel

Peck peck

Guardmouse

All come to have a look

Beryl the Feral

Very small egg = very small cake

Tags: cats, hens, Orkney

Hens imminent! House built! Straw procured! Fence sturdy! Lots of pics and full blog coming soon….(and eggs, hopefully).

Do you have planning permission for that?

Tags: hens, Orkney, Quoyloo

Back in May 2006 they began to build the nest. The spot they chose was just inside the 10m long passageway, opposite the huge ½ ton blocking stone that once sealed the entrance to the tomb. It is probably the most public space in the monument, not hidden, unprotected (although sheltered from the weather). On an average summer’s day, two hundred people a day walk up the passage and the same number (hopefully) walk back down again. The nest was at about 3 ft off the floor, and any visitors have to bend to that height to get in. So they were at eye level with the birds. 

At about the halfway point of construction the other Maeshowe stewards and I contacted the local RSPB warden. He checked the nest and advised that we could take it away, but the swallows would probably just start building it again in the same place, so we left it to see what would happen.

They finished, and a week later, careful checking revealed 5 eggs. We were amazed but feared the worst - the birds were constantly disrupted as they incubated the eggs. Every time a group of twenty folk went in, the birds would fly into the large central chamber and perch high on the Neolithic masonry. Once all the visitors were inside, the birds would swoop back down the passageway and take up position on the nest again. Thirty minutes later, the group would leave, and so would the birds. And then the process was repeated. 11 times in all, sometimes more if we squeezed two tours into one slot. It was terrifying!

We didn’t want to draw attention to the nest, because then everyone would want to look and touch and coo. But we had to tell people to keep their hands tucked in and also warn anyone who was scared of birds. In addition, our summer visitors included lots of young, active children who were exactly the right height to look directly into the nest!

Our introduction to the visitors outside would be accompanied by the mummy and daddy swallows flitting above the entrance. As soon as we were in they would settle. We got use to them, delighted in their antics, watched them perching on the gate. Of course we tried not to think about the future but we were not optimistic. Even if they did incubate and hatch the chicks successfully, how could they ever fledge and survive with us traipsing up and down the passageway?

If it were up to me I would have closed the monument. Ha ha! For 3 weeks during the busiest time of year? Visitors from all over the world arriving on our doorstep to be told that the monument was shut to enable baby swallows to fly away? It just wouldn’t happen. The swallows would have to take their chances.

Tormiston Mill (which serves as the Maeshowe visitor centre) and the nearby farm are noted for their swallow populations. Year after year they nest in the roofs, the eves, under staircases, in the engines of old tractors. And for several months in the summertime they are a common sight flitting constantly over the fields and houses around. They have a lovely motion, flicking their bodies and changing direction in a millisecond. Beautiful creatures, and getting more special by the day…

Then the chicks hatched. We went in one morning and there were four tiny swallows, all crammed into the nest and cheeping loudly for their food. Our greatest worry was that the chicks would be scared by human proximity before they could fly and would fall out of the nest to be eaten by another bird or squashed underfoot by a visitor or steward accidentally. And yet, they seemed unbothered by our presence. Every morning on opening up we were greeted by four bleary feathered faces and four pink open mouths shouting for worms. Whilst we conducted tours inside, parent swallows fed the babies to a chorus of approving cheeps. Young children were holding their breath with wonder and grown adults were seen to be wiping away a tear. Who cared about Neolithic man and Viking runes? Here were baby swallows inches from our faces! Never mind the little piles of mess and the acrid smell that caught the back of your throat.

Our attitude was to take it a day at a time, and just hope. Nature could be cruel and you can’t save them all, we were told. I fretted about the cold stone floor underneath and briefly contemplated putting down a bit of matting. The next concern was when the little birds tried to fly. Would they get out OK? Would they get back in without being squashed? Would they be too scared to return? Our little birds were fearless and I will never forget going into the main chamber and there 10 feet above me were three swallows - mum, dad and new fledgling swaying unsteadily on a wire. They stayed for the whole tour. Obviously the parents were keen for their offspring to get a good grounding in archaeology!  

The next two fledglings were flying within days but we were worried about the smaller one left in the nest. Had it been abandoned? It looked weaker but was just as vocal. We found it flapping about on the floor of the passageway one day, squawking loudly. I had no choice, folk were coming in, so I just picked it up and popped it back in the nest. After the tour I phoned the RSPB and spoke to a warden who said no problem, if it falls out, put it back. In fact, he said, we could put it somewhere close by but more protected and the adults would probably still find it. The next day, there were no signs of any of the birds, and our nest was empty. All our little ones had flown away!

For the first time, as far as we knew, swallows had been raised successfully inside Maeshowe chambered tomb. The RSPB officer informs us that if they breed in one spot successfully, the chances are they will return to the same place in future years. Part of me is delighted, but another part of me thinks I couldn’t cope again with the emotional trauma! Who knows what the coming months will bring?

Tags: Maeshowe, Orkney, swallows