The Begining

A month ago; late afternoon, early evening and the wind blowing from the east, funnelling down the hillside and across our valley had teeth that bit into the face and numbed the ears. The sky across the Downs was black and heavy with rain as we carefully carried the plastic crate from the back of the car to the new chicken run.
Everything was ready; two new chicken arks, one for the hens and one for the ducks, food, water, clean straw and electric fencing to keep out Mr. Fox.
The hens were released first, four soft brown Red Rangers, two glossy black Copper Marrans and two sleek black Silver Sussex with white ruffs. The Red Rangers would lay the eggs, the others were window dressing. They would lay eggs but not as many. As we scooped them out of the crate and tucked them into the ark the wind caught the trees growing on the bank above the chicken run and bare branches danced across the grey sky. Then it was the turn of the ducks, Kharki Campbells, soft, grey and brown feathers, light weights for laying eggs not for eating. These popped noisily into their new home.
Then we shut everything up, switched on the electric fences and walked back across the field towards the darkening sky. Collars pulled up, gloves on against a bitter cold March day which was slowly gathering itself ready for the night.
Would my new brood be alright? Would the electric fence keep out intruders? This was more nerve racking than motherhood.
As we walked away across the field it suddenly occurred to me that this was the end of a journey and the beginning of a new voyage.
The journey had started almost three and a half years ago in the corner of a cemetery laid out with neat, carefully tended graves lit with early autumn sunlight. As a coffin was lowered into the open ground I bade my Dad farewell for the last time and turned away to face life without (probably) the best friend I had ever had.
For three long years I became the custodian of what had been his life; his home and his small holding, seven acres of sussex countryside that he had worked for over sixty years. Land he had loved, land I grew up on, land I had become part of as well. When the long, painful process of solicitors and probate was finished I found myself the owner of six acres, a cluster of buildings and a large vegetable garden that he had cherished through twenty years of retirement. I had been struggling to keep this part of him alive, juggling work, family and a host of other things. I had a good friend who had started helping me with the vegetable garden but it wasn't enough so the point came when I decided to give up the day job, retire and become a real small holder.
In my head I had a plan that involved self sufficiency (the usual thing), growing food, keeping chickens and ducks, maybe a pig or two and walking in the footsteps of a man who had over the years inspired in me a love of the countryside, a joy in the tiny part of it he owned and a desire to grow rhubarb!