This was our first egg, we shared it lovingly. Scrambled, three forks.


These eggs are now part of our daily routine.

Is there anything more potent than this early morning find, a still warm, terracotta shell, encasing the pure rich white and gold?

These morning gifts, tucked away in pockets, nestled under olive trees, beneath flowers or tucked into the corners of ancient earth walls (my hens choose their laying spots and these places vary).

Gardening with hens is a gift, a gift of these precious warm eggs, and companionship as they find me, follow me and respond to my words with their chatty clucks, bub bubs and occasional β€˜gremlin noises’ when they have something more urgent to impart.

And the gift of learning to be patient, as I find myself once more gritting my teeth when they -again – dig over and shred the last of my lettuce, uproot the courgette that was growing so magnificently and even break in to the fenced garden to dig up every last one of my potatoes…


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