Wellies on. Coat on. Hat on. Squelch up the field. Trudge through the mud, each step squeezes out water beneath my boots. Even up here on the top of our low mountain the land is saturated. In theory every drop that has fallen is making its way down to our neighbouring valleys, where having nowhere else to go, it forms puddles, pools and lakes. I know I shouldn't complain - after all there are others actually under water and far worse off - not merely pee'd off by day after day of grey skies and rain.
But I am irked. Even the irritating 'Pollyanna-ish' side of me is failing to remain chipper. Perhaps I should follow my hens' example.
The new hens, perhaps overjoyed at having avoided their fate in 'enriched cages' in a battery house, have taken to life on this blustery hillside with enthusiasm. They're not whingeing about rain and wind - no - they're out there clucking and scratting, having a lovely time; their mission to convert the grassy pen to a mud patch nearly complete. It's surprising how much damage 34 small feet can wreak.
Here they are enjoying their afternoon corn and below trying to peck the word 'Dunlop' off my boots. I know, bird brained or what?
