We are the real thing.

These are wild hens. They have the yard under their wing.
They are not wandering round a boring field being 'Free Range'. They are ranging, freely, and with style. They are on the trailers, and the tractors, they are everywhere, with attitude. They are not just Happy Hens, they are Feisty Hens.

I think I will become a super-being after eating their eggs, which I bought after swinging into a drive on the spur of the moment, after seeing a sloppily painted 'Eggs' sign, into a true Cold Comfort Farm.
It was insane. I hesitated to take more photos as I anticipated the press of the barrels of a shot gun into my temple. It was that sort of place. And toaly deserted.
There were cages of the most ferocious black Labradors I have ever seen, or heard, and a farm house which made mine seen crisp and modern, and terribly clean (it's not).

I found the eggs, in the end, in a fridge in the drive, with a glass full of money they had already been paid.