The Old Hen House

At one time, things were made to last.

Fiona and I went to have a last wander around the Morrocco's garden. The lower garden has long since been abandoned and almost impossible to reach for many years. Now some of the old paths have been cleared and although precarious, the incredibly steep steps down the cliff can now be negotiated.

Another trip down memory lane to years before the Morroccos moved in. The Scott's had a live in gardener who kept the grounds manicured to perfection. The front of the house was a formal garden. The borders were weedless and I still remember the odour of the highly scented roses that thrived from endless care. The banks that led down to the railway line were a woodland meadow, a blanket of flowers that bloomed all summer and were the source of many a posy to take indoors. Beyond the meadow the laden fruit trees cast shadows over a prolific vegetable garden. I loved to see how Jim seeded, planted, and was happy to spend hours watching how he pruned the trees, took cuttings, and grafted new varieties onto old stock.

Nearly 50 years ago, I'd get up at the crack of dawn, creep out of the slumbering house and leg it down to help Jim feed the few chickens that were kept in this hen house. What joy it gave me collect the eggs that were laid in the straw, often being given one to take home. I'd lay a bed table with a pretty tray cloth and posy from the meadow, add the fresh egg, boiled for 3 minutes, some toast and take it through to my Grandmother. She deserved it!

The old dogs gravestone was just outside the chicken run. Jim used to tell me that the good dogs ghost protected the hens. I wonder who dug it out and why. The hen house now only has 3 walls, but it's there and not completely rotten.

I'd forgotten to fill out this, my last back blip. What to take today... for my 300th entry?!