I CANNOT remember when it started to rain. I think it was the day before yesterday, but perhaps even the day before that. I do not imagine that it will ever stop. At night, the rain glugs continuously into the drain, which is not unmusical; but the metronomic drip from a leak in the gutter—or is it in the roof?—maddens.
Standing at the entrance to the barn at first light this morning, behind a sheet waterfall, the sparrows on the roof girder above me share the same blurry view. After some subdued communal chatter, they decide they will stay undercover and scavenge around inside. I have less choice. With a bale of straw on my shoulder, I venture once more into the rain.
The farm track is a chain of blank puddles staring at a blank sky; the gateway to the chicken paddock is a quagmire. Anywhere humans tread is churned to mud. I whip out a penknife and cut the twine around the bale, then distribute its golden tranches at the entrance to the three chicken arks. The straw is for wiping dirty feet, the same principle as the human doormat. For one moment, the straw carpet is perfect; but, by mid-afternoon, the chickens in their to-and-fro-ing will have turned it sodden and brown and it will need replacing. A Sisyphean task with straw.
Diese Geschichte stammt aus der January 25, 2023-Ausgabe von Country Life UK.
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Diese Geschichte stammt aus der January 25, 2023-Ausgabe von Country Life UK.
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