When we moved to Devon nearly 10 years ago, I went to a battery farm to get a dozen hens, and it was like a light bulb going on. I thought: “Let’s see if I can re-home some.” I took 100 and all went well, which made me realise there was potential for some serious rescue work. Last year we found homes for 5,000. We cover 11 counties. As we get bigger, fundraising becomes an issue. We have to ensure our co-ordinators have the right equipment; my phone bill has rocketed, and feed, vets’ bills and insurance are costly too. But the work is my passion: I live and breathe it.
After a quick breakfast — porridge and honey, or grapefruit and wholemeal toast — I deal with any sick hens. I answer calls from rescue co-ordinators, and from people wanting to adopt hens. I write to MPs and MEPs. I write to food manufacturers and all the supermarkets, asking them to market products using barn or free-range eggs. They don’t just get one letter. After several letters from me, the chairman of Hellmann’s has at last promised that they will explore the demand for mayonnaise made with free-range eggs, which is very positive of them. It’s not just about rescuing fluffy chickens. Hardly a day goes by when I don’t get a supportive card from someone — always with a chicken on it — thanking me on behalf of the hens.
I make contact with battery farmers by cold calling, or by phone if they’re too far away. Once they’ve met me, they’re completely trusting. I reassure them that I’m not an animal activist. And I know it’s no good just killing the battery-egg trade in this country, because it will go abroad and we’ll have even less control over welfare standards. I’d like demand for battery eggs to cease. It’s down to the consumer to make the choices, though.
On Tuesday, the Battery Hen Welfare Trust will be launching as a registered charity, and to celebrate we’re going to take out 2,200 birds from a local farm. We’ll have help from as far away as Kent. Rescue days are like military operations: we arrive at the farm, unload crates, exchange pleasantries with the farmer, and we’re off. The farmer takes a line of hens out of cages, and volunteers pass them, four legs in each hand, to a packer, who puts them safely into crates. It can be hot work, and we usually end up being scratched by some poor dear who doesn’t recognise a saviour when she sees one. I try not to look at those I can’t take. It’s like they’re watching tennis: hundreds of heads follow every move.
It’s probably the most stimulation they’ve had in their entire lives.
Advertisement
Back at home, we work in teams of four: two unloading, two clipping toenails — they’ve been standing on wire, so their nails just grow and grow. The UK has over 20m battery hens at any one time.
I take out 1,000, and it’s heartbreaking to see the thousand beautiful hens replacing them. They won’t see daylight for a year, then they may go into the food chain, in soup, paste, pies, dog food or even restaurant and takeaway meals.
When people arrive to take the hens, I ask them over and over if they have everything they need. Each hen deserves the best. Those in the worst condition have no feathers on them — I call them the “oven-readies”. And you have to make sure they’re not exposed to the hot sun or the cold. Their plumage soon starts growing back, though, and their pale combs and faces turn a lovely red. As the hens depart for a new life, the team also leaves, with congratulatory hugs.
If it’s not a rescue day, I take a break for lunch with Rob. I’m not a vegetarian: I eat fish and I’ll cook a free-range chicken for Rob and the dogs — not one of mine, perish the thought! We eat healthily, but our weak point is cake or chocolate.
Every six weeks I meet my sister, and we go to the shopping mall, Cribbs Causeway, in Bristol. For me, it’s real dressing up — my big day out. How sad! But I can’t wait to get home to my girls.
Advertisement
At the end of the day, I collect the eggs. The hens are past their peak, but they do go on laying, and they can live for years. My oldest, Mrs Brown, is eight now. I sell eggs door to door — maybe 20 dozen a week — to pay for feed. They taste like eggs used to taste, and anyone who tries them wants more.
The hens are out all day, but come dusk they wander back into their henhouses. You always get the odd stragglers who want to go out on the town. I round them up, say “night night, girls,” and shut the pop holes.
Most evenings I’m working, but I do stop for Coronation Street. It’s a switch-off, to stop me thinking about hens.
I go to bed about 10.30. I have a strong faith, and I’m really glad and grateful that I’ve been given the opportunity to do what I do. I say to myself how lucky I am. But I’ll make myself read about a chapter of a novel, because even I’m aware that, for goodness’ sake, there are other things in life."
For more information, visit: www.thehenshouse.co.uk