Find your happy place.
The advice given on a couple of occasions felt clichéd as if it were the chapter heading in a self-help book
from a conniving business writer. But it was honest. It had seen me through
many evenings.
I was tweeting from my
little shed a few months ago, whilst sat enjoying a couple of beers, when
somebody asked me a rather obvious question: “Why do you drink beer in the shed? Are you not allowed to drink in the
house?” I giggled at first then realised it was a genuine question. It does
seem odd. It would seem so to outsiders. I’m obviously allowed to drink in the
house. I think it was still winter when I was asked and I’d chosen to sit in a
dark, wooden, leaning shack with a hot water bottle stuffed down my jumper
rather than the far-too-comfortable sofa in front of the fire inside a brick
house.
It is more than a shed to me
though. It has become my happy place. The garden as a whole has, but this is
one area that has a selfishly calming effect on me.
Males have commonly created
such areas in the home. I’ve heard plenty of people comment to me along the
lines of “So this shed is like your man
cave?” Man cave. It seems a phrase evocative of toxic masculinity, coming
from a place where men need their own space where they can act like children
but lift no fingers. I wonder though whether there was ever another side to it;
whether the societal male difficulty in expressing emotions, which leads to the high suicide numbers comparatively, is hidden behind “Men Caves.” It's a stupid name but is it a
hidden need for an area where they can be alone and control depression or
anxiety?
Because that is what the
shed does for me.
That isn’t to negate the
idea that finding a happy place is
advice for all. There is no hint of Man
Cave to me about this space, but it did make me think.
Beer is, of course, much
more than a social lubricant to me, otherwise this blog wouldn’t exist. I do take
joy in drinking beer, especially at home. On my consumption scale, I drink
relatively little at home so when I do it tends to be accompanied by a little
excitement in making the choice, opening that beer you were excited about on
purchase, choosing inappropriate glassware and sitting back to enjoy –
sometimes more than others – the taste you paid for.
More of the contemplative
beers are consumed in and around the shed, though the odd Norwegian pilsner is
known to have been supped here. It doesn’t always have to be because of a sad
event but I certainly come to my happy place when something particularly upsetting
has happened.
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| Gladys in a plant pot |
The Shed and the Coop
As somebody who grew up in
an animal-hating home I surprise myself, as much as others, how much I adore
them now and how many are around the place. Of course, many people have dogs
and cats and mine are incredibly special to me. But somehow I have become
famous as a keeper of chickens. Often it is all anybody wants to talk about. Plenty
still ask me inappropriately when I “chop off their heads and stick them in a
pot” but some are genuinely interested.
Perhaps it is because they
are pets to us who happen to lay eggs as a by-product. Most of the eggs we give
away for free, some even to our vegan friends who are respectful of the fact
that our hens live a happy life and are not required to lay. Some lay fairly
irregularly. Some are still too young. Some lay every day.
The beginning of our brood
came to us from my partner’s sister, where they had lived a few years in great
free range conditions, allowed to wander a huge hillside with no restrictions.
When her sister moved, the cockerel and remaining hens couldn’t go with her and
so we became chicken owners. Whilst not quite a sweeping hillside, they were
still given free rein to saunter as they chose. They were close-knit; never too
far from one another.
We added to the brood with
three ex-battery hens, still in their youth who were shabby but inquisitive.
They had the most incredible personalities, heightened by their love of the
space they had inherited. They were wanderers but also attracted to human
voices. They were always in the shed whenever I was in there, scratching around
my feet for any scraps I may have with me.
They, with all the animals,
make it extra special. It may sometimes feel like a place of solitude but it is
always improved by a surprise visit from one of the many animals.
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| Domino joining me for a drink outside the shed |
Inevitably, the wanderers
wandered too far. We were sat in the Guildford Arms in Edinburgh when we
received the phone call from those feeding our animals for a few days. Buttercup
had climbed into next door’s garden and spooked their usually quiet Lurcher.
She was our first loss.
Rosemary was a real Marco
Polo. She frequently didn’t make it back into the coop at night time, only to
be waiting at the back door the following morning, chirping loudly to be let
into the kitchen. Except on one occasion. She’d had one of those chicken moments and had seemingly been
scared-to-death of something we’ll never know. She was in the hedge. Now she is
next to the rosemary bush.
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| Rosemary on the left, Buttercup on the right |
Those two led to change. It
couldn’t continue and when we had impending new baby arrivals, we had to reduce
their ability to explore. I’d miss the rest joining me in the shed or the
kitchen but it was for the best. They still have a great deal of room mind and
we were able to create a new area when, amongst others, Dolly arrived; with her
beautiful plume and distinctive cluck. When Dolly became our first loss to a
fox after only a couple of weeks it was surprising the impact it had on my
partner and I. She made quite the impression in such a short time. There were a couple of trips to the shed that
week.
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| Dolly |
Having favourite brood
members is a little like having favourite children: you really shouldn’t. But
there was no denying who ours was. Gladys arrived with the original members of
the brood. My most FAQ about hens is “What is their expected lifespan?” For
happy hens it is around 4-6 years. Gladys was seven when she arrived. She never
laid a single egg with us. She never needed to. This was her retirement home.
Gladys was the bee of the
chicken world - anatomically she made no sense. She shouldn’t have been able to
achieve any form of aviation. She was a huge volleyball with spindly legs. You
could hear Gladys jump down from her perch in the morning from inside the
house. She broke the bottom of the coop – three times – with this motion. Her
run towards food was the most comical. She was the first to bed and the last up
in the morning. She was the pensioner of the brood. She was nine fricking years
of age. She was beautiful.
I never wanted to have to
spend an evening in the shed because of her. I never wanted that beer to be in
this moment. But, after Sunday morning, that is how it is. At least it was just
her age that caught up with her. She’s underneath her favourite tree now.
I just needed an hour with a
beer sat outside the shed. It’s not just a happy place. Sometimes it is a very
sad place. But it is important. I’ve written before about how it has helped me
manage health issues and I would still implore everybody to find that spot, wherever
it may be. It may be that spot on the sofa in front of the fire. There is
nothing wrong with taking time to yourself with a beer.
Sometimes it really is just
about opening a beer and having that moment.
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