Duck Tales

One day I will write a memoir about my feathered friends.

This is the space on my Substack newsletter where I bravely share my writing rather than just writing about being brave :)

Back in 2016, when I was knee deep in chickens and ducks, I thought I’d write a memoir about my adventures. When we bought our house four years earlier, the ducks came with it. We named them Neville, Jemima and Vanessa. Then we got some chickens a few months later, after I’d done a lot of research on how to keep them. The ducks were more self-sufficient, but chicken-keeping really took me out of my comfort zone and ended up giving me a lot of confidence. And joy.

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I thought I’d found my calling in life. I loved keeping my little feathered friends. They made the garden come alive, and watching the ducks in single-line formation, walking from the pond, through the garden and past the house, disappearing under the five-bar gate so they could rummage in the field for slugs, is one of the images I’ll never forget.

I flirted with the idea of keeping a chicken hotel, a place where chicken owners could bring their chickens while they went on holiday. I thought about teaching people how to look after them. I designed a website and did all my research and planning, but like many things from back then, it didn’t come to fruition because I was always being pulled back to my writing.

And I thought about writing a chicken memoir. Memories interspersed with tips on how to keep them. It was my confidence that didn’t push me to complete that project. I had all the usual thoughts: Who am I to write about chicken-keeping? Who would care? You’re not an expert. All the usual stuff that goes through your head. I’m annoyed with myself now, because we had lots of adventures. Fortunately, I did keep a small journal, so I have recorded a few stories in there. (I’ve just opened it up and it says: summer evenings means avoiding the hedgehogs. And I recall walking to the chicken coops at night, in the dark, and almost stepping on a hedgehog in my flip-flops. It shouted at me VERY loudly - I didn’t know hedgehogs could cry out that loud - so I managed to avoid it. Meanwhile, I had to restart my heart after it had stopped for just a few seconds.)

I also wrote some stories on my old blog. So, I thought I’d bring some of those memories over here. Maybe one day, I’ll get round to writing my chicken and duck memoir.

I’ve got two stories today. Both are about the ducks. There are a few videos in there, too.

Indian Runner Ducks

Walking out the back door with my wellies on, I wondered how much exercise the ducks would make me do tonight. You see, every evening, the ducks and I have this little 'exercise' routine. I try and get the ducks into their run. They, in turn, will run and flap about everywhere but into their run.

Hatched earlier this year to a chicken, Wincey, it used to be easy to get them into bed at night, because they just followed their mum. Chickens are sensible. They know what to do just before dusk settles over the landscape. Before the beasties start prowling about, looking for prey.

But the ducks? They would run into the fox’s mouth sooner than coming towards me.

I've tried various methods. I've moved their run and attached house so it's closer to the main chicken run. That way, barriers are forcing the ducks to only go a certain way.

Of course, this didn't always work. Ducks are slippery little things and can get through spaces you don't anticipate. And I have to regularly move the run and house because ducks make a right mess of the grass.

And then I've physically made a kind of funnel with some spare fencing. Again, this only works if the fencing stays upright. If it happens to fall down whilst you're encouraging the ducks into their run then you end up with startled quacks and duck feet running in the opposite direction.

Every evening, I could be out there, running about, lifting heavy fencing, for about twenty minutes. I'd come back indoors, and my family would look at me. 'You alright?' they'd ask, peering at my flushed and sweaty face. 'Putting ducks to bed,' I'd reply, grumpily, sitting down and waiting for one of them to put a drink into my outstretched hand.

The following night, my husband or children would pop out to help me. And do you know what those cunning ducks did? Why, yes, they went into their run just like that. Six in a row. Straight into their house. No fuss. No drama.

And the following night, when I'm on my own again? That's right, you guessed it. Twenty minutes of fun and games.

So, I'm training my dog to get the ducks to bed for me. I've heard ducks can be herded by dogs. Whether they can be herded by DogFace, I don't know; she is what my son calls 'a lounge dog' rather than the highly trained gun dogs that are in her family tree.

The first time we tried it, I swear I thought DogFace was going to catch one in her mouth. Like she does with the pigeons. She was just a little bit too keen.

Round and round the chicken run the dog and ducks would go. One duck got stuck in some nettles, so I had to fetch her out (leading to lots of stings for me), and another duck, not knowing which way to go, once he'd got behind a wooden chair. But one by one, they went into their run either by themselves or after being scooped up by me. [Incidentally, ducks are so lovely to hold - so soft. But they do have a habit of relieving themselves down your clothes.]

After a good few days of training the dog, with lots of shouting (me) and lots of disobeying (DogFace), we had a result. The ducks had taken themselves into a run and house before I'd even got my wellies on. A pity it wasn't their house but the new chickens' house. But it was progress of sorts.

The recent clock change and a return to the school run mean they now have to go in earlier. Otherwise, they could be snaffled by a fox before I get home. So yesterday afternoon, I managed to get five ducks to go in. One decided, at the last minute, to make a sudden right turn and avoid the opening. But DogFace was on it. She trotted after her, got her into a few dead ends, but eventually gently encouraged her into the run.

The Males of the Flock

I didn't deliberately set out to create a girls-only chicken run. I thought cockerels looked glorious, strutting about in the sunshine. Chest puffed, proudly looking after his harem.

I thought if I did have a cockerel, it would be the noise issue, the early morning crowing, that would convince me not to have one.

With drakes, this wouldn't be an issue. Because their quacks are softer, though no less urgent, than the females. A constant wack-wack, wack-wack as they walk about rather than a QUAAAACKK, QUACK, QUACK, QUACK of the more rowdy females.

But with six years of keeping ducks and chickens, you learn a few things.

Like, a cockerel doesn't just crow in the morning. It crows all day long.

And, it turns out, the noise a cockerel makes can be the least of your worries. They can cause no end of damage to your females if they're feeling a little amorous.

Same with the ducks. I remember seeing Neville the drake (RIP) trying to get a bit of loving from his female companion shortly after she'd been in the mouth of a fox. She was dying from shock, but that didn't stop him. I shooed him off, but it's difficult when they're a) ducks and b) in the middle of a deep pond.

(This is an old video called My Duck Story on YouTube featuring Neville.)

My grandmother told me that if we hatched drakes, then they wouldn't care which species they got their love from. And she was right. But I think, with the drakes we hatched, it was more about domination than procreation.

When Wincey the chicken became broody, I gave her some duck eggs. We had one duck at the time, and I thought it'd be lovely for her to have some duck company. And it was a wonderful time. Five out of six ducklings survived the hatching, and she nurtured them until they were old enough to do it themselves. (You can see their story in this video.)

As they grew, for a while, they still recognised Wincey. And would run over to her as soon as she came out of the chicken run in the morning. But now they were living in the duck house with DuckFace, my older duck, the only survivor from my previous batch. It was fantastic to see DuckFace running about with new friends.

Then the boy ducks, the drakes, matured.

Now, when they rushed over to see Wincey, they wanted to get on top of her. O-kay, I thought. Weird, but I'll block them from getting into the chicken run so Wincey can escape their clutches.

Then, a short while later, I found Wincey with a bloody comb, blood in her white feathers and mud all over her back. I knew, by the mud, a duck had been on top of her. I was mad.

Occasionally, I witnessed the drakes chasing the chickens. It might be Wincey, it might be another. Wincey would be their favourite target, but they'd be quite mean to the others, too. Only Nelly, my brown chicken, would stand up to them, flapping her wings and doing a chicken version of a kickboxer.

A week ago, DuckFace went missing.

It was DogFace that found her under a bush. She'd been there all day. After a few days of being under there, she disappeared again. She'd found another bush in the garden. I thought she was poorly. That she was looking for her final resting place. She began to look a little rough around the edges.

But then she disappeared completely. She was under no bushes in the garden at all. There was a big search during the Easter weekend with my children, sister and my nephews and niece. We found her down the stream near the front garden pond. A place she'd never been to before. We encouraged her back, paddling, slightly distressed, up the stream. Then she disappeared again.

And then I found out why.

She was being viciously attacked by the drakes.

I saw a movement out of the corner of my eye. My head did one of those comedy double-takes as the backdrop to the two ducks was a brown fence, and they were a little camouflaged. But there he was. Pinning her down. I shouted and shooed him away.

But I knew what this meant. It was time to become a female-only flock once more.

Now they've gone, I can feel a sense of relief from the girls. The chickens dare to come out of the run and explore the field. DuckFace is no longer hiding and is hanging around with the three other girl ducks. It feels more contented. They're happier.

Which means I'm happier. Sorry boys, but with my flock, we're better off without you.