SCREECHING of metal on metal. Sparks flying. Curses ringing through the air. What was John up to? Answer: Making a different sort of handle for one of his walking sticks, the creation of which are becoming quite an obsession with him.

I have counted how many pieces of hazel are hanging up in the big grain store. Twenty six. Surely I don’t need that many to be persuaded to plod round on a game drive through the mud and briars. Usually just the thought of a glass of sloe gin waved in front of me at the end, but better in the middle, of a shoot is enough to drive me on. So no, these sticks are not for me, but for his growing clientele of discerning stick owners.

But the handle of the stick he is making today is not his usual style. This one is going to be a shepherd’s crook, created from a horn off a blackface sheep. John was given a bundle of these horns by a friend who is a shepherd in Scotland.

The horns themselves are magnificent, but too twisted to easily create a handle. For this reason John has been making a clamp out of scrap metal from the frame off the back of an Agribuggy.

The frame was part of the spinner and was lying in a heap of scrap metal. John was able to solder part of the frames himself, but needed to take two plates to a blacksmith to have restraining holes drilled into them. I was not the only interested party to this barn task, however. The hens we rescued from becoming chicken nuggets are now not only confident members of our little flock, they are super confident.

The minute they see the doors open on the big shed they are in. You would think that the draw might be the big pile of grain in the corner, but although quite a number of the hens make a mad dash to dine on this heap, that is not what these ex commercially farmed hens are after.

They appear to crave company. Unusually they will come right up to your feet and almost trip you up in their desire to peck your boots. What they think they can gain from my wellies I have no idea. Perhaps they miss the men in the sheds that used to come in to collect their eggs.

I can’t think that those people ever made pets of these birds. There were just too many hens, thousands of layers, not one of them known as an individual. That has all changed now. Each of the seven we have added to our flock has their own personality. Sneaky, bold, pushy, aggressive, flirtatious, greedy and belligerent. Sound like the seven dwarves. But I don’t flatter myself I’m Snow White.