There's a little more room on the perches tonight

Until today, I'd never killed anything larger than a mouse. And even that was the far-removed process of leaving out "a little tasty treat" in the evening, and emptying the trap in the morning. As stereotypical as the gender divide seems to be, I see myself as the bringer of life and rely on MrEOP to be the ender of life; from shooting the rats to putting the maimed quail out of its misery. After our raising chickens for meat course, he said he'd be happy to do the despatching and cooking and I agreed to do the plucking and gutting. Assuming we weren't too traumatised by this point (and in fact had actually reached this point at all) we'd both do the eating.

But after an unexpected turn of events I ended up doing the despatching, supported by a fabulous pair of knowledgeable and experienced ladies.

Four roosters in a flock of ten birds is far too many (to be fair, any number of roosters sometimes feels like too many), as we've yet to make a final decision on whether or not to try and incubate some eggs, we decided to keep one Steve and cull three. The hardest part of the whole process was actually catching the birds. My plan to pop them into a dog cage in the car in the middle of the night when they were nice and sleepy was foiled by the dog cage not fitting in my car. So instead it was a 30 minute battle of woman vs bird, accompanied by the soundtrack of squawking flapping chickens and squealing pigs (breakfast was late).

They did not "just walk down the ramp out of the coop for me to pick them up and pop them in the box". They did not walk down the ramp at all, as apparently Boxes Are Scary.

I'd looked at a few techniques for chicken-catching online, but, in the heat of the moment that all went out of the window.

One was caught with a fishing net, which was fine until I had no idea how to get it from the net to the box which, by this point, was the other side of the run and upside down. The next jumped straight into the box, but then straight back out as soon as I tried to close the lid. I managed to pop the box over it, then had to figure out how to turn the box over with the chicken remaining inside. The one I didn't want to catch was easy to catch, but I let it go. The final one I ended up just picking up as it sprinted between my legs. We'd all had enough by now. I was sweaty, hungry, thirsty and late, and hadn't had any coffee. The remaining chickens were all still going nuts, and the pigs had joined in in full force; it was time to go. After a mad dash around the house feeling like the most niche burglar ever (plastic box, freezer bags, ice packs, sharp knife) I was off. Not even the dinging petrol gauge was going to make me stop...

I'll not describe the details of the culling, not because it was horrific - far from it - but because I'm not yet sure how to make it not sound either like an amateur instruction manual or an overly emotive description of the last few moments of the chickens' lives. But it was a humbling, almost primal experience. It was getting back to the basics of life, and living, and providing food for my family. There was comradeship, tradition, community, swearing, skill sharing, laughter, learning, efficiency and respect. As we worked - and work it truly was - I felt more connected to life than I had for a while. Perhaps it was the stark reality that we were ending lives, but I think it was more that scenes like this had been playing out for millennia, all over the globe, binding people and communities together, with many hands making light work, and people being involved with, and taking personal responsibility for, their food.

I think what the process of raising meat chickens has shown me, more than anything, is that the main problem with the disconnect between what we eat and how it is produced, is the lack of value that we place on animals. Yes, costs and prices are going up, but I don't just mean monitory value. I don't think that we really value the farmers and animals that provide us with food. When we can pop to a supermarket and pick up an imported mass-produced whole chicken for a few pounds, its then natural that we baulk at the price of a slow-grown, small-flock, free-range bird in local farm shop. It seems so wrong that ethical food is the preserve of the rich. The knowledge that these birds that I keep have had a happy life, and that we are in the rare and lucky position where we do not have to see them a commodity, as a number on a spreadsheet, as a profit margin, is what will drive me to do this again. That shows me I value them. Only once you've fed a bird for months, been out first thing in the morning and last thing at night to open and close the coop door, felt your heart skip a beat when you hear a fox bark (did you turn the electric fence back on??) cleaned up its crap, watched it scratch around in the sun and doze under a tree, caught it, slaughtered it and processed the carcass does it really bring home everything that goes into something so simple and commonplace as "a chicken".

After a full morning of despatching nearly 40 birds, I returned home with my two birds that had been transformed into something you'd get from the shop ready for your Sunday lunch. Those of you who were paying attention and can do basic maths will now be shouting out "two birds? but you took three!" Yes, I did. However...one decided he was taking matters into he own hands, and legged it. At one point Steve cleared the 8 foot fence out onto the road, but then somehow made it back in via the woodstore. He was later spotted in the neighbour's garden, then, having apparently escaped unnoticed by their dogs <insert Mission:Impossible music here>, was heard in the back woods singing the song of his people. Knowing him, the call of the lady hens may well bring him back, but for now: God speed, Steve, we salute you.

I was full of an exhausting mix of pride, gratitude, satisfaction and a touch of guilt. Not guilt that I'd killed chickens for food, but guilt that it had actually felt...ok. It took a surprisingly long time for the adrenaline to wear off, eventually helped by the peace of the evening routine on the smallholding. Listening to the sheep call to their lambs in the field behind our house, spotting the cows that no one has seen but me (they do exist!!), feeling cold, fat, welcome drops of rain fall onto my hair as I grasp scratchy handfuls of straw to take up to the pigs. Then its up the slope I go, dragging my Santa sack of straw and trolley of water. Quick ear scritch for the pigs who stop snoring long enough to investigate their new bedding and have a drink, then off to the chickens.

Its been very quiet there this afternoon; our remaining Steve no longer has so many competitors and has let Mr Bum Spot do most of the shouting. Food containers into the metal bins (must set the rat traps tomorrow), quick head count, and coop doors closed. There's a little more room on the perches tonight.