It's funny how the mind works sometimes. How one thought triggers a memory seemingly unconnected. On a recent cycle ride with my ten year old son we passed a stall in the countryside selling free range eggs. This resulted in a conversation about the difference between free range and battery hens during which I told him about the time I had to fit CCTV cameras at an egg farm in Wales.
On my first visit there weren't any hens present and I got the cameras fitted and working without any problems or hindrance. A few weeks later I had to return as a problem had developed but this time the hens had arrived. This was predominately a free range facility and the hens could wander at will in the big shed and outside as well.
Until you've been in the presence of a large number of hens, 10,000 in this case, you don't realise how intimidating an experience it can be. I've got nothing against hens; I love eggs and never say no to a roast chicken dinner. This though was something else. The smell from the faeces was so powerful that a face mask similar to a World War Two gas mask had to be worn at all times. The heat was intense and the sweat was soon pouring off me.
I was obviously the novelty attraction as within five minutes of entering the shed I was surrounded by hundreds of hens. As I walked forwards they parted and then closed the gap behind me. It was like wading though a sea of hens. As soon as I stopped they would start pecking at my boots. The worst thing about the whole experience though was the noise. I had always thought that hens clucked - and maybe some do - but these didn't. They made what I can only describe as a soft burbling noise that after a while took on sinister undertones. I couldn't help but feel that if these hens wanted to (crazy thought) attack me I wouldn't stand a chance.
Of course they didn't and I escaped unscathed vowing never to return. I never had to, as I was made redundant shortly afterwards. But, I was reminded of these hens shortly after the cycle ride when I took my son to his Saturday morning athletics training. There were about a 100 ladies present for a meeting of a local jogging club. These ladies were all gathered between the gates of the athletics club and the area where my son's training took place. We made our way through the throng and the ladies stepped aside and then reformed once we had passed.
It was only later, once I'd made my way back through them again, that I realised what the sound of 100 ladies in conversation reminded me of. It is best described as a soft burbling noise.
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