Two of my hens are rebelling. Despite of having their wings clipped they have decided that they want to live on the edge. Literally. When they feel like it, they jump/fly over the electric fence and have a little outing in our garden. I keep telling them that they should stay at home, it’s dangerous out there, they might be killed by the fox. But no, they will not listen. Oh hang on… that sounds familiar.

So it’s a lockdown. Britain, Italy, Spain, Czech Republic and others. People sing, people sew face masks, some even become teachers to their own children (dangerous in some cases if you ask me).

And amidst of this the fishing season started.

I noticed it in the morning on 19th March when the fishermen’s carpark at the bottom of the lane overflowed into the road. Green-and-camo-clad men and women stood in the water, some victoriously, some dejectedly. I came home, made a cup of tea and then turned to the window to see an unfamiliar car parked in our drive. Its owner disappeared. Fishing club membership card was stuck to the inside of the windscreen.

After about an hour and a message from M asking me if I had a suitor (he sees everything from his tractors whilst farming), I spotted a person walking up across the farm. He was swearing loudly. Then he looked up and saw me ‘sorry’, he grumbled. I wanted to tell him off for parking here without as much as knock on the door and for walking from direction where he clearly had to crawl over our fence. Instead I said in a jolly voice ‘now you owe me a fish, my husband thinks I’ve taken a lover, haha haha’. He didn’t like it. Told me there were no effing fish in the lake and sorry he parked here. Then he left. I felt a little bit foolish.

Since then even the fishing has been banned (am I a feeling gleeful?) and the countryside is eerily quiet at times. All you can hear in  our garden is the panic stricken cockerel calling his hens back over the fence.

‘Come back home, think of the fox!’