One of the things about baby pheasants is that they are completely mental. Absolutely stark raving bonkers, and without mum nearby they are prone to stupidity. I've catalogued the myriad means of suicide that they employ; one of their favs is to stand around in a downpour and get soaked through; leading to fatal hypothermia.
We lost 50 birds last Xmas day when a sudden downpour hit and Craig was unable to herd the birds into shelter in time because of the configuration of the pen. So we'd decided to build a corridor around the outside, where the chicks could roam but be easily shepherded into cover. And we'd chosen the worst possible weather. A gale westerly blasted rain and hail into the building site; and given that we were working with sheets of iron it got pretty exciting at times.
Andy and I got started while Craig was feeding calves, and we started by trenching outside of the posts in order to bend the corrugated iron and bury it in the earth to stop predator encroachment.
|Wind is invisible... it was howling|
|Mud. The day's theme.|
The lads swung into gear, finishing the trenching and cleaning out the sheds (water blasting) while Andy and I turned our hands to getting the iron cladding up.
By late afternoon the back of the job was broken, with cladding up, a new doorway created and the work remaining being to cover the new alley over with shade cloth to keep the hawks out.
Bloody good effort considering the weather. Rain rain rain.
Better than a drought, I suppose.