300 chickens

300 chickens. In the lemon trees, sitting in the branches. On the ground, under the lemon trees in the shade. Cockerals and chicks. Fig trees bursting with dripping fruit and pears against the fence. The little key was under a flat stone, and his dog Jacqui tied up by a piece of string to a lemon tree . And everywhere there were chickens. Inside the barn were coloured crates nailed onto the wall in a haphazard fashion. Laid with straw inside were eggs an chicks. It was a wonderous cycle of a place; a display of nature in full glory, doing what it did best, unhindered. Justa tried to give us more eggs, but we politely declined. "whatever do you do with them all?" We asked. "Give them to friends" Was the answer. Now I knew why he needed 300 chickens. It was our penultimate day. We wanted to take it all back with us. The drum of olive oil, the huge b umpy lemons, the globulous olives, the sherry. We put them in our suitcases and took them out again. What if the bottles smashed? I put them in again, wrapped in jeans. I took them out. We will have to wait. Somehow we will get them back to England. We joked with justa that we will buy a whole laod, and he joked back that he would put them all in a lorry and drive them over himself.