Oliver Radcliffe
Three Hens Is the Magic Number
A trio of point-of-lay pullets will give a household of two to four people all the eggs it can eat between spring and autumn, with a lull in winter and a pause during the moult. Hens are flock birds: one alone is a miserable creature, two can bully each other, and three seems to settle the politics nicely. Three also fits a run that would be hopelessly cramped with six.
Modern hybrids — the brown, cream and speckled birds sold as Point-of-Lay, Bluebell, or Speckled Sussex crosses — will lay somewhere between 250 and 300 eggs in a good year. Pure breeds such as the Light Sussex or Rhode Island Red lay fewer but live longer and go broody more readily. Buy from a reputable breeder or a rescue rehoming scheme, and check for a bright eye, a clean vent, and a dry, straight comb.
The Run: Space, Security and Shelter
Give each hen at least one square metre of run space, and two if you can spare it, since a bird with room to scratch is a bird that stays busy and calm. Inside the house, allow 25 to 30 centimetres of perch per hen, and a nest box they can all queue for — one box per three birds is plenty, though they will famously all choose the same one.
Security is the part people get wrong. Foxes now hunt in daylight and in the middle of towns, so the run wants welded mesh rather than chicken wire, with the mesh buried or returned as a 30cm apron along the ground to defeat digging. A solid roof or close-fitting mesh over the top stops both climbing and wild birds, which carry disease. A covered section of the run will keep the litter dry, and dry litter means fewer smells, fewer flies, and clean feet.
A Dust Bath Is Not a Luxury
Hens bathe in dry soil to keep their feathers in condition, and the dust smothers lice and mites. If you don't provide a bath, they will dig one in your best border, so save yourself the trouble. A shallow tray around 60cm by 40cm, filled to 10cm with a mix of dry soil, sharp sand, wood ash and a scoop of diatomaceous earth, does the job. Site it under cover so it stays dry, and refresh it every month or so, topping up the ash as it disappears into feathers.
Bedding, Cleaning and the Daily Check
Use dust-extracted softwood shavings or hemp in the coop, and straw in the nest boxes; avoid hay, which goes mouldy and can cause respiratory trouble. In the run, lay 10 to 15cm of woodchip and work it as a deep litter — turn it weekly, top it up, and it will compost down into excellent material for the garden.
The daily routine takes five minutes: collect eggs, top up food and water, and look at the birds. Check their eyes are bright and their combs red, that crops are full in the evening and empty in the morning, and that droppings are firm and brown with a white cap. Watch for a hen standing hunched with her tail down — that bird is ill and wants isolating and warmth. Once a month, clean the coop out fully, dust the perch ends and corners with diatomaceous earth, and check at night for red mite by running a white tissue along the underside of the perch. In autumn a moult will stop laying for a few weeks; offer extra protein and don't panic.
Feed, Grit and the Question of Scraps
Layers' pellets, fed free-choice, should make up the bulk of the diet — roughly 120g per bird per day is a useful guide. Keep a hopper of mixed poultry grit and another of oyster shell available at all times; the grit grinds food in the crop, and the shell supplies calcium for strong shells. A small handful of mixed corn in the late afternoon is a good winter warmer, and leafy greens hung up in a net stop them being trampled. Be careful with kitchen scraps: the rules on feeding catering waste to any poultry are stricter than most people realise, so check the current guidance before you make it a habit, and never feed anything mouldy, salty, or anything from the onion family in quantity.
What You Actually Get Back
Three hens will give you breakfast, a steady supply of nitrogen-rich bedding for the compost heap, and a garden that is quietly free of slugs and leatherjackets. In winter, when the days shorten, expect laying to slow or stop entirely — and resist the urge to add artificial light in a small garden. The rhythm of the year is part of the pleasure. Muck out on a Saturday, let them scratch through the borders in the afternoon, and you have the most useful, and most companionable, bit of livestock a small garden can hold.
