It’s 5.30 on Tuesday morning and the morning chorus has already begun. The cockerels have no sense of time, only of their own importance, sparking up at all time of day and night to make sure everyone knows they are around. I can hear one now, and it’s still dark. As one goes off, so, usually, another answers from somewhere across the harbour or from over towards the Pedi valley. It’s all very rural, another of the things we love about living on Symi.
Yesterday, the brood was in the ‘hood, or the peep was in parish, you might say, pecking around out front and exploring the ruined garden next door, having a good old chat with a few hens presided over by conclave of cockerels. It was a case of too many chiefs and not enough indians if you ask me. The girls were peacefully getting on with their foraging — it was the boys who kept sounding off every two minutes. Typical.
I never knew a collection of chickens was called a ‘peep’, but apparently so – according to ‘The almighty Guru dot com’ at least. (And also my dictionary, though it is a rarely used word, just the kind of word I like to use.) As for a conclave of cockerels, I made that up.