 Young female chicks up to a year old are pullets. Young male chicks up to a year old are cockerels. Pullets become hens and cockerels become roosters. They're all chickens and are as sweet by any other name, running all over our green pasture. Just like these two pullets today.
 Keeping history alive at Hilltops Free Range egg 'Reynoldsdale' farm: we have kept the copper sign from the first owner, Reynolds, who established the farm; we kept the original first houses which were built on the property. Our office room is now housed in the oldest heritage building, restored and maintained dutifully. There is an inner timber wall in one of the rooms which we have sealed and preserved in its original state. On it, there are traces of newspapers and articles from 1894 one can read: mostly about shearing news and sheep problems.  Heritage buildings represent the history and culture of a nation. Boorowa was established in 1843 by Irish convicts who after receiving their 'ticket of leave' from the Governor, started farming in the area.
A few months ago, we had a visitor who had played on the farm as a child with the first Reynolds family and their children. She told us wonderful stories about how the place where the egg processing machine now is, used to be a dark and cold alley outside the houses, and they used to hide there while playing hide-and-seek, and she thought it was the scariest place in the world. That copper sign, the office door, the timber wall, the hiding place stories: they all provide a sense of identity and continuity in a fast changing world for many generations to come. More than eggs, history comes to life at Reynoldsale farm.  Watching one's children grow up, become independent and celebrate each and every milestone: we watched the two puppy Maremma dogs grow up and thrive with their natural talent for guarding, and now they are with their own flock.
Venturing off but will always be connected to our hearts.  Let the grass spring up tall, let its roots sing
And the seeds begin their scattering. Let the noise of the mower be banished, hurrah! Let the path become where I choose to walk, and not otherwise established. Let the goldfinches be furnished their humble dinner. Let the sparrows determine their homes in security. Let the honeysuckle reach as high as my window, that it may look in. Let the mice fill their barns with sufficiency. Let anything created, that wants to creep or leap forward, be able to do so. Let the grasshopper have gliding space. Let the noise of the mower be banished, yes, yes. 'On Not Mowing the Lawn' by Mary Oliver, From her book of poems "Blue Horses" |
How our eggs come to you
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September 2024
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