By

Craig Ennew

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Twenty-Three: Why did the chicken jump on the trampoline?

This week: Craig ventures into The Shack’s garden

Back in the Summer, our inaugural viewing of The Shack left The Boy decidedly non-plussed. To say that his eyes lit up when we ventured out to the garden would be exaggerating a touche: more the faint glimmer of a TV remote in the last throes of battery-life. The initial cause of this mild excitement was the giant trampoline sandwiched between two of the sheds. This wasn’t any trampoline – and it wasn’t even an M&S trampoline. It was a trampoline so monstrous in scale that it loomed like some hideous gasometer on the edges of a dystopian industrial wasteland.

Within seconds, he was kicking off his Crocs and tugging aside the rotting net mesh and broken zip that were the only obstacles to his immediate gratification.  ‘No!’ I was yelling.  ‘Look at the rust and the holes!  The thing is a bloody death-trap!’

My wife was dismissing my anxiety with a carefree gesture. ‘It’s all good,’ she was saying. ‘The thing’ll be gone by the time we’ve moved in.’

Almost six months on, we’ve not moved in, but we have now bought The Shack.  Like a rusty Ozymandias, the ‘colossal wreck’ of metal and plastic remains – although we’ve managed to discourage further use by re-purposing it as a dumping ground for the unwanted furniture and forests of MDF that the sellers left behind.

it heaved its sorry arse to its current resting place at the foot of the garden

The trampoline wasn’t the only surprise that the garden yielded. There was also the sofa-bed. During one of our viewings, we spotted this in the shed to the side of the garden. It was large. It was beige. And boy was it ugly. Unsightly and stuffed with self-loathing, it had heaved its sorry arse to its current resting place at the foot of the garden. Feeling faint pangs of empathy, I turned it on its side, partly to allow it the dignity of hiding its face, perhaps more to ensure that no-one could possibly be under the illusion that it was there to sit on.

Then there was the concrete-mixer. A crude gavel driveway sits outside the property at roughly the same height as the roof of The Shack resting below. Beyond the driveway, there is a precipitous drop onto the roof of the shed nearest the house. Presumably, this is why someone decided to park a very old, rusty (and I’d wager non-functioning) concrete-mixer at the end. You know the thing: I know I’m safe from driving the car over the edge and onto the shed roof because I’d have to crash into a concrete-mixer first. An obvious safety precaution. Like the sofa bed and trampoline, it was something I warily absorbed when we were shown round The Shack by the estate agent for the first time. It was similar to when I’d heard that James Corden had buggered off to the States: with dismay, I knew this wasn’t the last of it.

like one of the less attractive districts of Caracas, only for chickens

And finally, to the chicken coop. If you’re thinking of some cute little waist-high construction about eight feet by ten, then think again. This Heath-Robinson-contrived poultry metropolis takes up half of the garden, sits on two or three levels and seems to have smaller fowl-residences contained therein, all in various states of disrepair. Basically, it’s like one of the less attractive districts of Caracas, only for chickens. The birds may have long gone, but the problem remains: do we keep the coop and get chickens of our own? On the keep side, we get a limitless supply of eggs and eliminate the job of dismantling and breaking up the massive concrete bed it sits on. If getting rid, we get to claim the best part of our garden back and have no prospect of scrambling around in a dressing gown at 5:30am, knee-deep in chicken shit and rat droppings, merely to collect two or three eggs for an omlette.

As with the trampoline, The Boy remains adamant about keeping the coup. He’s also said he wants the sofa for his garden den (the second shed, which he already claimed as his own). Such is his enthusiasm for keeping chickens, bless him, he’s already named the imaginary newcomers Baby, Ginger, Posh, Scary and Sporty. He’s already been inside the horror-show, to clean a section of it out. The story of the ensuing fight with a standpipe and a blocked hose is for another time.

As for our undrawn plans for the garden, my wife and I, we have visions of an earthly paradise akin to the Lost Gardens of Heligan: all manner of flora and fauna draping over Purbeck stone on various decked levels; a little area by the gate that comes in from the public footpath, where one might cast off one’s sandy beach attire and catch a refreshing outdoor shower; a bounteous vegetable patch and herb garden, overflowing with prize-winning produce; shady bowers under which we might perch with a lazy sun-downer. The potential is there, the will and the know-how, possibly less so. To my wife’s dismay, though, I’ve told her we might have to draw a line at her suggestion of a swimming pool. Which leads to me to thinking: can chickens actually swim?

A corner of the garden surrounding The Shack

©Craig Ennew 2025

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2 responses to “Twenty-Three: Why did the chicken jump on the trampoline?”

  1. Avatar
    Anonymous

    The people who lived here before you rescued so many animals…it may be just a shack to you but it was a family’s home, and loved 😕

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    1. Craig Ennew Avatar
      Craig Ennew

      Don’t worry – it’s already loved by us. It’s our new home! We don’t have anywhere else- not a holiday home. I never knew the previous owners rescued animals but that’s a lovely thing. We’ll take good care of it.

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