Hippy chicks

It's being dubbed 'The Good Life' factor. Scores of aspirational new 'greenies' are going back to their roots like those self-sufficient 70s sitcom stars, Tom and Barbara. This month, as the show celebrates its 30th anniversary, more and more are not only getting down-to-earth about vegetables but trotting out their own free-range eggs too. Pictures by Zoe Ash.

Overlooking the coast, the lawn is almost football pitch-length - which means there's plenty of room to stretch your legs - chicken or otherwise.

When it comes to fowl facts, Lloyd is the ultimate egghead - he's got the know-how and the contacts and can turn a garden shed into a coop faster than you could fall off a perch.

He's a North Show stalwart who followed his father into the bird-breeding game many years ago - though he always gets his chickens from England.

As soon as I park at his home in Rue du Dos d'Ane, Lloyd is over to the car, keen to show me the 'chicken wing' of the grounds.

Down at the far end, in a sheltered corner, is a large hen house within a spacious pen. As I peep through the wire, about a dozen, black, feathery heads shoot up instantly and eye me with suspicion.

Lloyd explains that he lets them out for a serious run around the garden only when there's no other distractions. If not, they can end up in the trees. 'They don't like any excitement you see,' he explains, knowingly.

Right on cue, an ear-splitting squawking breaks out. My intrepid colleague has caused a flap by entering their coop with her camera. She's keen to catch some good shots but they're lightning quick - and her oversized wellies aren't helping.

Lloyd, a retired landscape gardener, is currently keeping 20 chickens that he has imported from an established supplier in Chichester, as there are no breeders in Guernsey.

All are magnificent Black Rocks, a pure-breed first-cross of Rhode Island Red and Plymouth Rock. Each one looks identical to a rookie like me, but Lloyd can tell them apart. 'Oh, they've all got their own personalities,' he smiles.

You can tell this is a man who loves his chickens. Maybe it's because he was only five when he first began helping his father look after his birds. Or maybe it's because they provide the family with a daily batch of beautiful, brown, free-range eggs. Whatever the reason, he's keen to spread the bird word, which is why he is happy to help find chickens for any islanders keen to join the poultry pack.

With another rain shower looming, the Black Rocks troop smugly back inside their comfy coop - while we are forced to shelter under the taller roof of yet another chicken house in Lloyd's Tardis-like garden.

It's a chance for him to explain how he began helping unite local families with their very own feathered friends.

'It is something that started two-and-a-half years ago as a one-off for some people I know. This led to a few enquiries and then on it went really. It's just a hobby, you see. If anybody wants a few chickens for their back garden, I can try to help.'

It took Lloyd a long while to set up all the organisation involved and to ensure he didn't fall foul of the law. But he and his trusted supplier know what was needed to meet the required import legislation - from the vets' certificates that show Guernsey Customs that the birds are fully vaccinated to blood tests on their arrival.

The birds travel by overnight boat and are taken to the docks, usually at 5pm on a Tuesday. As the well-being of each one is paramount to Lloyd, he will import only those aged just under 16 weeks old. He won't bring in any chicks as the stress of the journey could kill some of them.

And his high standards don't stop there. While Lloyd, along with his friend, Pete Langmead, has imported many Black Rocks, he will always try to ensure they all go to good homes.

He advises owners to think very carefully about what's involved.

If they've never kept them before, Lloyd invites them round to his house to see his chickens.

It can add up to around £200 to start off with six birds, including covering the freight costs of bringing them over and providing a hen house and equipment. Their coop would need to measure about 6ft x 4ft and have enough space outside for them to run around. It must be cleaned out every two weeks and the nest boxes re-filled with straw.

Feeding costs vary, depending on the way they are fed. Lloyd uses high protein pellets.

But it's not all bad news. Within just a few weeks, the birds will start laying and owners will enjoy their own eggs for years. The life span of an egg-layer is usually around three years.

'People love them,' said Lloyd. 'And I find more and more families are getting them. I don't know why. Maybe it is this getting back to nature thing.

Some children come along and choose their own birds. They see something they like about a particular one and give it a name. Many people come back for another six. Or people start off with two then want another four. Chickens get to you,' he said.

When Lloyd talks about his eggs, it's clear that they get to him, too. 'There's nothing better than these,' he enthuses, expertly holding up a large brown shell in a way that would make Jamie Oliver proud.

'When you crack one open, you can tell instantly what kind of chicken has laid it. If it looks pale and dull, then that's a sign of a battery hen. But if you can see a lovely, golden-yellow yolk, then that's a free-range - without a doubt.

'Sometimes when we are watching some of these cookery shows on telly, I have to laugh.

I say to my wife, ?Look, they're doing all that fancy stuff and they haven't even got a decent egg?.'

You get the impression that Lloyd's legendary love of chickens and his breeding of game birds is something his wife, Jenny, is well used to. Though he assures me the chickens aren't too noisy, every morning at 5am the couple are woken by his show cockerels - which he promises to show us later.

Despite the early wake-up calls, it's not until 9am that most of his chickens have laid - though some don't manage their eggs until 4pm. But once they get into the mode of laying, a pattern is established.

'It sounds just like that film, Chicken Run,' I say. Surprisingly Lloyd, who's already heading off to see his game birds, tells me that he's never seen the well-known chick flick.

'Oh, you really should,' I urge. 'It's all about this nasty farmer who makes sure they all lay an egg a day - or else.'

'Oh, there's none of that goes on here,' says Lloyd.

'Well then,' I venture (deciding it's now or never), 'just exactly what does happen to the chickens then - you know, when they stop laying eggs?'

'Well, some people keep them as pets,' replies Lloyd. 'Or they dispense with them. Once they reach three years old usually.'

'Erm ? does that mean, like, roast them?' I wonder aloud.

But as we've arrived at the top of Lloyd's garden, he's now far more interested in talking about his beloved show birds which, just like his father before him, he breeds and hatches himself.

On entering this area of his garden, it seems that the show has already started. The sun has burst out again and suddenly everything's got bigger and brighter. Assembled before me, like a row of preening, colourfully-dressed chorus girls, are Lloyd's feathered finest - a beautiful flock of Old English Game Birds. Their plumage is stunning, all shiny and glossy, and their jewel-like colours glint in the light.

'They are impressive,' I admit, while keeping a cautious eye trained on a neighbouring pen. It's home to the undoubted star performer, a large and noisy cockerel which is already strutting out of his coop to see just what all the fuss is about.

'What's HIS name?' I ask Lloyd. 'He doesn't have one, though feel free to christen him,' he says.

Well, it's all very tempting and a few names of past male acquaintances spring to mind. But by this stage the bird has fixed his beady eyes on me and I'm not taking any chances.

My snap-happy colleague, however, is starting to bond with him in a rather alarming way.

I tell her that our tour is probably holding up his feeding time and I don't think we'd like him when he's angry.

As we set off back to the car, Lloyd is still talking nine-to-the-dozen about feathery facts. And, as he opens the door of a small, but very warm, outbuilding, he persuades me that there is one last bird that I really should see.

Obediently I follow, though having a bizarre phobia of ostriches (which no one has ever been able to get to the bottom of), Lloyd knows I've not been too relaxed around his, admittedly smaller, plucky pals all morning. Until now, that is.

The sight before me makes me catch my breath. A tiny, fluffy chick is sheltering in a small wooden box with its mother - and I dissolve into clucky raptures.

'They're beautiful,' I whisper.

'Told you we'd win you over,' chuckles Lloyd.

*If you want to find out more about keeping your own chickens, contact Lloyd on 257247.