The village of Urlingford isn't that big, yet I seem to be lost already. I've clambered off the Dublin bus and am peering up and down the street in the volatile December sunlight, searching for Charlotte Colchester. Charlotte and her husband, Ben, run an organic farm a couple of miles from Urlingford. Today, inspired both by David Bellamy and Talking Dustin, I am going to interview some of their 1200 free range turkeys.
Eventually I locate Charlotte, reading the newspaper in happy oblivion in a jeep down the road. She is astounded that the bus has arrived in time, which has apparently never happened in living memory. She explains that usually there's time to read the newspaper 10 times, do the crossword, and make flotillas of paper boats and squadrons of paper aeroplanes before the old bus pulls into Urlingford of a morning.
It's a long and winding road that leads to their farm, which looks absurdly idyllic, situated among perfect fields and rolling hills. Charlotte and Ben have been keeping turkeys since 1991. They started with 50 birds and doubled the number every year as demand grew. Ben sticks his head out from a barn when we arrive and says hello. The dog barks. The cat lurks. The cows moo. And the turkeys. . .
What the Turkeys Said
We put on wellies and go out to look at the turkeys. There are three different traditional breeds; bronze, white bronze and ordinary white. There are about 800 bronzes in a huge field near the house. The other turkeys, the whites, are in a different field. "They're just like adolescents," Charlotte explains. "Always chattering, and eyeing each other up, and going into huddles."
We go through the barn where the turkeys kip down at night, safe from foxes. There are hay bales everywhere, where they roost, and long troughs and automatic drinking dishes. They eat organic food: a mixture of barley, wheat, field beans and fishmeal. Outside, they dine al fresco on grass and rape fodder.
"When I let them out at first light, they all try to practise their flying. They forget in the night they can't fly," Charlotte says. "By nature, their flying is just to get on perches to roost. But they're good runners."
There are a few birds hanging out in the barn, like schoolchildren mooching around the bike sheds at lunchtime. They chirrup and look furtive. It's a complex language, this gobbling. It sounds like a dialect from science fiction, as spoken by relatives of ET.
What the Turkeys Did
Turkeys have bad eyesight. They can't see anything properly until it's right in front of them, and only then by turning their heads to create a composite picture. When we step into the field, eight hundred turkeys come pelting towards us, desperate for a good gawk at the stranger in their midst.
I have been warned that the particularly short-sighted birds might mistake me for some interesting tree and attempt to roost on my head. I am not wildly keen to participate in this particular area of turkey behaviour. "They know me," Charlotte says happily. "It's you they're interested in."
These turkeys arrived here in July by plane from England as day-old chicks, but they sure ain't no chicks now. These are lovely big healthy shiny happy birds. Each of them now weighs between eight and 20 pounds. Every now and then, Ben goes into the barn and weighs 10 at random. From far and near across the field, the turkeys come running and waddling, ineffectually flapping their wings, and gossipping furiously to each other. As Charlotte says, they are good runners. These turkeys would win medals in Butlins.
Meeting the Turkeys
Turkeys to the right, turkeys to the left, turkeys fore and aft. A boiling sea of white and brown feathers on the green grass. There's a bit of pecking of the wellie boots and the hem of my coat, but most of the turkeys are too busy showing off to try eating my clothes. The males puff up their feathers and go red in the face and strut and look back to check I'm watching. The females giggle and preen and run around in frantic circles.
"They're so comical," Charlotte says, stroking one. "I'm perfectly happy about the lives these turkeys have with us. They have complete protection from hunger and cold. They have their adventures and their dustbaths and their sunbaths. And their freedom."
What the Turkeys Don't Know
The turkeys don't know that 1200 punters have pre-booked them for Christmas dinners the length and breadth of the country. Ben and Charlotte supply their organic turkeys to a variety of special butchers, and this year, for the first time, Tesco are placing a few free range turkeys in each of their shops to see how they go. By the time I visited, all the turkeys had been pre-sold.
Other Things the Turkeys Don't Know
The turkeys don't know that the spanking clean building near the barn is where they will get their despatch the very next day. "Our turkeys don't suffer," Charlotte stresses. "We don't send them away in trucks. We do it all ourselves here. We've had eight inspections already in the last couple of weeks." The turkeys are stunned, and after what happens to a turkey before Christmas happens, they are then hung in the traditional way for several days, before being delivered to the various outlets.
Last Words on Gobbling
By the time you read this, the turkeys won't be the ones doing the gobbling. You will.