The gardener and writer describes his love of chickens, a passion he has shared with two devoted grandmothers – and the Duchess of Devonshire
I’m having a cup of tea in Arthur Parkinson’s grandma Sheila’s bungalow in suburban Hucknall, Nottinghamshire, and there’s a hen in here. She’s terribly chic: a lovely cream and grey girl with a feather crest and a floppy comb like an avant-garde fascinator Isabella Blow might have worn. This is Linda the legbar (named for Kate Moss’s mum; Moss is a neighbour of Parkinson’s in the Cotswolds). We watch her potter around, occasionally pecking at some crumbs on a plate by the fire. “She’s had a Hobnob,” says Arthur. “She’s beautiful,” says Sheila, entirely unfazed. She’s used to Arthur bringing hens round – he’s been doing it since he was tiny. Linda wanders over, appraises the arm of the sofa, then jumps up on to it and lies down next to me, clucking gently.
Parkinson, 30, is best known as a gardener and writer; he’s the author of two books, The Pottery Garden and The Flower Yard, and his hugely popular Instagram (@arthurparkinson, 108,000 followers) is crammed with exquisite, pollinator-friendly blooms. But Linda represents his first love – hens – and that’s what we’re here to talk about. His new book, Chicken Boy, is part memoir (henoir?), part how-to guide to chicken-keeping, but above all, a love letter to these misunderstood creatures – not “disgusting and pecky” or just “Sunday dinner”, but charming, worthy of respect and above all, beautiful.
