By Saphire Favell 

Gobble Gobble Gobble Gone

This Easter weekend I’ve been lucky enough to be whisked off to the countryside to an estate that boasts ‘the most important barn in the country’. Dating back to the 15C it is mightily impressive. Its looming size is comparable to that of an airplane hangar. Its ceiling a labyrinth of bowed wood. Barrels of hay are piled high.

You can’t help but to think of the hands that built it. The amount of mouths the grain would have mercifully fed. The life, and death, the barn certainly witnessed. And surely the secret lovemaking too.

The grounds are truly beautiful. Beautiful. The crumbled walls in the remains of the stone abbey play home to dozens of white doves who dance, in sync, during the golden hours of dusk and dawn. Its history is also marked by the Bloomsbury Set who famously frolicked in the same surrounding fields.

It’s quiet. Green. Lush. A world away from dear Brixton.

And whilst I am extremely aware of how fortunate I am to be able to experience this. I must pass on the baton of luck to the creatures who now, safely, roam the fat of this land.

Residence to only rescued animals; the chickens, greyhounds, horses, cockerels and more are all living their final years far away from the deplorable conditions they were originally born into. This place is especially special to the three lopsided turkeys who were saved whilst on their way to the slaughter house. Crooked feet. Feathers all plucked out. Wings they never got to stretch until their liberation.

So here I am having just arrived. Hungover and needy. Trying to make friends with all the animals. I’ve stroked the dogs. Been chased by a cockerel. Collected fresh eggs. When all I’m trying to do, really, is make friends with the unsightly turkeys. You see, I’ve always had a penchant for the ugly. They follow me around, but not quite close enough for me to stroke. Curious but wary.

With a heavy heart I accept that I am not Dr Doolittle. Maybe grim reaper is a better term. One moment I’m trying to stroke the unsightly thing. The next moment gobble gobble gobble gone. A quick flap of its wings. Eyes roll back. It’s fucking dead.

Dead.

DEAD!

The turkey literally just keels over and dies. Lmao. Wtf. No seriously… wtf. 

And then it gets worse. His mate is standing over him trying to wake him up. He won’t leave his side. He’s pecking at him. Nudging him to wake up. Quick google and it turns out they form partnerships for life. And, even worse, mourn the loss of their partners too.

What has happened.

Next thing you know Dilly, our eccentric host, has scooped the lifeless body into a Zara bag (lol) and wheelbarrowed him out, away from his distressed mate. And away from the lurking foxes too.

I’m shedding a tear. Dilly’s opened a bottle of whiskey. The turkeys mate treads, heartbroken, amongst the feathery remains. My mum makes a joke about Christmas dinner.

This is real life Cluedo.

My eyes narrow.

One of us murdered Mr Gobble.

Dilly did say she massaged its head the day before (ew). Did she massage it too hard? It is only puny. But then again maybe my mum killed him? She’s so obsessed with organic meat and harps on about freshness all the time. Nothing fresher right? Surely I can’t be blamed? I don’t even eat meat.

Sadly the story isn’t as juicy as I’d have liked it to be. Turns out Mr Gobble was on his last legs and died from a common, quick and painless aneurism. He died happy.

I’m just hoping that the remaining two will now become friends. Because it sucks being a third wheel anyway.

So here’s to you big bird. Rest in peace. May we all check out, cold turkey, just like you. <3