A friend of mine, an inspirational teacher, says that one of the best things parents can do is to allow children to believe that their dreams can come true. Arthur Parkinson met his first chicken as a toddler, growing up in a former mining town, and from that moment he longed for a brood of his own. So his father set to, building a handsome ark-shaped hen house, poring over Ad-Mag to find amusing poultry for sale, driving Arthur around country lanes at weekends in search of rare breeds.
‘If only you could bottle up the happiness of chickens, you’d be on to a groundbreaking antidepressant’
Parkinson also had doting, Charlie-Bucket grandparents – Grandma Sheila, Grandad Ted and Nannar Min – who, when he was small, took him on holiday to Derbyshire, where a visit to Chatsworth led to a deep friendship with ‘Debo’ Devonshire. The ‘Queen of Chickens’, Parkinson says, was much prouder of her hens than of having lunched with Hitler, and she remained a ‘warm, interested and encouraging friend’.
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