It’s a sunny September afternoon and I’m sitting on a wall at a small turkey farm in Surrey with my guitar, playing Wonderwall to the (admittedly slightly bemused) turkey who I adopted as a day-old chick in June, and have been down to visit every month since. I am here to get to know him and to show him a good time. Come Christmas, I’ll then face the ultimate dilemma: will I still be able to eat him?
We’re all advised to eat less meat and, when we do, to take an interest in where it came from. You can buy a basic supermarket chicken for £4. By the time you’ve sidled up the aisle to the top-of-the-range, free-range, organic corn-fed, privately-educated chickens, they’ve probably had a better life than you.
“The intensive poultry industry is still the frontline of animal welfare,” explains Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall when I phone him for a quick turkey debrief. “Hundreds of millions of chickens and 10 million turkeys are raised in the UK each year in conditions that don’t allow them to express their natural behaviour. Some indoor systems are better than others, but millions of birds suffer painful injuries and die prematurely because they are growing so fast in such stressful conditions. Birds that have lived outdoors grow slower, eat a healthier, more natural diet and produce tastier, healthier meat, higher in omega fatty acids. If you want to put a bird on your Christmas table that has truly lived well, it simply has to be free-range.”
I’m a conflicted carnivore. I’ve always been a bit squeamish around eating whole chickens and fish with their heads on, but come Christmas, I’ll happily gobble a slice of turkey because – well, it’s a Christmas tradition, isn’t it? It’s just another food item on the plate. But this year I’ll have a bit more of an idea where my turkey came from, other than the freezer section at Asda. I am intrigued to know what life is like for a posh, free-range farm turkey. And if I got to know one for longer than the trip home from Tesco, could I still eat it for Christmas dinner?
June
I’m not sure I want a live turkey living in my flat like Joey and Chandler’s duck on Friends. Nor do I have the expertise or patience to rear one in my garden like Gordon Ramsay. So I’m off to Surrey to meet 50-year-old heritage bronze turkey farmer Tom Giannandrea who started Feather Farm Turkeys in 2011 after his mate Alex drunkenly purchased a plot of land one New Year’s Eve. This year, Farmer Tom plans to rear 50 turkey chicks in his mate’s new 240 sq metre barn. It’s also a big day because I’ll be meeting my new adoptive son, Terrance.
We’re heading to Farmgate Hatcheries in Essex to collect our one-day-old chicks, which Giannandrea will rear. Terrance is inside with his 49 brothers and sisters. It’s love at first sight. The chicks cheep all the way home in the boot of the farmer’s Discovery. He puts them into the heated brooder where they’ll stay for the next six weeks. I can recognise Terrance by his big eyes and funny waddle. Already feeling like a proud parent, I wave goodbye and promise to visit soon.
July
Giannandrea has warned me of the inherent risks. “The first three weeks rearing chicks are the hardest,” he says. “Too cold, they die. Too hot, they die. Too much noise, they die.” Three years ago, a weasel got in and killed all the chicks, hence the new barn. This year there’s a different problem. Disturbingly, the chicks have turned to cannibalism. Eight have pecked each other to death. Giannandrea has bought another 25, of which 20 have survived, leaving a gaggle of 62.
The good news is that Terrance isn’t dead. He waddles over to say hello. There is scientific evidence that turkeys recognise human faces. “They certainly recognise me,” Giannandrea says. “If I bring someone else into the barn, it freaks them out.”
There are 12 toms – male turkeys. “Not everyone wants a 9kg bird. Hens are smaller and sell better,” Giannandrea explains. Terrance is already a strapping young lad. “Soon the toms will start strutting, giving it all of that.” Who doesn’t like a good strut? That’s my boy.
August
“The birds are a bit different from when you were last here,” Giannandrea says. Boy, have they grown. They scuttle out and, as he whistles, follow him like sheep. They probably think he’s their mum. They look like mini velociraptors and peck at my feet. “You’re scared of them, aren’t you?” he says. I am a bit. They’re cute, but I’m worried they’ll suddenly all turn on me and rip me to shreds like in Jurassic Park.
The chicks spend their days foraging and sunning themselves, only coming into the barn to eat and sleep. Predators such as buzzards can swoop down and snag turkey chicks for lunch. Bird flu is a worry. In 2022, half a million of the UK’s Christmas free-range turkeys died or were culled. One million battery turkeys also died. It only takes one diseased bird to fly in and the whole group could be infected. But all here is good, with strict bio security on site – all shoes need to be dipped and visitors are kept to a minimum. The only setback was when a neighbour offered to help out when Giannandrea took his family away for the weekend. “He likes the countryside and said, ‘I’ll look after them.’ But he forgot to shut the door, the birds escaped from their designated area and shat all over the rest of the barn.”
It’s great to see how happy the turkeys are – free to enjoy the outside and wander around the field. This is how you imagine free-range. “A free-range turkey is a fitter turkey, like the difference between one who’s out exercising rather than sitting on the sofa all day, and will cook in half the time because of the extra intramuscular fat,” explains Giannandrea, who once appeared on (and won!) cookery show Humble Pie, hosted by Marco Pierre White and Melanie Sykes. “People say they don’t like turkey but that’s because, sadly, most have been reared in mass production and so are dry to eat and lack taste. Most supermarket chickens are six weeks old when they’re slaughtered and pumped full of steroids. No wonder so much water comes out when you cook one.”
September
Now Terrance is a turkey teenager, I wonder: should I be explaining the facts of life to him? “Not really,” Giannandrea says. “Turkeys can start mating when they are nine months old. Unlike chickens, turkey hens only lay eggs in the spring, and turkeys don’t usually live to see spring. That’s why you don’t get turkey eggs in the supermarket.”
It’s nice to see Terrance but I’m definitely scared of him by now. He’s half adult size, around 5kg. “They’re strong animals,” Giannandrea says, pointing to a scar on his leg. “The spur on the back of their foot will slice you open like a knife.”
Terrance is developing his wattle – his red, wrinkly, neck that turkeys use to regulate temperature. The larger the wattle, the more dominant the tom. He’s also growing his breast beard – a long feather found in male turkeys that can grow to around 23cm (9in). If he’s sexually aroused, he’ll show the hens he’s up for some turkey lovin’ by erecting his feather. Male turkeys also use their snood – the floppy, fleshy appendage over their beaks – to regulate temperature and to indicate sexual readiness and compete for a female’s attention. The dude with the longer snood usually wins. Best not tell Terrance that size doesn’t matter.
According to Peta, turkeys can run up to 35mph and fly at 55mph. Terrance would beat me in a race. Turkeys see with a 270-degree field of vision, while I struggle to read the small print. Turkeys like to look their best: the farmer shows me where the birds have scratched a dust bath to groom and clean their feathers.
Turkeys like music, so I’ve brought my guitar. I can’t play Turkey Chase by Bob Dylan, Cold Turkey by John Lennon, Turkey Mambo Momma by Pulp or You’re Beautiful (or should that be: You’re Bootiful, Bernard Matthews’s catchphrase?) by James Blunt, so I bang out a bit of Wonderwall. Terrance isn’t impressed. “We need to put some big speakers in the barn, get a proper turkey rave going on.”
You can also embarrass a turkey. If they get hot, excited, agitated, sick or self-conscious, their heads change from blue to red. They say owners start looking like their pets. To show my turkey solidarity, I dress up as a giant turkey. Terrance hides with shame.
October
It’s pouring. Nice weather for ducks, but not turkeys. I find them perched high inside the barn.
Turkey are playing Latvia in the Uefa Euro qualifiers. As a treat, I’ve brought a projector to watch the match with Terrance and his turkey mates. It’s a slow first half after Turkey’s Akgün’s four-minuter is disallowed by VAR. 0-0 into the second half, Latvia’s Emsis, Ozols and Dašķevičs all receive yellow cards for foul play. Foul play! Against Turkey! It ends 4-0 to Turkey. I’m engrossed, but when I turn round, none of the turkeys are watching.
Perhaps the gang will be more interested in the turkey rave Giannandrea previously suggested. I’ve brought some speakers, a disco ball and a playlist of dance classics, so I dim the lights and crank up the tunes. The turkeys nod vaguely in time, although I’m not sure they’re quite as big fans of 90s techno as I am. They do seem to enjoy a bit of Born Slippy by Underworld, but who doesn’t?
November
The turkeys are doing well and are now up for local sale. They sell for £16 a kilo. At six to seven kilos, that’s £96 to £112 each. “Some customers have wanted a 2kg turkey. They might want to consider a chicken instead!” The farmer estimates he’s spent £500 on the chicks, £1,000 on food, £1,000 on electricity, plus the new fencing and man hours. “I’ll be lucky if I walk away with a profit,” he says. This is a business operated for love, not money. I ask him why he does it. He tells me the focus is to produce a quality, non-intensively farmed turkey worthy of any Christmas dinner table, and reinvest in the business to improve year-on-year. Next year, he hopes to rear 150 turkeys. “I’ve always enjoyed the countryside and when the opportunity came up to create a small-scale farm, I jumped at it. This was 10, 12 years ago,” he explains. Giannandrea used to sell concrete for a living. He now owns two nurseries with his wife. “I’m what you’d call a hobby farmer. If people support the little farmers like me, it’s better for the birds and the people eating them.
“My dad grew up in an Italian village in the mountains,” he continues. “I remember watching an old lady sitting pn a little wooden stool plucking her chicken outside her front door. My auntie had rabbits in hutches in her garden. She said, ‘Pick one.’ We had it for dinner. Since Brexit, if you buy a supermarket chicken curry, the meat will most likely have come from Vietnam or China. People won’t eat venison sourced up the road, but they’ll eat avocados flown in from Mexico.” Is he happy to eat his own produce? “I try not to get attached to my turkeys as they are reared for food,” he says. “As long as their welfare is catered for, they will do the rest.”
I’m certainly attached to Terrance. He’s now a turkey adult with – like father, like son – an impressive wattle, snood and breast beard. How’s his luck with the ladies? “He likes to fan his tail and drag his wingtips across the floor to make a rumble sound to the hens.” With a tear in my eye, I wave goodbye for the final time. I hope Terrance remembers me as fondly as I remember him.
Late November
The day has come to pick up Terrance from the farm. He looks different from last time: a lot less feathered, gibletted, alive. He’s also in a smart cardboard box wrapped in fancy paper. He’s had a great life – but one cut dramatically short. Wild turkeys can easily live to four or five years; domesticated, up to 10.
At least Terrance has gone to turkey heaven in the most humane way. Gone are the days when farmers went around wringing necks. “A registered vet needs to observe me slaughtering the birds, to obtain a Watok slaughter licence,” Giannandrea says. And by slaughter? “I’ll stun them before bleeding them.” Yikes. “You hear stories about how chickens still run around after they’ve had their heads cut off. One year, a turkey was flapping its wings, caught me on the side of the head and knocked me clean out. It was like getting punched by Mike Tyson.”
I’m warned what’s next. “At first, rigor mortis kicks in. You have to wait for the meat to relax. They are hung with innards intact in a temperature-controlled environment before evisceration. As soon as they’re cut open, bacteria can get in. So you want to eat them as soon as possible after that.” The rest of the turkeys will live until early December, ready to be plucked and gutted. Terrance has made the ultimate sacrifice and left the farm earlier, in time for Thanksgiving, so I can deliver this piece. I don’t know whether to feel ashamed or hungry.
Back home, I follow Giannandrea’s tips for how to cook the perfect turkey. Terrance is a big lad (10kg), so he’ll take nearly three and a half hours at 180C. As he roasts away, I can’t help but think of the happy hours we’ve spent together. It’s easy to forget our meat was once alive, especially when it arrives wrapped from the supermarket. Terrance was a friend whom I serenaded, watched the footie with and grew to love. Probably best that I didn’t see Giannandrea scooping out his innards. I let him rest under some foil and a tea towel for an hour before digging in. I’d like to pretend that I had some reservations about eating my friend. But I’m starving, and I feel content devouring him, knowing that he lived a happy life. Turns out he’s delicious; far juicer than any turkey I’ve ever had before. I charge my glass to say a few words: To Terrance. It was lovely knowing you and I’m sure you’ll make a delicious turkey pie tomorrow (and the day after, and the day after). I’m glad you ended up starring in the Guardian and not as a Bernard Matthews turkey roll.
