The new two are on one side of the mesh. The old three are on the other. Nobody's eating. Everybody's watching. The little grey one hasn't moved from her spot by the water in twenty minutes. Marigold is doing that stiff-legged walk along the wire, not quite pacing, not quite herself. And you're stood there with a mug going cold, wondering if you've done it all wrong.

You haven't. This is what the first day looks like. It's what the second day looks like too, mostly. The trouble is that every guide you've read says a week, maybe two, and here we are on day three with nobody eating and the whole run gone quiet. It feels like something's broken. It isn't. It's just slower than anyone tells you.

Here's what the mesh is actually doing. It's not a waiting room — it's a conversation. The old girls are working out who these strangers are. The new two are learning the shape of the run, where the light falls in the afternoon, which corner the water sits in. They're all watching each other do the ordinary things — scratching, settling, having a dust bath — and none of it costs anyone a feather. That watching is the work. It's the whole point. Rush past it and you'll be picking someone off the floor by Friday.

So when I say see-but-don't-touch, I mean properly. Mesh between them at all times. Separate food, separate water, on both sides. Roost bars they can each get up on without having to negotiate. And time. More time than you want to give it. Two weeks is a fair start. Three isn't unusual, especially with only three old girls — a small flock has a tighter pecking order, and tight orders take longer to make room.

Now — how do you tell a settling flock from a stressed one. Her comb tells you plenty, as ever. On the old girls, you want to see good colour, upright carriage, the usual bickering over the best scratch spot. If Henrietta's still doing her egg song in the morning, that's a settled bird. If she's gone quiet three days running, note it. On the new two — fluffed up isn't always trouble on day one, they've had a move and a fright. But fluffed up on day four, standing alone, eyes half-closed — that's a hen telling you she's not coping. Pop her somewhere quiet for an hour and watch.

The things that worry me: a bird who won't come down off the perch to eat even when the others are away from the feeder. A pale, floppy comb on a hen who had a good red one yesterday. Any hen sat with her tail down and her wings loose. Blood drawn through the mesh — rare, but it happens if someone's determined and the gaps are wide. If you see blood, or a hen who's stopped eating and drinking altogether for a full day, see a vet on that one — then come back and tell me how she got on. Everything else is usually just time.

The things that look bad but aren't: the old girls posturing along the wire, chest out, hackles up. That's talk. As long as the mesh is between them, it's how they say what they need to say. New hens standing very still for long stretches — they're taking it all in. A day of nobody laying. A day of everybody eating less than usual. All of it normal. No rush — she's holding steady, even if she doesn't look it.

When you do take the mesh down — and you'll know, because you'll have watched them eat side by side through it for two or three days running with barely a glance — do it in the evening, close to roosting time. Scatter a bit of corn wide so nobody has to share a single spot. Then step back. There'll be a peck or two. There has to be. Somebody has to be at the top and somebody has to be at the bottom, and they'll sort that between them faster than you can. Only step in if somebody's being properly cornered and can't get away.

One hen at a time, love. That's the trick with all of it. Not the new two as a pair, not the old three as a group — Marigold, then the little grey one, then Henrietta, each of them her own bird with her own week. Watch them like that and you'll see the flock forming, quietly, mostly without you.

Mug's gone cold. Put the kettle on. They're doing the work.