We moved to the countryside with three pets – now we've lost count

Screen printer Hannah Carvell is one of Ideal Home's new Open House contributors, sharing her thoughts on colourful home design for a creative family to live in. See the rest of her articles here.

We moved to the countryside with two dogs and a cat. Somewhere along the way we acquired chickens, ducks, geese and endless conversations about goats. I never expected animals to change what home meant to me but somehow they have.

I'll admit it, we're a family with very little self-control when it comes to animals. When we swapped our Victorian townhouse for a cottage in the Somerset countryside, we already had two dogs and a cat, so it's not as though we arrived pet-free.

But having a bit of land, working from home and a daughter who adores animals has proved to be a dangerous combination. Add in two parents who are hopeless at saying no and, well... our family has continued to grow.

First came Pickle. After one of the hardest years we've ever had, my husband losing his job, selling our home, moving schools and starting life somewhere completely new we all felt a little shell-shocked.

Bringing home a tiny Chihuahua puppy felt like injecting a little bit of joy into a year that had felt anything but joyful. We found him online, smiling in his photo, the last puppy left in the litter and reduced because he was so tiny and had come out smooth coated compared to his hairy parents and siblings.

We told ourselves that a Chihuahua doesn't really count as a whole third dog. More of a half-dog. That's still the story we're sticking to anyway.

Not long afterwards came a small flock of rescue hens, followed by a rather handsome black cockerel who needed a new home.

During those final months before we moved, when life felt particularly uncertain, we'd promised our daughter that once we had our own little bit of countryside she'd hatch a goose egg in an incubator and raise a gosling (we had lived by a river in the town and feeding the geese had become a daily ritual that she was sad to leave behind).

It sounded simple enough. It wasn’t. Goose eggs are notoriously difficult to hatch. It took three attempts, twelve eggs and a lot of patience before one tiny gosling finally appeared, watching her hatch was pure magic though. We named her Tama, and my daughter hand-reared her beneath a heat lamp until she was ready for life outdoors.

Of course Tama needed a best friend, so we found ourselves driving to a local poultry farm with a goose riding on my daughter's lap to choose a duckling. Together they picked the tiniest, wonkiest duck they could find, who was named Side Duck.

One of the most rewarding parts of our little menagerie has been rescuing ex-commercial hens through the British Hen Welfare Trust. You collect them having never seen grass or sky before, they have never experienced sun or rain. They're often missing feathers, their combs are pale, their nails are overgrown and they smell strongly of the lives they've left behind.

Over a few weeks, something lovely happens. Their feathers grow back. Their bright red combs return. They discover dust baths, sunshine and scratching around in flower beds. They start greeting you every morning as though you've been away for months, and watching them discover freedom for the first time never gets old.

People always ask if they lay eggs. They do. Beautiful big eggs, just like you'd buy in the supermarket, although naturally we couldn't stop there.

We now have hens laying blue eggs, green eggs and tiny white ones because apparently colourful egg baskets became another thing I never knew I needed (and had seen on instagram and could not resist trying to replicate).

The latest additions? Two fluffy goslings that definitely weren't on the shopping list after a visit to the Bath & West Show. But who can really say no to fluffy goslings?

Living with animals isn't quite the idyllic countryside fantasy Instagram would have you believe. There are no lie-ins. Ever. The dogs expect breakfast at seven o'clock sharp. The chickens need letting out every morning before being tucked safely back into bed every evening.

More often than not, someone remembers halfway through a television programme that nobody has shut the hens away, resulting in one of us sprinting across the garden in our slippers through sideways rain muttering, "The chickens!”.

Cleaning out coops isn't particularly glamorous either. It's perfectly pleasant on a sunny July morning. Less so in February when you're ankle-deep in Somerset mud and the hens have taken their annual winter break from laying.

Then there's the fox. Anyone who keeps chickens will know the heartbreak that comes with trying to balance giving them a proper free-range life while also keeping them safe.

We've learnt difficult lessons over the past couple of years, particularly during cub season, when even having the dogs in the garden isn't always enough, and sometimes, despite your best efforts, nature reminds you who's really in charge.

The children have learnt about loss as well as responsibility, and while those conversations are never easy, they're all part of living closely with animals. The funny moments, thankfully, far outweigh the sad ones.

One of our rescue hens insists on laying her eggs in the dog's bed. Chica, who my daughter hand-reared from a day-old chick, still wanders into the kitchen whenever she gets the chance and helps herself to a chocolate brioche from the bread bin before anyone notices. My husband despairs. The rest of us laugh.

Our current family debate revolves around goats or my husband will say how about piglets.

I'm firmly trying to be the sensible one, largely because the weekend cleaning duties mysteriously seem to fall to me, but living in the countryside has definitely shifted everyone's idea of what counts as a reasonable number of animals.

Every year there is the temptation to let a couple of the Weston Super Mare Beach donkeys come and live in our field for they’re winter break.

If you'd told me a few years ago that I'd happily spend my evenings putting chickens to bed, discussing goose feed over dinner or planning holidays around finding someone willing to look after our ever-expanding collection of pets, I'd have laughed.

But somewhere along the way, without really noticing, all these animals became part of what home feels like. They've given our children responsibility, routine and countless memories they'll hopefully look back on one day with enormous affection. They've filled difficult years with laughter, purpose and fresh starts.

Our house isn't perfect. It's noisy, muddy, often has chicken poo on the floor and there's almost always someone or something asking for food. But it's full of life and feels like home.