I pull my beat-up pickup truck in front of an adorably hip family home and glance at my map nervously. I don’t want to walk into the wrong stranger’s backyard this morning, but I’m afraid this is a real possibility.
That’s when I notice two women walking out across the front yard, clutching tour maps and wearing farm-tough rubber boots. I relax. On this breezy Saturday, I’ve come to the right spot to find exactly what I’m looking for: a hen house. [Read more…]