“Caring for others changes the way we live”

Archbishop of Wales, Cherry Vann, chats to Andy Hill about hens, happiness, and helping others thrive.

“Providing a space where others can flourish is the greatest satisfaction,” says recently enthroned Archbishop of Wales Cherry Vann. The first woman – and the first openly LGBTQ+ person – to hold the role in the UK, she carries immense weight and responsibility. Yet just outside her window, a congregation of hens rehomed through the British Hen Welfare Trust reminds her daily of the quiet power of small acts of grace.

Over the years, Vann has rehomed 23 excommercial hens through the Trust. Her current eight, she says, are a vital part of her daily rhythm – from letting them out at first light to “putting them to bed” each evening. Their presence, she adds, is a grounding counterpoint to public life: “a reminder that care begins with noticing".

Her first birds arrived in cardboard boxes from a local BHWT rehoming event. “To be honest, at the time we probably mostly wanted them for the eggs,” she admits. “But we also knew we were saving them from an early death.” What she didn’t expect was how much they’d change her. “We had no clue what we were letting ourselves in for – the sheer joy of it.”

That joy persists. “They follow me to the gate, wings flapping, waiting for their food,” she laughs. “That makes me smile every single time.”

Caring for her hens slots neatly into her working day. “They live in a field just behind my office,” she says. “Depending on the light, I’ll go down first thing, let them out, replenish the food and water, and give them a clean.” The eggs are collected through the morning, and in the evening either she or her partner Wendy heads down to “tuck them up” for the night.

Not every day runs smoothly, though. A few years ago, one adventurous hen flew over the garden wall and vanished into a neighbour’s steeply tiered garden below. “I had to walk all the way up the hill, across the road, and down another hill to reach her,” Vann recalls. “Then I had to coax her with sunflower seeds and carry her home under my arm along the main road. I must have looked ridiculous – but there was no way I was leaving her behind.” It’s the kind of story, she says, that perfectly sums up henkeeping: unpredictable, sometimes undignified, but endlessly endearing.

She talks to them as she works. The hens bustle at her feet, curious and unafraid. “There’s something lovely about an animal that doesn’t run away but comes toward you,” she says. “They make me feel connected to nature – to life in its broadest sense.”

For Vann, the flock also keeps her attuned to the natural world. “I love getting up at dawn and going to bed with the sun,” she says. “In summer, they’re still pottering around at 10pm, not ready for bed. It reminds you of the seasons and of life’s patterns. Their time is ruled by light, not screens or schedules.”

But care, she cautions, isn’t just affection. “What we think is kind can sometimes be dangerous.” That lesson came painfully when a fox took her first flock after she’d left the coop open overnight. “It was horrible,” she says quietly. “We felt we’d let them down, when we only wanted to give them a sense of freedom.” That moment reshaped her understanding of compassion: true kindness, she learned, must include protection and boundaries.

She’s also learned from how the hens treat one another. Pecking orders, she says, “are very real – and often brutal.” One undersized hen, nicknamed Scrap, was bullied and refused food. “It was awful to watch – they just went for her.” So, she and Wendy built a small “hospital” pen where weaker hens could rest and eat in peace. “Providing a safe space where she could recover and gain confidence is so satisfying,” she says.

Scrap now looks the healthiest of them all, though she still waits her turn at mealtimes.

The practical rewards are modest but meaningful. Vann’s favourite meals are simple – omelettes, tortillas, hardboiled eggs in summer salads. With eight hens laying, there are plenty to share. “We give a lot away,” she smiles. “People really appreciate them.” One neighbour swore the eggs made her best Christmas cake yet.

As Easter approaches, eggs take on an even deeper symbolism. “In my line of work, they’re a lovely metaphor for new life,” Vann explains. “Some people see the shell as the tomb in which Jesus was laid – the tomb from which new life emerges.”

The eggs, she adds, “are really just a bonus. We don’t do it for that anymore. We just love having them.”

In a life defined by leadership and firsts, shaped by history and spiritual tradition, Vann finds grace not in the grand gestures but in daily acts of care. For her, tending a flock is part of the same quiet calling: noticing what’s around us, protecting the vulnerable, and making space for others to thrive. “That’s the real joy,” she says.