Loss of Faith

Faith was never one to conform, and was never a dog to slow down so its comforting to know that for her the end was remarkably swift and painless. Unlike the Gordon Setters of the books, she was a bitch that was bigger than the dogs, she would never sit quietly and await her masters return, rather she would bark her annoyance at being left out and was hopeless around guns. She had zero tolerance of smaller dogs, except for the ancient beagles, had two speeds, mach 10 and crashed out, a terrible thief, as in steal anything and always got caught and would always insist on drinking out of the toilet rather than her bowl.

She looked stunning, in full flight would have beaten most greyhounds and her proudest moment was coming back to Rock HQ after an encounter with a fox that had breached the perimeter, she had part of its tail as a trophy. She had a sensitive side, she always knew when you were feeling under the weather and if you sang she would join in. Totally fearless on the mountain side she once followed Sara and I up a stupidly steep aspect of Tryfan in Snowdonia, Sara is convinced at one point Faith was using her teeth for extra grip. On the way home she fell asleep on top of Sara and drooled over her. Bless.
A short while ago we found Faith had cancer, the vet was amazed she was so active given how desperately ill she was. The good thing was was that she did not know about it, she just carried on, and we hoped she would see the autumn.
The last few days we noticed she chose not to run everywhere, but instead joined us at a steady trot. Monday evening she took a walk around the perimeter and gave us cuddles. We thought the end was close. Tuesday morning she seemed herself, trying to jump into the pig pen for extra rations, annoying Blackbirds in the hedgerow and generally making her presence felt. This morning she got out of bed, had a quick sniff of the summer morning, refused breakfast and curled up in her bed. Tracey sat with her and soon it was over, Faith had decided to go, she sighed her last goodbye, lifted her head and placed it on the back of Tracey's hand and went off in search of Paddy (another ex setter of ours ) to play forever.
She has been buried in a good spot overlooking the ranch on the slopes of the Bonsai Mountain at the base of The North Face Gully. Apollo was one of a number of the critters that came over to say goodbye.
She made me cry the first time I saw her, tears of joy as she was a Christmas present from Tracey. The last time I saw her was also with tears in my eyes. Faith was a joy to own and the sadness we feel now is a small price to pay for all the good times we had. A brave dog.

Sing if your winning!

I was still suffering man flu but decided to get some fresh air and check the hedge trimmers work. Accompanying me were four of the dogs, the two white Beagles here are nearly 18 years old and still sprightly waggy dogs. Passion and Preston, siblings, came from a hunting pack over Clyro way and are enjoying a leisurely retirement at Rock HQ.

Passion can hardly contain her happiness when she beagles about, often singing as we walk. Just rushing in and rushing out of shot are Pip the mental collie and Faith, the hyperactive Gordon Setter.

The lane was all in order so all was well in our world. By late afternoon I was feeling much better so did some more planning on the windmill project which made me happy.

I aint fraid of no ghosts!

Fitting easily into our routine, twice every week we take the Technohermit a hot meal and make sure he has what he needs to get through the week.

Currently this entails walking in the dark along a narrow track, mostly uphill, along past the Ghost House and up to his humble abode. Weather permitting this a quick trip in Rene the everso useful 4x4 in all his surround sound airconditioned leather seated safety shelled goodness.

As weather is definitely not permitting wheeled vehicles to pass through the mud and slush its down to Shank's pony with the magnificent seven in full cry as company, a much slower and far more exposed journey.

The worst part of the trip is not getting wet and muddy, nor is it listening to the hermits account of his bunions, the threat from lions, werewolves and zombies, no, its walking past the Ghost house. Twice.

The second time is always worst, having to comply with the don't look back part of the tale is hard work. Especially for me.

Tonight the hermit was on form, eagerly waiting for his home cooked chicken casserole. As I handed it over we had our usual chat about his bunions, the space station (he is after all a technohermit) and how folks living in towns have it easy. Well compared to squatting on a windy hillside I expect they do, but I knew what he meant, central heating, taps and shops, luxuries like that.

After a rambling conversation about how badgers get into ant hills he stopped and looked at Faith the Gordon Setter playing in the snow. This then led to him telling me that he had met someone who had seen a big black dog or puma on the hill. I listened intently as he described how it has frightened this man from ever venturing onto the hill again. I explained about the walkers who had got confused recently up by Rock HQ thinking Ebony was a black panther and not a harmless sheep, this is assuming a sheep hellbent on getting into your sandwich box is classified as harmless. He shook his head, no, this was some time before we lived at Rock HQ. Over three years ago. He went on to describe the exact spot some miles away where the black beast was seen.

I decided to impress him with my local knowledge and rambled on about the hound of the baskervilles being written based on the black dog of the hill and how in fact that was a legend about a wicked Baron who was killed and manifested as a vicious black dog roaming the hill in search of mortal souls.

When I finished it seemed darker and the wind was driving the rain hard into our faces. I thanked him for bringing up the subject of ghosts as I still had to walk back. He grinned at me and jerked a stubby thumb over his shoulder in the general direction of the ghost house "O'course that uns haunted" chuckling rather too enthusiastically for my liking.

"Great, cheers mate, I have to walk past that place in a minute."

He looked back down the hill continuing "Some old woman dressed in white is supposed to come floating out the door or summat."

Fantastic, and me without my running shoes. "You ever seen her Keith?" my voice seemed a pitch higher than I remembered.

"No! No, I ain't never seen her, my missuses mother did though." He seemed to sense my rising fear, "Ah don't worry, there ain't no such thing as ghosts man, shes probably moved on by now any road"

"I don't think they pack their bags and leave do they?" I asked this new authority on the spirit world.

"No, when your dead your gone, ain't no ghosts, don't worry."

"Thanks"

"No. They're DEMONS!" he shouted and with that bombshell left me to my long walk back.

I cant remember at which point my brisk walk back turned into a fast jog.

I didn't look back.

Feeling guilty

Its been a funny week at Rock HQ and I am beginning to feel like its my fault. No sooner had I waxed lyrical about spring about to sprung then the whole country grinds to a halt under a thick blanket of snow. Then when I make a comment about a mere millimetre of snow causing widespread havoc a fresh fall of 4 inches confines Rene to base so Tracey doesn't get to work today, I on the other hand had a day off anyway and was totally unable to get any of the jobs planned completed.

It was really sunny today but the snow remains, probably waiting for reinforcements. Huge icicles hang from the stables, it all looks quite ornate. One of the advantages of being snow bound and unable to tackle the jobs list is that I have been able to walk around the hill a few times this week. First was on Tuesday at last light, I had worked from home that day as Rene could not get down the ice track. I took the magnificent seven with me and they had a mad romp in the snowdrifts. As we turned the last bend before Mad Keith's I was put to shame by the old hermit who was pushing his 3 speed bike up the hill laden with supplies. Me with my macho 4x4 didn't attempt the journey to town, he with his Sturmey Archer 3 speed bone shaker had safely navigated there and back.

Just past his abode there is an old tin shack that has the remains of an aviary attached to the side. As we approached Faith went mental barking and lunging at the wires. An unfortunate Blackbird had found a way in to search for food away from the snow and now couldn't find its way out. I ripped the wire from the top corner and soon despite Faiths best attempts to stop it it found its way to freedom.

Faith looked at me in disgust as we wandered along in the snow heading back to Rock HQ. She wages a personal war against all Blackbirds and spends an amazing amount of time running along the hedge lining our track in an effort to catch one. The closest she had ever got to one and her human lets it go.

At least I think it was a blackbird, seeing how this week has gone I could be wrong, as I think about it I worry that it might have been something other than a common Blackbird. Some travellers purchased the land recently and they put horses up there from time to time. They have been clearing the assortment of tin shacks and making repairs. Perhaps the bird was theirs! It was probably a Bird of Paradise worth thousands of pounds and I have just released it. Come to think of it it didn't seem keen to fly out. Grief!

No. I am sure it was just a Blackbird.

But then again I am the man who took a buck rabbit to the vet, the poor creature was suffering with what I thought was a ruptured penis. The vet quickly examined the stricken animal and I nearly died of embarrassment when the vet told me that the rabbit was in fact female and giving birth.

Dog tired!

Unable to shake off this flu which has now developed into the sorest throat and worst cough I have ever had I could not face work today. So I spared my colleagues an opportunity of listening to me cough until I vomit or witness the sudden temperature fluctuations my body inflicts on itself so one moment I am wrapped in thermal mountaineering gear the next stripped to shorts and t shirt and looking like I am in a Turkish bath. The only positive I see of the last week of illness is that I have lost weight, and had I been able to prepare all the treats and goodies for the Christmas period would have been able to gorge myself back to full health.

Tracey is also whats technically known as in a right state so I insisted she stay at home as well, there was no ulterior motive as I am more than able to stagger to the kettle and make my own cold cures. On the subject of which the only one that has done any good so far has been a three parts orange juice one part whisky warmed up and sweetened with honey. After a couple you really do feel different if not better.

Being ill has made another rule of smallholding apparent, never be ill together, one of you needs to remain fit enough to deal with any emergencies, that or you have a support network close by. I can do the usual feeding round first thing in the morning in around twenty minutes, going slowly and allowing for time wasting such as tickling piglets noses it takes a maximum of forty five pre work minutes to establish that all the critters at Rock HQ are accounted for and have enough food and water until we get home. Today it took me an hour and a half what with coughing until I wretched, leaning on solid objects feeling sorry for myself and finding Reba and Poppy.

Perhaps sensing I would be unable to shout them, I find speaking in anything other than a raised whisper difficult at present they waited until I was suitably distracted by Apollo who for reasons known only in his tiny foal like mind had piled pooh all around his stable and had done diving forward rolls through it. His white bits were Khaki, all the way up to his forehead. As I tried to salvage the situation and chastised myself for getting such a feces obsessed horse I could see Rocky our male Bernese Mountain Dog sitting quietly by the wheelbarrow clearly adopting the stance of whatever happens next I wasn't involved. I shut the poohy pony away and approached Rocky who went from it wasn't me to being clearly guilty and out into fresh fields of please I tried to stop them don't shout at me. We faced each other over a barrow of pooh, tumbleweed rolled across the yard as the wind whistled through the bare branches of the trees. Rocky gulped and looked down the lane showing me where they had gone.

Great I rasped. Rocky shrugged, cocked his leg on the barrow and went into Rock HQ. He had been helpful enough in his book.

I tried shouting but a strange sound like Faith chewing a live chicken came out, the embarrassment of making such a noise coupled with the pain caused by trying to summon the missing dogs put paid to any further attempts. Incidentally Faith has chewed another live chicken. For some reason she feels the need to rid the world of grey hens. Her latest is currently converting into pate in the rayburn, it was destined to be coq au vin anyway but the poor thing didn't deserve death by setter.

Finally I found Reba and Poppy, flirting with a no eared collie called Ben down in The Oracles yard. He's no good to them having lost more than just his ears in an encounter with a vet a long time ago but he was as keen as they were. I mimed you put that away and get back home to bed you naughty dogs as Ben shot off back to his kennel and the two dog tarts set off at a brisk pace with their tails between their legs. They could tell I was cross with them as I didnt say a word all the way home.

I'm still not speaking to them.

I cant!

Brass neck

Given that the magnificent seven were on patrol seconds before we were surprised to hear the very worrying sound coming from the copse at the side of our lane.

Now for those new to this site the magnificent seven are a pack of dogs who enjoy the life of luxury here at Rock HQ. Here they have everything to meet their needs, from stagnant ditches to sit in to a choice selection of pooh to eat or roll in. Poppy the not so golden retriever pictured above having rolled in the very freshest fox pooh had been in the cauldron at the end of the lane, the two Bernese Mountain Dogs sat and watched as Tracey and I, illuminated by lights with enough power to pick out enemy bomber formations in the night sky, cleaned out the horses latest offerings before providing them with their dinners, Faith the Gordon setter ran at 100mph from one end of the farm to check if all was in order to the other to check to see if anything had changed since she had last been there some 30 seconds before while the two ancient Beagles grubbed around trying to find anything to eat that the other animals had overlooked. Pip the mental collie cross chased her tail, cats, shadows, the wheel barrow and Faith. All in all it was a normal night time routine taking place at Rock HQ.

With all this mayhem and activity taking place you might have thought that the most reviled animal of the smallholding would have kept well away. But no, within two seconds of the lights being turned off and the dogs running through the front door a female fox called her mate from the copse not fifty metres from where I was standing.

Five shots from the gun and all went quiet. We knew we hadn't hit it, they were blanks, but Mrs Fox doesn't know that, at least I don't think she does.

100mph

Faith is like this all the time, always on the go at 100mph, never still unless she is asleep, at least she is a happy dog!

Dark autumn thoughts

It doesn't happen often but there are occasional days where I question whether or not smallholding is for me. Its been two years hard work, both Tracey and I work full time to be able to live here, then there is the hard work once we get home, the never ending jobs list, the weather and the behaviour of our animal clan all sometimes seem to conspire to make things extraordinarily difficult. Life was so much easier in our three bed modern semi.

Our two year celebration of having survived all that's been thrown at us was slightly muted by a letter from the bank informing us of a 50% increase in our mortgage payments. I say slightly as in the same way the Titanic was a slightly bad shipping disaster. Due to the current financial climate no new mortgage deals are available to reduce the cost of living here and the monthly payment is now at a level where we could rent a medium size farm for less.

It caused a couple of dark days where plots similar to Guy Fawkes were imagined to punish the wonderful bankers who created the current bust but they left me when I went for a walk around the hill. The autumn colours proved a useful distraction, as did the dogs charging around the dead bracken. I even managed to lose Faith, the Gordon setter, entirely for the walk, she does have a bright orange coat especially for this time of year so I can spot her on the hill, but today she disappeared until I rounded the final turn home and she came running towards me.

A bush spoke to me along the way.

Two years ago I would have been startled that foliage should suddenly find a voice, but having Mad Keith the techno hermit as a neighbour its common for him to spring up from the greenery, hopefully fully clothed, and start a conversation that either enlightens or completely baffles. Only last weekend he jumped up from a gorse bush exclaiming "Is that an orse?"

As I was gripping the lead rope of William the Welsh Cob I felt it was safe to reply "Yes Keith its an orse"

He climbed down onto the track, William eyed him closely, retaliate first is his motto and no strange man leaping from bushes was going to get one over on him. "Have you ever had an orse Keith?" I asked, hoping he would realise by had I meant owned and not anything unsavoury. He shook his head and patted William chuckling to himself, "No." there was a very long pause punctuated by a plop plop plop sound as William left his mark on the track. "I had a cat though" Keith added, "He was called Tim"

I looked up the hill to the rough location of a piece of tin on the hillside with TIM painted on it marking the cats mortal remains. Keith started down the hill "I got another" he shouted over his shoulder

"Whats he called?" I shouted back

"I dunno, I call him lots of things" and the hermit was gone.

It wasn't the hermit who spoke from the bush yesterday, but a traveller who was visiting his horse, Molly, who is on the hill. Molly is massive, able to eat a whole apple in one mouthful and the most gentle attentive beast imaginable. I saw him before he spoke but let him think he had surprised me, we spent a very nice ten minutes or so passing the time of day, talking about the weather, about his horse, how worried he was that she was up here alone. I found I was able to keep up with what he was saying, obviously I had learned a thing or two about horses and didn't make myself look a complete idiot. We parted company and I promised to keep an eye on Molly for him. It might sound daft but that conversation with the traveller confirmed that it really is worth all the effort to live here. The beauty of the place, the community of the valley all make life worth living. Any doubt I had was further expelled on my return to Rock HQ, as I turned my back on Trevor he gently reminded me that he was there by biting me.

Life's great isn't it!

The final frontier

Many times I have said that since we started smallholding you find yourself doing things you really hadn't expected.

I'm not talking about responding to emergency type things, like the pigs finally finishing work on their escape tunnel today and setting off to explore the delights of the garden, or Katy the lamb hiding in the pantry, or even Faith the Gordon setter playing chase with the last of Devil hens chicks and accidentally supplying the main ingredient to tonight's chicken pate starter, no, I am talking about jobs or situations you just had not dreamed you would encounter but soon become routine. Things like extricating goats trapped by their horns off cliff faces, playing midwife to sheep as they try to push out a large uncooperative lamb (times like that you thank God for the BBC and James Herriot!) or attending to various aspects of animal hygiene.

Today we should have got on with the most boring job in the world, sanding off the varnish from the conservatory. This job we allowed a weekend for, it is progressing slower than middle east peace talks and at this point in time is about as successful. The situation has not been helped by the cheap orbital sander threatening to burst into flames every time we use it longer than ten minutes. Perhaps the dogs should have chewed it after all.

Now instead of completing this mammoth task I found a whole host of other jobs suddenly became extremely important. So important that the sanding would have to wait. Tracey watched patiently while I trimmed the sheep's hooves, a couple had early signs of foot rot, caused by the wet summer. As I trimmed she sprayed them with the purple spray that stops infection. The sheep chose not to play the game at this point and pretty soon Tracey and I were alarming shades of purple, the patches on our skin resembling bad bruises or large birthmarks.

That unexpected chore over with I think that Tracey began to suspect I was stalling from the real job of the day when I decided that today was the day, the day I crossed the final frontier of horse ownership, well male horse ownership anyway. Today was the day I got a bucket of warm water and much to all concerned surprise, especially Apollo, I did the deed.

I washed Apollo's John Thomas.

Getting up close and personal with your horses widgey is not for the feint hearted, there are no half measures, no prizes for second best, its a job that demands total commitment and two hands. Having no sense of smell would be a bonus too, I excel in that department having lost most of my sense of smell in the Alps when the inside of my nose froze, its never been the same since. Despite that advantage the smell is hard to avoid, especially as its quite likely your nose is not as far as you would like it to be from a horses dirty penis, lets face it you are only ever going to be arms length at most as you sponge and soap it clean.

I am now one of the elite few, call me the horse whisperer, should anyone shout "Is there a horse hygienist in the house!", whatever, I know that from this day forth I am one of the few people who can, when needed, or called upon, its not after all a hobby or pastime, coax a horses bits out from its protective sheath and give it a really good scrub without losing my breakfast.

The final frontier, I crossed it.

Did it get me out of sanding the conservsatory?

Yes.

Was it worth it?

If I dont have nightmares then yes.

Walking in sunshine

Today was supposed to be Kington Show (see www.kingtonshow.co.uk ) but unfortunately due to the rain of the summer it was cancelled, the showground more suited to an aquatic show rather than an agricultural show. A real shame, especially as Rocky and Reba our Bernese Mountain Dogs were entered in the dog show, the first time for Reba and the first time they had been entered against other Berners.

So with a "spare" day we were able to get to grips with jobs on the smallholding and as luck would have it after days, no, weeks of rain it was a bright and sunny day.

It has been one of those rare days where it all went so well, it was all so easy and a day that makes all the bad ones fade into distant memory.

The sheep were moved to The Ghost House gardens, the lure of the lush green grass and about a ton of free apples about to yield to gravity thus supplementing the dietary requirements of the rampaging Ryelands overcame any superstition associated with the property. The two Gypsy Cobs in the field watched as the intruders fanned out and explored their new surroundings. Moving the sheep is usually an exercise in patience but today they fell for the follow the bucket routine and walked halfway around the hill to their new pasture.

Tracey walked behind making sure no stragglers bolted for the hills, she has been very poorly the last two weeks so it was good to see her out and about in the sunshine enjoying the role of assistant shepherdess. Having collected two large buckets of apples we fed the pigs and watched them for a while. We put the boys out in brilliant sunshine, they all behaved and William only bit Apollo once and only nearly stamped his brains out in the first five minutes. After that they settled and when we fetched them in this evening Apollo was grazing just behind William so they seem to have bonded.

The poorly sheep, see strangers from a strange land, was turned out today, she has put on weight but still has ribs like a toast rack and a strange lump on her jaw. She is happy enough and was soon grazing alongside our magnificent Ryeland Ram.

The day went so well we got all the jobs done that were on the list, a first.

I went back just now to check the sheep and was pleased to see them all contently lying around chewing the cud, bellies full of apples and grass. I made sure they had water and collected some more apples for the pigs breakfast. It was getting dark. I was in the garden of the Ghost House.

I must admit I didn't look at the windows and as I left I didn't look back as lore dictates. Neither did I start running when I heard something running up behind me. Faith our setter sped past, Poppy on the other hand saw where I was heading and had sat waiting at the lanes entrance not wanting to go into the garden. Once I was sure I was out of sight of the house I turned and looked behind me, a full moon rising over the trees silhouetting the hill beautifully. Right on cue an owl hooted, which really did sound like a howl. The legend of the Black Dog sprang to mind and I headed home, I didn't run, but I did walk very quickly.

Keep smiling

There are days when despite all the good things in life I just feel like slamming the door of Rock HQ and staying inside.

The day did get off to a good start, the morning rounds were completed with no real problems, save for the fact the pigs have finally worked out how to open the pig pen door and were waiting in the passageway for their breakfasts instead of by their trough. After I fought my way through several hundred pounds of pork they sampled the savoury delights of my boots and trousers and because I am not the most organised smallholder my right boot still has no lace so at one point I was doing a traditional one boot ceilidh, which is similar to Riverdance but quicker, with the ripest pig pooh in the county squishing between my toes. When I finally extracted my boot from the pig toilet I managed to coax the pigs back to their rightful spot and barricaded their door with bales.

Amongst the bales a Black Rock hen was sitting on some eggs, one of which had hatched. It might seem cruel but I took the chick off her, for two reasons, primarily she was perched on a stack of bales in the barn and without doubt the chick would have found the only gap in the hay stack, fallen through and would have made a tasty snack for one of the cats or pigs, more likely it would have got stuck and the prospect of moving a hundred bales to rescue a Kamikaze chick was not a pleasing one, secondly Olivia a chick in the conservatory hatched a week or so ago is lonely.

On return from work I set about the tasks of the evening with enthusiasm but this was soon knocked out of me by Geisha the goat who made it her mission to annoy me, trip me up, jump on me, knock buckets over or jump into buckets I was carrying at every opportunity. She got into the garden while I was watering the plants and despairing at the slug damage. Last night I killed over 150 large slugs, some were the size of small rats and squeaked when terminated. They are devouring everything, tomatoes, potatoes, onions and all things green. When I got her out of the garden she then climbed into Rene in a further bout of attention seeking behaviour, once evicted from there she caused a near riot in the kennels by claiming Faiths bed and Poppy's biscuits. Poppy was blissfully unaware of this theft as she had taken it upon herself to disappear creating another job for her owner and his failing sense of humour which really did fail when on opening a shed door a Muscovy duck that had been hiding did a fantastic vertical take off hitting me in the face..

Despite there being another half hour or so of daylight enough was enough and I sought refuge in Rock HQ.

Still I console myself that my day wasn't as frustrating as Ben's has been. He caught the train to Penzance as the first stage of his End to End cycle ride. Penzance station is 12 or so miles from Lands End and at half two I received a picture of a rain lashed Lands End on my phone, the trip was about to start. Except he couldn't, in cycling to Lands End his chain had broken and he was now waiting to get a bus back to Penzance to get it fixed. Not the best start to an epic adventure.

Still one day we will look back and laugh.

Animal Olympics

This is Maggie the Mental trying to get a free lunch. You can see why you need high fences if you are unlucky enough to have goats.

Faith shows how to clear the fence without breaking stride.

Personality Transplant

This is Faith our gorgeous Gordon Setter, a very complex character who is happiest when she is careering around the hill chasing bunnies and foxes. Not that she ever catches one, but if there was a prize for effort she would win it.

She is quite a grumpy character, or rather, has been a grouch. For some reason she has undertaken a radical personality change. Several weeks have passed without a single grump from her. She spent most of yesterday racing around the hill or protecting the farm from all intruders, especially Blackbirds by endlessly running from one end of the track to the other. Most of the time yesterday we were gardening or working on the current priority project, that of building a new set of quarters for the rabbits. This may seem a bit of a pointless task, ours not Faith's, re homing the rabbits but it has become a bit more urgent over the last few days.

The rabbits are pets and sit quietly in their hutches not bothering anyone. The goats on the other hand quite often bother Sybil and Manny, quite often knocking the hutch over in their attempt to liberate the rabbits of their breakfasts. Sybil was so traumatised by yet another aggravated burglary that she took refuge in one of the goat houses currently home to the last batch of chicks. These are quite big now, not big enough to go out with the other birds but a good size. Unfortunately Sybil the traumatised rabbit sought comfort from one of the small chickens, she obviously wanted a special friend and the hapless chicken was smothered to death whilst Syb's gave it the kind of loving only a confused and traumatised rabbit can. A new house is therefore a priority to protect the virtue of the remaining hens from the unatural attentions of a marauding lovesick bunny.

By late afternoon we were running out of wood and I was running out of enthusiasm so we adjourned to the garden where I fought off the attention of an inquisitive shitland pony called Trevor as he tried to sample my cheese and onion sandwich and my glass of wine. For a moment I did consider letting him sample the wine, thinking the hangover might teach him a lesson, however the prospect of a drunk belligerent pony rampaging around attempting world domination as opposed to having just a belligerent pony rampaging around attempting world domination was too awful to bear so good sense prevailed.

The occupants of the garden settled down to a lazy Sunday afternoon once the food was gone and Faith continued in her quest to be nice to everyone by settling down to sleep by Daffodil the Ryeland lamb on the patio.

It was a blissful, peaceful afternoon.

Until the goats climbed the cliff again and chaos ensued.

How to annoy a setter

Faith loves chicken.

This lot are lucky they are not on the menu.

Yet.

Just when you thought the day was over!

Sleep is quite high on the to do list after spending all day messing around in the garden and looking after the animals. We had quite a busy day, building the creep feeder, turning out the horses, cutting down all the nettles, bracken and foxgloves on Oak Bank, collecting a huge pile of dead wood that had blown across the field, the usual Rock routine regarding the animals and the household chores.

So by half ten we decided to turn in, just two more tasks to do before climbing the wooden hill, shut the birds away and put the dogs in their kennels. The birds have got into the habit of sitting outside the duck house, goose house and shed until they see the torchlight, then they do one of two things. They either calmly go to their beds or they run to the hills. As it was a still, calm, warm night they went to bed without any fuss, obviously theres no fun involved if your owner isn't exposed to hypothermia as he tries to round you up, so they tend to save running off for blizzards or hurricanes, within seconds all the birds were accounted for and safe.

The same could not be said for the dogs. We are used to them taking off at full cry when they suspect a fox is in the perimeter. Faith even came back one day with a six inch piece of tail from a slow fox. What was different about last night was the missing dog was a very ancient beagle, some fifteen years old called Passion, shes on the right in the picture next to her mental brother Preston. She never wanders off, and is a bit deaf now so perhaps she was still in the house, not having heard the call to go to bed. A quick check established she had gone out with the rest, I retraced my steps and checked I hadn't locked her in with any of the birds, no sign. Neither had she got into any kennel other than the one she shares with Preston and Pip the insane collie.

Tracey now joined the search and we split up keeping in touch via radio. I set off down the track while Tracey went into the Cauldron. After fifteen minutes we still hadn't seen her. I thought I had found her but it turned out to be "Ducky" one of Poppy's big soft toys she hides on the hill. She has to do this as Faith cannot stand any toy with a squeaker so destroys anything that has the audacity to squeak in her presence. Within minutes she can render toys sold as indestructible into a pile of stuffing and non squeaky plastic components.

Just a bit further on I saw a small white thing cross the track in front of me, I tried to keep it in the torchlight as I called Tracey on the radio, I was pretty sure it was our dog but whatever it was was now halfway up the hill and intent on putting as much distance between me and it. I stuck to the track not wanting to risk a tumble over the rocks and bushes that adorn the hill. I lost sight of whatever it was and began to doubt that it was Passion, perhaps it was a badger. We have lots of those on the hill, when we moved to Rock HQ we had a set in the garden but I think they decided sharing with the magnificent seven (our dogs) was just too much. They found quieter lodgings elsewhere. There have been clashes though, Preston got caught by a big male badger one night as he went to do a number two in the gorse bushes. He was left badly bitten and so traumatised that he refused to go outside for a week.

I was now on the track leading to Mad Keith's, I wasn't sure how he would take to me wandering round his shack in the dead of night shouting for a dog. I was glad we hadn't been watching a horror film before having to search the hill, my imagination is fertile enough without having to contend with the possibilities of flesh eating zombies stalking the hill or that every rustle of a bush is a werewolf waiting to pounce on me. Brave as I am I have been known to let Tracey put the birds away in case the foul demons that haunt the night get me.

I picked up the dog in the torchlight again, she wouldn't come anyway near me. This was unusual, I don't beat her, well not often, so couldn't understand why she was behaving so erratically. Tracey called me and told me to turn the torch off, perhaps that was scaring her. Great. Being on a hill next to Mad Keith's without the comfort blanket powered by Duracell was all I needed. I tried it for nearly five seconds before deciding she wasn't scared of the torch. Back in the spotlight she sat still about fifty yards up the hill by a pile of boulders. I could see Tracey's torch down below, she watched my progress as I stumbled over the aforementioned roots, branches and rocks to get to the daft dog.

She did at one point head back along the hill, much to my annoyance, but then sat and stared into space. Which is how I found her, just sat staring at nothing. She didn't seem to recognise me so I sat down with her for a few minutes gently stroking her and talking quietly. Rocky joined us and at that point she seemed to remember who we were and began to wag her tail. There was no way I could carry this fat beagle down the hill to the track, fortunately she followed me and soon we were with Tracey who made a big fuss of the old dog, not the brave one armed heroic rescuer. I know my place.

Soon we were back in Rock HQ, Passion was allowed to sleep in the conservatory instead of the kennel. She seemed fine but we are going to keep a close eye on her in case she has more senior moments. What had earlier seemed like an early night was now very late, actually an early morning. Animals have more of an impact on the love life of a smallholder than kids ever do!

So we went to bed, exhausted.

I slept, but had a strange dream. I dreamt I was a physiotherapist working in a town, I think it was Wolverhampton. But I wasn't me, I was called Ed. To make matters worse I was a vegetarian.

Nightmare!

The joy of cats

Having stated in previous postings that this smallholding can ill afford any hangers on, that is to say, each resident must contribute to the production of the smallholding to justify their food ration, I do wonder why we have cats. My dinner has just been found under the dining room table with three out of four of our cats sat at various points in the dining room trying to look innocent but each looking extremely self satisfied and full of Rabbit that was de frosting on the kitchen worktop whilst I was outside creating a creep feeder for the lambs.

A creep feeder is basically a large wooden crate designed to keep sheep out and let lambs in to eat the special rations for the little ones. This wonder of wood is already on the second version because as we installed it Easter crashed into it like a battering Ram intent on getting at the Lamb food inside. Having anticipated this would happen I was confident it would hold out against the onslaught, what I hadn’t counted on was the smallholding rule that states all animals can get through a hole half the size you expect them to. So somehow she managed to squeeze her massive bulk, and she is the biggest Ryeland ewe we have, all the others have lost weight due to raising their lambs (Easter abandoned hers, but that’s all written down elsewhere), into the confines of the crate and scoffed most of the goodies inside.

Now considerably larger than when she went in she added to the difficulties of getting out by choosing a different gap than the one she entered by. Stuck fast she started to panic, as did Tracey and I, but for different reasons, Tracey because she thought the daft beast was going to hurt itself, me because I could see the result of a couple of hours sawing and hammering being reduced to matchwood before my very eyes. Easter dug deep and started to push the crate up the hill, quite an achievement as it took two of us to lift it into place. I had tried to keep it lightweight but as I was building it I kept adding reinforcing spars and planks, just to make sure it was robust enough, forgetting that it would have to be carried into place by Tracey and myself.

I scrambled over the fence in time to stop Easter demolishing the whole thing and much to our relief she managed to break free by only breaking the wooden bars on the front. These have now been replaced and the sheep can’t get in, but the lambs can. So can the ducks, chickens, geese and Faith the Gordon setter who all set about eating the second lot of feed.

We returned to the cottage to get a sandwich and a drink before tackling some jobs in the garden, which was when we discovered the cat burglars.

We are owned by four cats, a huge Ginger Tom called Nemo, whom is without doubt the laziest feline ever created. He has been found face down in a sack of cat dried cat food having eaten his fill, his whole weight on his face pressing into sack, front feet hanging limp by his sides sleeping off his gorging. Whilst the others are out hunting in the day he waits to be fed. We once found him sat with a dead squirrel, the hapless rodent must’ve died of fright and fell out of the tree as there is no way he could have caught it otherwise. He was good at catching tin cans when he had a magnetic identification collar, he would sort through the recycling boxes looking for tasty morsels missed and in doing so would later be found with numerous tins and lids stuck to his neck.

There is Black Cat, he was always thought to be a lady cat but when she went to the vet to be spayed she was found to be a he and so came back without his furry purse and needing a new name, temporarily he was called black cat, that was two years ago so we have plenty of time to choose a new name for him. We also have two tabby’s, Earl and Cosmo. Earl is a full tabby, he is in the picture above, whilst Cosmo has white socks. We also had a female cat called Jess but she took a detour through the woods at the end of our lane as there were cows in the field directly in front of the cottage. She never made it back; we assume a very brave fox had her.

Cosmo and Earl are the biggest worktop surfers and are often seen dragging my dinner through the cat flap. A war was declared and the cats and I are involved in skirmishes from time to time which usually result in them spending time outside while the wounds I got on my hands carrying them to the door heal. What usually follows is a period of uneasy peace, some very stealthy raids on their part that go unseen but their little paw prints are a dead giveaway, as are the open cupboards and missing butter, or cheese, in fact anything that takes their fancy. They test the kitchens defenses but are very quick to resume “sleeping” or cleaning each other once they hear anyone approach making out that they would never dream of jumping up on the worktop and rush off with the very expensive steak that is cooked to perfection but cant be served as you had to answer the phone. As Tracey has banned me from rigging up booby traps for them, preferably the ones that explode, I have to wait and catch them in the act if I want to give them any aversion therapy regarding theft of food.

The three were sat around my rabbit, which I shot last year, and which I was looking forward to slow roasting in a spicy tomato and red onion sauce a hearty supper to reward a long day outside. After these three had finished with it even the dogs turned their noses up at it as it looked so unappetizing. The cats saw my demeanor and instantly took off, three cats trying to get through a standard size cat flap all at the same time is quite funny. They managed to get out without injuring themselves and then sat at various strategic points in the garden just to let me know they weren’t bothered at the upset they had caused once again. I stamped around cursing them and making threats to their welfare should they ever come within arms reach.

Nemo must have heard the commotion and realized the human he owned was having a sense of humour failure over his fellow feline’s lack of respect. Using his cat intuition he must have known the writing was on the wall and took it on himself to restore the uneasy truce that previously existed between man and cat. Never having done so before he decided to demonstrate what an important contribution he and his fellows make to the smooth operation of Rock HQ.

He has caught a mouse.

Very slowly he walked past the honour guard of cats and dogs to Rock HQ’s main entrance; they all watched his progress with interest as he carried his awkward and heavy load. He walked into the kitchen and very carefully deposited the mouse on the floor with in front of the fridge and sat back and awaited our response. It was one of complete amazement; our ginger cat had never brought in a mouse before. He sensed our gratitude and went back into the conservatory for a lie down.

I picked up the rodents corpse and released it from the mousetrap.

As I took the trap back to the workshop to re set it by the animal food stores I realized Nemo has taken his laziness to a new level.

Murder most fowl!

Theres been a murder!

But before I tell you about that let me tell you about the joys of keeping chickens.

We have kept a few hens for years, they don't take up much room, eat garden scraps and layers pellets and provided they are happy are very low maintenance. Devil Hen, closest to you in the picture is eight years old and very occasionally lays blue eggs. That's how they should be, egg laying. Ours eat gold, sleep in velvet lined boxes and are from time to time a blasted nuisance.

Let me explain.

When, flush with the success of owning a few birds, you buy a book of the how to keep chickens genre, you hope to find pearls of wisdom that you can use to rear your birds into fantastic egg producers. You might, as we did, start reading and realise that you have inadvertently broken every rule of chicken husbandry which makes you feel like packing up before you start.

Rule number one, it seems, is never buy an odd looking bird from the market as it closes just because you feel sorry for it. We seem to have confused never with always. Both of us have banned each other from attending a poultry market as we inevitably come back with a box containing a scrawny looking bird whilst offering our spouse lame excuses such as "It looked at me funny" or "It was lonely".

So our initial flock was full of poultry experts rejects who ate their weight in corn for little or no return.

Undaunted we bought 12 Black Rock point of lay hens. Point of lay seems to be a code poultry sellers use for "Unsure at what point they will ever lay". Now we had done our homework, Black Rocks lay 300 eggs a year each. with 12 we would have about 3600 eggs a year. If we sold them at a pound a dozen we would only need to sell 3.5 million eggs to pay off the mortgage!

Fantastic!

In a classic variation of don't count your chickens before they've hatched, don't count your eggs until they've been laid. These lazy dozen either don't know they are supposed to be supreme layers or they are hiding their eggs and selling them on the quiet. The original 12 never came on to lay properly and got very fat on the corn supplied every morning by their hopeful owner. In fact a large white table bird bought from a back of the van in a lay by one rainy day, another thing the chicken book tells you not to do, only buy from a reputable seller it says, apparently they don't hang round lay bys plying their poultry, lays more eggs than all of them. One was even caught eating the white birds offering! It was quickly dispatched and served for Sunday roast, delicious.

A cull was immanent. Too much like hard work though, all that plucking and drawing. Luckily a visit to Gwynne's resulted in the loan of the ultimate piece of kit as far as plucking is concerned, a very old Burco Boiler, used at own risk. Since the Black Rocks saw the boiler they have suddenly started producing the much needed eggs. Six eggs a day from the dirty dozen, which six I have yet to discover but its far better than last year so for the moment they are safe. I cant risk eating the wrong six.

The book also warns against having too many bantams, small hens, as they reproduce like rabbits. Often a bantam disappears only to reappear with a dozen or so little bantam chicks. One time last year we had over forty chicks wandering around. Threatened at being over run by the fowl vermin lots were given away. Lots were coq au vin and the fox had a fair number.

Sooner or later the chicken book predicts you will want to specialise in one sort of poultry, fancy birds as it were.

Ha!

Never!

Never will I ever look at a live chicken and think anything other than that would be great with gravy or wonder how many keebabs I could make out of it. I am happy with my cross bred rejects and lazy Black Rocks. The only bird I fancy is the one I married.

So quite why I came back from an agricultural show having spent a fortune with a box containing three Winnecott's, a cock now named Walter, a hen called Winnie, very original I thought and a bantam Winnecott called Winnie Small. Well we run out of names so some repetition is allowed. Winnecotts are beautiful birds, brilliant white feathers edged jet black. Tracey and I were often found watching the antics of these three, commenting on what beautiful birds they were. Show quality the bantam we decided.

However.

If you have read this blog before you may have read the one where Faith was chewing her new toy which we found to be Winnie. Suitably chastised Faith went to her bed while Winnie recovered in a nesting box. She made a full recovery. Phew!

But worse was to come.

A few nights ago we were inspecting the work of the stable sprites who had magically appeared to do more work on the new stable block. Something was wrong. Rocky looked guilty as I looked across to the front door of the cottage. He did the canine equivalent of "Its not me its her" pointing at Faith as she shot out of the doorway with something in her mouth. I headed her off at the pass and found her muzzle covered in feathers. White ones. Edged black.

This time Winnie was hurt, seriously hurt by the front door. We put her in the nesting box but she died a few minutes later.

Faith had murdered our Winnie!

Still we had Winnie Small and she was the best of the two so perhaps we could hatch some of her eggs, get ourselves a small flock of the pretty birds, sell some perhaps.

The following day we came back from work and found Winnie Small dead on the floor, obviously death by dog but ours were safely locked away in the kennel. Perhaps it was a ramblers dog. We shall never know.

With no Winnecott hens left we stuck every egg we had in the incubator in the hope that some of them might be Winniecott offspring. I shall tell you the arcane secrets of egg hatching in another posting.

The bodies were disposed of. I tested the Burco Boiler and it worked great, plucked each both in ten minutes.

They tasted great.

Waste not want not!

Faith's Bucket

Just one small reason why our jobs take so long some mornings!

Murph and the missing sheep

There are times when I really should listen to my wife more, I keep telling myself this and today is no exception. Had I listened to her advice I might perhaps have avoided my, what the surgeon described a tad too cheerily for my liking, my "life changing accident". But I shall bore you with the details of that at a later date, when I have more time and less to talk about.

As you know we are missing four sheep, lost on the common that surrounds our cottage. So straight after work I decided there was just enough daylight left to complete the two mile circuit of the hill that we are perched on and try to entice the Suffolks back with some nice crunchy sheep nuts.

Tracey advised against this as if I fell there would be no one to find me as she would be too busy with the horses. Pah!!

I set out armed with one of the walkie talkies, the yellow bucket and four very large and very mental dogs. What could possibly go wrong?

Almost immediately I got a warning that perhaps I should pay heed to my wife and not my male bravado. As I and the pack entered the cauldron, a huge natural bowl shape formed by the hillside I watched Faith the Gordon Setter charge off over the skyline closely followed by Poppy the Golden Retriever barking with a ferocity never exhibited before. Rocky and Reba the Bernese Mountain Dogs felt compelled to join the chase and within seconds I was alone walking up the hill towards the Troll's Cave. In looking for said Troll I omitted to look where my feet were going and was very surprised to find I was instantly eye level with an anthill. Luckily the yellow bucket broke my fall and my injured arm, the one the surgeon is very worried about, well not that worried as its not my arm but if I was you mate I'd be crying (as I said he's a cheerful bloke) flopped limply to the floor without causing major complications. I pushed myself up with my good arm and carefully checked for any exposed metal work in my left arm. All intact. I looked at the horizon and to where the dogs had disappeared and for a moment thought about returning to the sanctuary of the cottage. The radio bleeped and Tracey asked me where I was, and if I was OK, this spurred me on, as did the pack of dogs who returned baying at full volume, maybe they had found the sheep!

I'm fine I shouted into the radio, obviously lying as I was still spitting out moss and grass from kissing the anthill.

Undeterred I pressed on. The dogs hadn't found anything they were just barking at the wind, and the rain, and the grass, and the dirt, in fact they were just barking insanely at everything.

I rounded the hill, feebly shaking the bucket and yelling "Caaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrmon!!!" the universally recognised call to summon sheep. Non were summonsed but in the failing light a few sheep looked worried. None were the right ones. We use different colours to identify the flocks on the hill, yes my fourteen sheep count as a flock thank you very much!! Ours are green, well in places they are, usually the tail and a large T along the left flank. Unless its an eater, when we omit the T as it makes the fleece unusable. Luckily for me the sheep hadn't worked out this coding, the last thing you need is fourteen angry sheep. As the Suffolk's were all eaters apart from Bill I was beginning to suspect they had worked out the code and made a bid for freedom on the hills.

I reached the halfway point, still sheepless but now reunited with the pack, who bored with chasing rabbits had loyally returned to their owners side and were now taking it in turns to trip him up. In the gathering darkness decided there was no hope of finding the sheep and set off down the track that would bring me back to my front door. This would mean walking past mad Keith's, a hermit who decided over 45 years ago that the hill was the place to be, and who doesn't stalk the hill at night with a box of cat bones tied to his ancient bicycle, and past Murph's place. Keith I could handle, and anyway as hes over 70 I can run faster than him. Murph on the other hand, he is a living nightmare.

Murph is a kindly soul who lives for the sound of his own voice. He is not happy unless the dull droning monotone Irish brogue is being received by his auditory senses. I had been warned about him. The first time I met him was one of those exceptionally busy moments where the last thing you want to hear is someone saying, I can see your busy so I wont stop you, but....

But!

But you still spoke to me for over an hour Murph!

We had just taken delivery of a fridge, the super duper food centre type. The bells and whistles type that makes ice for your drinks. The type that takes eleven weeks to be delivered and only then after daily phone calls trying to trace your order. The fridge that you take two days off work for waiting for its delivery only to find its not been sent because some moron drove into it with a forklift, or the order was cancelled because the driver decided not to drop it off as they couldn't get the lorry up the drive to the cottage. The same lorry that the week before had delivered a washing machine from the same company, by the same driver and the same lorry that now couldn't make it up the lane. That type of fridge becomes very important to the recipient, and when he discovered the lorry in the lane he insisted on it being left right there mate, don't even think about taking it away and bringing it back in a smaller lorry.

That's how I found myself in the lane with a huge fridge. I did think I would drag it back to the cottage, but the drive is just under half a mile long and all uphill. The fridge weighs over 100kg. A new plan was needed. Luckily Ben, our son was home and with what I thought was inspirational thinking I got him to reverse the Ford Focus up to the fridge, and with the tailgate open we lodged the top corner of the huge cardboard box surrounding its precious contents onto the bumper of the car. Slowly, at walking pace we took it in turns to edge the car forward whilst the other bore the weight of the fridge. The plan was working. To the point we were Murphed. He appeared from nowhere and delivered a welcome to the hill monologue (we had not long moved in) that lasted longer than some communist leaders annual party address. I took it as long as my arms and more vitally my ears could stand. As my tendons were being ripped apart I prayed for salvation, a comet to kill Murph, anything to end the torment. Luckily for him his wife who must be deaf or immune appeared and dragged him away before I had a chance to physically harm him.

Confident that Murph was not going to be in I continued past Keith's hovel and amazingly found the sheep. There in a clearing all scoffing grass. Hah!! Success. They saw me and didn't bolt, Bill came over and ate from the bucket and all was right with the world. I was going to return home a hero!

We all filed into the lane that runs alongside Murphs house and I saw to my horror lights were on. Worse, the outside light was on and I could see the gangily silhouette of Murph, poised by the gate like a six foot six Irish preying mantis waiting for prey to bore. There was no escape. he could see I was busy, but...

And so I heard about the car trouble he had been having, the journey down (his is a holiday cottage) the courtesy car, the pros and cons of Nissan Micras as opposed to his Volvo, his new year, his walk around the hill and how nice the sheep are, they're very friendly are they mine and on and on until I wanted to stab him. Repeatedly.

In the glare of the outside lights I couldn't keep track of the four dogs, the four sheep and the goat, Maggie, who had also appeared. I felt the life being sucked out of me as Murph droned on giving me his whole life story. I was vaguely aware of the presence of animals, the dogs crashing around, sometimes barking at Murph, once the goat put her front hooves on my shoulder and looked me in the eye, probably to tell me the bucket was now empty, and the sheep were milling around. As I wished for a swifter death I really did wish I had listened to Tracey and not set off on the mission to round up the flock. Eventually Murph's wife appeared in the doorway and ordered him back inside. I was saved. I returned to the task in hand, bringing the sheep safely home.

Sheep?

What sheep?

I was alone in the dark. The dogs, bored with waiting had set off for home. The sheep having emptied the bucket took to the hill once more, having tasted freedom they were keen to keep their liberty. Defeated I returned sheepless to the cottage.

Cheers Murph.

Still a warm welcome awaited and Karl had even cooked me dinner. I think he did this for two reasons, one to say sorry for booking his return flight home for the 17th of March, the other to demonstrate that you can cook without using every work surface, pot and pan, just to make one meal, like what I do.

His leaving on the 17th means we have three weeks to complete the kennels, the stables, the garden digging, the fencing, the goat house, the stairs in the workshop and the utility kitchen at the back of the workshop where we can butcher our own meat and other such jobs. I also want him to decorate, fix the leaking toilet, put the alternator belt on the Peugeot, clean it and sell it. In his spare time he can chop enough wood for the winter. He's going to be busy!

Me, well mines a supervisory role, and as I am in London for the next three days I wont be able to do much of that either. Tomorrow he has the joys of Mike and Johnathan to help with the concrete.

Poor Tracey will have to sort out any fights on her own!!