Endurance training!

So much happens at Rock HQ its hard to keep up with events. For instance in the last twenty four hours the old car and van have gone to the great re cycling plant in the sky,I made our bed, spoke to the BBC about a programme they are making involving fostering (they are apparently sending me the scripts to look at, a daytime TV programme called Doctors) tried to speak to another BBC researcher about a smallholding programme they are planning and a five bar metal gate fell on Springtime nearly squashing her flat. Luckily Tracey was on hand to free the dazed and confused sheep.

Making the bed was not a simple task when it arrived wrapped up in bubblewrap and sticky tape. years of making Airfix models meant that the A5 sheet of paper containing hundreds of sketches of how to bolt G to subframe J and crossmember underhanger 19.4 x 7 was no match for me and within two hours, under Tracey's patient supervision the whole thing was assembled. There then followed a titanic battle of wills, ours versus the new mattress which refused to cooperate and go upstairs. Eventually it was beaten into submission and installed in its rightful place. The old one is currently in the conservatory, its fate uncertain. It was going to the tip as it was so uncomfortable to sleep on it forced its replacement. I found this hard to accept as it is a very expensive make, the one with the hippo and duck label where they both sleep peacefully without the hippo ending up with the duck as a badge on its jimmers. As we battled to get the old one downstairs I found a very interesting label which basically translated to "this way up" meaning for the last year Tracey and I have been sleeping with it upside down which might explain why it was like sleeping on a metal grid. The right way up at the bottom of the stairs and it was back to being supremely comfortable.

It was Ben's last day with us until sometime in December (he is going somewhere very dangerous beginning with the letter A, they make nice rugs) so I took the day off to spend some time with him. After running through several options for the day we settled on some endurance training.

This entailed setting off at a brisk pace across the ridge, with heavy packs and two Bernese Mountain Dogs as company, in the summer rain. Once at The Whetstone we climbed onto it and began drinking whiskey. Task over we managed to make it to a pub where we introduced the locals to the largest border collies they had ever seen and continued our endurance training by trying all the beers. It being a real ale pub there was a lot to choose from and after two and half hours of serious hard work we emerged into the sunlight and walked back to HQ. This took longer than it should thanks to several seemingly good idea detours and an encounter with one of the local militia who wanted a chat to break the monotony of his day.

By the time Ben and I were on the top of our hill it was almost tea time and after a final whiskey we set off down the insanely steep North Face Gully, disturbing a large dog fox sneaking up on our smallholding in the process and getting home just five minutes before Tracey did. A quick shower and we were all off to the pub, how we managed to fit into Tom's car without bursting it at the seams is as big a surprise as how the poor cars suspension managed our combined weight but soon we were at The Harp dining on the best steak a human being can find.

Goodbyes were saved until five this morning when Ben donned his uniform and prepared to leave. It was hard not to get emotional about him leaving but as we agreed a long time ago, there really is no point worrying. He loves his job and whatever he does he will do it well. All of us are immensely proud of him and we all look forward to him coming home safely.

Bloody Kids!

No matter how many problems, mishaps, or nightmares our animals cause us they pale into insignificance compared to those created by our children.

Today was well planned, feed the animals, clear out their mess, tidy the house, breakfast, narrate a dance show (long story, tell you next week) assist in the sheep shearing, bar b que with friends and a few beers to mark the longest day of the year.

As it was rain stopped play for the shearing, the sheep have to be dryish or the wool won't separate from the sheep. But we were on track to do the rest, OK the bar b que was off and moved indoors, but the rest was definitely doable.

Until the phone rang. It was Ben.

Remember him? He's the Army Officer, tough guy, cool dude and ace planner. Sandhurst trained.

His car had broken down in Bristol after he had dropped his girlfriend off at the airport. He thought he had RAC cover, they thought different. He thought he had money in the bank to pay a garage to fix it, the bank told him otherwise. He thought he had plenty of time to get back to his base and get on the transport to go to Belize, but the clock was ticking and time like his options were running out.

I thought I was going to have a busy day ticking jobs off the list, instead I found myself driving to Bristol Airport to rescue our eldest. Beth came along as she had RAC cover and we hoped to persuade the nice garage people to recover the car back to Rock HQ. We found him feeling very sorry for himself having the worst day of his life by the roadside. The car was defiantly not drivable, the clutch had failed. I topped up the fluid level but still it wouldn't go. The garage was on its way, hour and half wait. At this point Ben dropped the time limit bombshell, he had to be back at base, waiting 90 minutes would mean he missed the plane. We left Beth with the car to be recovered and set off. The only worry I had was if the garage fixed the car she would be uninsured, still that was unlikely.

Sure enough we got sixty miles away and the garage had fixed it, no need to transport it back. Not able to go back to fetch her and leave Ben with the now usable car I carried on and dropped him off at the Barracks. Beth was now three hours and 120 miles away in a car she couldn't drive. I got back to Rock HQ and did the only thing I could think of to solve it, spent more of the banks money on insuring Beth to drive. She got back about six pm, tired out having taken one for the team.

Ben has since phoned, very grateful but still in bits from the trauma of saying goodbye to his girlfriend and us.

Beth soon recovered and has taken her brothers car out for a drive as its a better car than hers.

I am having a huge single malt, fathers day did have its pluses, and contemplating the size of the jobs list carried over to tomorrow, that all I did today was drive miles, spend money and how much easier animals are to look after than kids.

Why the French eat Horses.

Today I broke a cardinal rule of smallholding and paid the price.

Dearly.

Those of you familiar with this site will know that there are rules of smallholding which we discover or create as we go along. There are some though that are sacrosanct, passed down through the generations, these pearls of wisdom must never, ever be challenged or broken.

Those that do not follow the path of the righteous smallholder shall perish.

Smallholding, or small scale farming is a challenge, particularly if you work full time. No matter what the weather when you return from your paid endeavours you have to do the rounds, attend the animals dependent on you for food and water, check all is well, patrol the perimeter and repel all boarders until nightfall when you can retire happy that you have six hours twenty six minutes before the dawn chorus of the Rock pack wakes you up again.

Tonight when we got back with Rene stuffed full of hay the heavens opened and it rained the way it only can on a Welsh hillside. Torrential, sustained, heavy, prolonged whatever you use to describe it we were going to get very very wet. I bravely volunteered to go and do the rounds allowing Tracey to stay dry and do the household chores. Off I set into the monsoon like weather.

All went well, the sheep got their hay, the goats got their share, all were watered, the eggs were collected, all the sheep were accounted for and I went down the lane to the horses. Here in their temporary stable they were reasonably dry but the ground outside was soaked, water coming over the tops of my boots I waded to the stable door of Trevor the Shitland pony who is 33 inches high and a total git. He shoved past me as I was momentarily blinded by the hood of my jacket, as I cleared it from my face I saw I had broken the rule. The rule more important than shutting the stable door before they bolt. The rule everyone knows.

Always shut the gate.

I hadn't and with a kick of his heels Trevor was off into the lane. Never mind I thought as I checked William, the welsh cob, its raining, he won't want to leave his nice warm dry stable. William set about chomping through another bundle of money, I mean bale of hay, I filled his water bucket and shut him in for the night. He was happy, so was I.

Trevor was in sight just along the lane showing no signs of returning. There was a slight flaw to my he wont want to be out in the rain logic, he being genetically predisposed to deal with the worst Scottish weather ever whilst I on the other hand am genetically predisposed to warm firesides and Malt Whiskey. As I approached he backed away. It was slightly amusing. I closed the gap, he ran off but kept me in sight. So I set off after him, he did it again.

Thinking he might follow I walked back to the stable, Trevor thought otherwise and stayed put on the hill eating. Never mind, the dogs were enjoying their extended romp amongst the gorse bushes. It was quite fun after all watching the Shitland annoying its owner. I began the long walk back, pondering on life's events, things that happened last week like seeing a House Martin for the first time this year, noticing that the nesting box is now occupied and wondering what you call a dog with no ears, anything you like, he cant hear you (ok its old but its free, you want original material wait and buy the book!) Ben is a no eared dog, he was stood at the bottom of the lane watching the evenings entertainment. He lost both ears and almost his life in a fight with a couple of Staffordshire Terriers that turned on him. I continued my mental and physical ramble, my plan to put Bernard Matthews out of business has finally got off the ground, I found our first turkey egg today, soon we shall be overwhelmed with organic turkeys. And so my mind wandered until I spotted the Shitland watching me.

Trevor was waiting in the lane and did his vanishing trick as I got close. No matter how casually I sidled up to him he scarpered as I got within reach. Then he really took off, up past Mad Keith's shack, somewhere he had never been before. So I set after him, cursing myself for not shutting the gate and really not seeing the funny side now as ice cold April rain ran into my boots off my cold soaked through trousers. Thank God for global warming I fumed.

As I approached Mad Keith's I wondered if he ate ponies, would I find Trevor's bones on the pile in front of his shack amongst the empty gin bottles? The trees form a natural archway as you approach his dwelling and the wind whistled through in a very symbolic way as is compulsory when you consider the strange eating habits of mad hermits who are your nearest neighbours.

It was at this point I heard the loudest horse whinny ever and the thunder of hooves on the gravel track ahead. What should have appeared was the headless horseman from Sleepy Hollow given the quality and volume of the sound effects. What actually appeared was a very annoying Shitland pony who rocketed past me in the evening gloom and disappeared over the side of the hill.

I duly followed, this time across country and discovered the advantage a fit quadruped with the predisposition to run up rock faces has over a fat biped with the predisposition for eating pizza.
We played hide and seek amongst the gorse bushes for a while, that was fun, he able to blend into the flora of the hillside with his dark brown and light grey two tone coat, I unable to sneak up on him in my bright red gortex.

Finally my radio alerted me to the fact that Tracey was now missing me, or rather wanted to know where I was. I managed to give a rough estimation of time and distance from HQ as I crouched behind a bush having just spotted my prey. I jumped out and grabbed Trevor. By the tail. I don't know who was the most amazed or confused out of the two of us. I had no idea what to do next, I don't suppose it's as dangerous as catching a tiger by the tail but there would undoubtedly be consequences.

Only having one arm to hold the git by didn't help, my left arm is pretty useless following an accident, roughly 20% movement and 2% strength so absolutely no use to hold a mental pony on a steep wet hillside. So we both looked at each other wondering who was going to do what next. He made the first move turning to face me, which was the best I could hope for, he could have kicked me or run off down hill dragging me with him. As he tried to bite me I managed to get a hold of his mane and walked him reluctantly down to the lane.

Tracey appeared like a guardian angel bearing horse bondage gear and suitably trussed he was walked back to his den where he had all the creature comforts waiting for him. Bless.

Tracey and I walked back through the rain, fed and watered the dogs, put them in their kennels and decided to call it a day and get back in the warm of Rock HQ.

We then discovered another cardinal rule.

No matter how much of a hurry you leave the house always shut the front door.

Remember the hardy Welsh hill sheep, Jess and Katy and their equally robust Ryeland friend Daffodil?

They had seen the door open and seized the chance to exchange the wet cold outdoors for warm, cosy indoors. When we found them they were sat on the sofa, but there was evidence they had been most places in the house before hand. It amazing what a mess three cute little lambs can make when they are unsupervised.


And they had eaten the Toblerone.

For a moment it looked like lamb was on the menu.

Never get between Tracey and her Toblerone, its up there with always shut the gate.