If only they could talk

Actually I am quite grateful our animals cant talk, I do sometimes wonder what they might say about me and my antics. No doubt the Berners would have been delivering rubbish jokes today like "Are you sure we are Bernese Mountain Dogs?" prompting the response "Of course" and then " Why do you ask?" to which they would have replied in chorus "Because we're cold!" as today it has been bone chillingly cold.

So cold in fact that Pritch, our intrepid builder, turned up to finish the block work to the annex (the one we hoped to finish in summer) but had to stop at lunchtime as ice was forming in the concrete mixer as it mixed. Personally I think he was just scared of Snowy our very large cockerel who has decided he hates builders and attempts to remove their calf muscles, often with hilarious consequences particularly when the builder is bent over in his van. The sudden application of beak and claw to the calf leads to the most exquisite sounding bang on the head as contact is made with the roof of the van as builder jumps up in agony. How we laughed.

The Technohermit called to liven up the day as he was having a crisis, this was rectified with some turkey soup (the last of the Christmas turkey was eaten today) and me turning up at his abode with my impressively big chopper.

As I approached his cave I could see four walkers braving the ice fields of the bonsai mountain, fully kitted out with Arctic gear setting off along the track ahead. Soon our paths crossed, the Berners got to them first giving them the enthusiastic "What are you doing in my garden!" barks and wags of the tail. I cheerfully wished the walkers an equally enthusiastic "Happy New Year!" to which the man at the back of the group screamed and grabbed hold of his colleague, the one at the front, obviously the leader turned and stammered "Look mate we don't want any trouble" and backed away as I continued past. In all honesty they probably haven't encountered a man walking the hills carrying a big axe before. Especially as the axe bearer had blood down the front of his trousers and all across his boots from dealing with a mortally wounded chicken that had had an accident with a Bernese Mountain Dog only minutes beforehand. The silver foil carrier bag laden with fresh turkey soup might have looked like it contained the severed head of my latest victim, so rather than get involved in complicated explanations that would have inevitably led to me pointing with the axe I left them to their panic and continued up the hill. I chanced a quick glance behind and could see them in a heated debate as whether or not to follow my bloody footprints into the trees.

Much chopping of wood later my canine entourage and I returned to Rock HQ and cooked a pot roast and dealt with the sudden acquisition of the prime ingredient of a cock a leekie soup.


Round two. Taking the pot roast to the hermit involved walking with extreme care across the ever thickening ice with our progress in the darkness vaguely illuminated by a novelty pig shaped torch that cast a poor excuse for a beam of light from its nostrils. This went well, right up to the point on the return trip when I invented a new sport, Ice Windmilling.

The interesting point to note here was that in the time it took to cook a pot roast, three hours maximum, Murphy had arrived and had accidentally burst his water pipe from the well that serves his holiday cottage. This nugget of information, given by the hermit as he gratefully received his portion of hot dinner, leaped from my hind brain a millisecond too late as the poor plastic pig failed to illuminate the safe descent. At the point where the ice covered track was steepest I gratefully placed my booted left foot into a patch of fresh green grass which crunched rather pleasingly under my bulk. As my conscious brain asked "Why was the grass so green, so clean even?" The answer screamed by the hind brain arrived just after the application of my right foot to a fantastic new ultra smooth sheet of ice that came courtesy of a burst pipe. In homage to all comedic falls I did the frantic two foot shuffle, faster than any dancer on ice, simultaneously windmilling both arms around which provided an albeit it weak but none the less recognisable strobe effect from the whirring plastic pig. Whilst the Berners sat and watched the very interesting stop motion effect passing of their master I uttered the universal cry of those suddenly finding physics controlling their destiny of "Ohshiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit!"

As dictated in moments like this where sudden death is a possibility time stood still, and whilst in reality the whole process took less than three seconds it felt like a lifetime. In my light/dark torment I considered the best way to fall, I even asked questions like will breaking my right arm hurt as much as my left arm did, how did I miss this ice on the way up and most importantly why were the Berners now humming the Ski Sunday theme tune. In the timestoodstillness of it all I decided falling was not an option and I should try and prevent injury by riding it out. Just as I adopted the classic snowboarding stance, plastic pig valiantly showing the way, just as I was starting to enjoy the sensation of speed I came to an abrupt stop. Even in the dim light cast by the pig and the lights from the holiday cottage I could see the cause of my misfortune, Murphy's back. He was surprised to see me slalom past his left ear chased by an out of control Golden Retriever who thinks every sudden movement is a race and watched me cushion my fall nearby in a snowy gorse bush. Things could not get any worse I thought as the Berners ably assisted my embarrassed extrication. It did. The dread laden phrase rang out and froze in the icy air. "I can see your busy but....."

On Parade!

Here's our three boys lining up looking very handsome, they have spotted the newest resident at Rock HQ, Misty a very petite Shetland mare who is pregnant. Trevor when he saw her grew a foot in height and seemed to grow a fifth leg he was so excited. All three were very intrigued by Misty's sudden appearance which was all down to Tracey's hard work.

She is a good very good driver, unusual for girls I know but she was always one to buck a trend. Anyway despite never having towed a trailer before she borrowed Stable Sprites horse box, which is one more suitable to ferrying around two carthorses rather than a small 33 inch high miniature horse, (its massive) and drove sixty plus miles across country to fetch Misty, loaded her up and brought her back. I went along as morale support and can testify that it was a very pleasant trip once you got used to burning clutch smell or the fact that pressing the imaginary brake pedal the passenger side has no effect whatsoever. Only joking, it was a very nice few hours away from Rock HQ.

While we were out Pritch finished off the block work and he has done a marvelous job of it. The bunker is nearly finished.

Tracey also ignored my advice of pulling into the lay by a mile from HQ to allow Misty to walk up the lane to the house thus saving Rene dragging the trailer up the bonsai mountain and saving Tracey from having to reverse and turn the trailer round. Rene managed the hill without a murmur and Tracey executed a perfect 3 point turn with trailer first go. I bowed down to her prowess and took her for a pint of cider at our new local as a reward.

In all its been an action packed weekend, the jobs list has been attacked, and as ever each job completed has created two more, but we are happy with the progress we are making. Things seem to be falling into place at last. We were pondering on this as we got back to the start of our lane. Even seeing Murphy failed to spoil our feel good factor. He smiled and opened the gate for us, as we slowed down to negotiate the opening he pounced and started a conversation. I don't remember much of what was said, but he was surprised that he had got no apples on his tree. Or plums. Must've been a special sort of frost he supposed, that killed all his blossom, not one apple, not one solitary apple. I nodded and agreed. We drove on. No plums or apples Tracey mused. I don't suppose its got anything to do with your Berkshires getting fat! she enquired. I said nothing. Never underestimate the power of denial.

Rain stops play!

Weather really has an impact here. We got up fairly early as there was a lot to do, but whilst it was dry we walked over to visit our friends whose Berners we look after while they are away. The walk did the horses a lot of good, there was one minor upset when Trevor panicked because a car was parked at the end of our lane. It was under the trees, lurking, a harbinger of doom, for Trevor was right to panic, its Murpy's car, he is back on the hill so none of us are safe.

There does seem to be a link between his arrival and atrocious weather!

We managed to get the jobs done just as the heavens opened and we have seen some rain here but today was definitely the hardest ever, linked to the gale force winds it made being outside intolerable. Everyone and everybeast took shelter wherever they could find it, even Geisha thought twice about crossing the yard to steal food.

The rain has flooded the workshop, I moved everything into the upstairs gallery, well that that wasn't floating when I discovered the disaster area. It seems the roof over the black hole has given up any pretence of weatherproofness and the water is currently pouring in. Another job to add to the list!

You might think the video above shows that Geisha's has given up her raids on the haystack. Not a chance!

A.N.D.Q!

Despite it being appalling weather William and Geisha insist on helping themselves to the hay buffet.

Taking shelter wherever they can Hercules and Maude are hiding under the spare rabbit hutch, it might only keep their heads dry but at least its a start!

None shall pass!

Happy to be heading home I jumped out of Rene and ran to the gate. It has to be said I wasn't paying attention, my focus was on opening the gate and avoiding Ben the no eared dog. We have a love hate relationship, he loves to hate me. When he was feeling sorry for himself after his mauling by the staffordshire terriers which left him horrendously injured, hence no ears, he mellowed and let me pat him. Hey I even gave him treats I felt so sorry for him.

Now his wounds healed his temperament has returned to his normal kill maim disfigure setting and so he waits my return when he either lets me through the farm yard unscathed or,if he feels inclined he rushes up to attack me from behind playfully nipping my calf, oh how we laugh.

So in my haste to get the gate open and return to the safety cell of Rene I missed the real danger lurking in the lane. I stood rooted to the spot as the gate swung clear, Rene chugged away happily in the back ground, safety was only feet away but I was trapped.

A lone figure stood in the lane facing me, a wheelbarrow at his side meant there was no chance of rushing him with the Renault 4x4. He straightened up, his eyes narrowed as he sized me up, his hands hanging loosely by his sides, his fingers flexed and relaxed. I looked over my shoulder, it was too far to run to the car I would never make it, I would be cut down as soon as I turned. In desperation I tried to control my breathing, not daring to glance at my watch for I knew that would be certain death. The tall thin figure took a step forward his eyes boring into me, I whispered a silent prayer as I saw him draw breath and say "I can see you're busy but...."

Nooooooooooooooooooo!

Murphy was back and had me at his mercy in the lane, I was helpless as the Irish monotone drove my braincells to suicide as he told me how he hadn't been to France this year but was going Thursday. What relevance this had to me I will never find out, he went on to tell me about the two horses pictured above asking what type they were and my life passed before my eyes as he went on and on and on. Praying for salvation it arrived in the form of his wife who chastised him for keeping me so long.

Again.

If you know anyone in France, warn them!

All quiet on the Western Front

Strange weather here today, lots of heavy rain and then a fantastic burst of sunshine. Jobs got done in quick time tonight, one of those evenings when it all seemed to go too smoothly. The sheep were somewhere on the hill, the goats were almost certainly bothering them somewhere so they were not around my feet or jumping into the feed buckets as I carried them to the pigs and horses.

At the bottom of the lane I saw an ominous set of tyre tracks leading off up to the ghost house. I did think I would collect some more apples for the pigs, they like free food as much as I do, but as I was stood pondering the meaning of the tyre tracks, the pros and cons of carrying a heavy bucket full of apples a third of a mile home I saw out of the corner of my eye a familiar shape amongst the bracken. I pretended not to notice wondering what Mad Keith was up to, more importantly what he would do next and whether I should drop the bucket if I had to run.

He sidled over trying to look as nonchalant as a hermit can when discovered in the foliage.

He stood with me looking at the tracks and we shared a few moments silence.

"I thought you were Murphy" he eventually said his voice tinged with relief.

I looked at him, he was studying my face for a reaction, he nodded "Ah, Murphy's back" he added as he watched me scuff the stones in the track with my boot as the implications of the information were dawning.

"I didn't know" I replied looking up the hill to the ghost house perched on a small westerly facing spot, the hill looked so peaceful. Mad Keith followed my gaze, "Ah, I thought you was him see, I saw him this morning but I pretended to be busy, I avent got time for him."

"Thanks for letting me know Keith, I'll give getting the apples a miss"

"He likes the apples too,I dunno what he does with em, crab apple cider I spect." he chuckled to himself.

"Cheers Keith" I turned and headed back along the lane, a narrow escape, Murphy is back on the hill. It is indicative of how much of your time he takes in any encounter if the techno hermit hasn't got time to spend talking to him. I knew the evening was going too smoothly, with him back we would all have to be vigilant that he didn't catch us unawares with a "I can see you're busy...."

Perhaps we should pretend we've moved until Mad Keith gives the all clear.

Fencing for begginers

We were both at the point where it wasn’t physically possible to get any wetter without immersing ourselves in the stream that runs across the end of our land. The book on smallholding doesn’t really explain how to erect barbed wire fences, those that do show how it’s done on a level site with all the right gear, which includes wire stretcher thingys, mallets, hammers, wire proof gloves and sleeve protection and staples to hold the wire to the posts. Usually the grainy black and white photos illustrating the art of fencing show a sunny day for the pastime. It was hard to remember that only four days ago we were getting sunburnt as we began the fencing project in the garden pictured above.

As we are smallholders who work full time, time off has to be spent on the jobs that are vital, so wet weather has to be ignored and tasks ticked off the to do list or you find yourself in a spot of bother. Our plants in the green houses now need to be put outside, we can’t do that without making the garden goat proof, feral sheep proof, dog proof, and after seeing the havoc wreaked by a Black Rock in the potato beds, chicken proof as well. So the fencing had to be completed despite the rain, despite the lack of appropriate kit and despite incompetence.

So in the teeth of the current deluge Tracey and I were on a 45 degree dirt bank that is behind the stable and up the slope as high as the roof. Whilst I hung on to the barbed wire with my gardening gloves using my considerable bulk to get some tension on the strand Tracey hammered nails into the posts and bent them over in lieu of staples. This technique seemed to be working quite effectively. Admittedly we wouldn’t win any prizes for our work but it would at least keep the animals off the vegetables. After 25 metres we were nearing completion, the jokes had stopped, event the tried and tested “Ok, when I nod my head you hit it” routine failed to raise a smile from a thoroughly drenched Tracey, and from the look on her face she was tempted to follow my instruction. I kept quiet and pulled on the wire.

Mind you the rain was partly her fault, she had just said “Can’t it rain any harder” and right on cue it began to. As we valiantly continued to cheer ourselves up we tried to remember when we were last so wet. Possibly it was at our son’s, Ben, Sovereigns parade, or maybe when we installed the reservoir in the stream and laid out the water supply piping, no, it was definitely when we were chain sawing and Murphy turned up.

If you go right back to the start of the blog you will find references to the perils of an encounter with Murphy. He is referred to as a character by those of us that live here, a character that you have at one time or another felt like physically harming to stop him talking at you. He just doesn’t stop, a meteorite could crash into the ground next to him and he would say something like, “Oh, I see a meteorite has crashed into the ground right next to me, but anyway, as I was saying….” And so he would continue his monologue about whatever.

Tracey and I had been sawing branches off trees to let some sunlight into the small paddock area at the bottom of Oak Bank and Willow Rise. It was a wet miserable task and after several hours we had had enough. Cold, tired and wet through we started to pick up our gear and as we did we heard those heart stopping words “Oh, I can see you’re busy, but …..” Murphy had arrived.

“Come in and have a cuppa Murph” I said cheerily.

“No I wont stop you, I can see your busy.” He stood and drew breath.

“Murph, we’ve just finished, we were going in for a cuppa, come on in” I was sure he could sense the desperation in my voice.

“No, I won’t trouble you; I can see your busy sawing, that reminds me…”

And so he talked at us, and we stood, getting colder, and colder. Tracey started to exhibit signs of hypothermia, I pleaded with Murphy, please, for God’s sake man come in and have a cup of tea, lets get in the warm, but no, he was adamant, he wasn’t going to stop us, we were busy.

He left an hour and half later. Tracey and I only just reached the sanctuary of Rock HQ before exposure claimed two fledgling smallholders.

Tracey and I battled with the last section of wire when we heard a voice. “Oh, I can see you’re busy, I didn’t think you would be out in the rain.”

A chill went down my spine, I looked at my soaked but still beautiful wife, she shook her head and mouthed the words “Please God, not Murphy”, I thought about crying, or maybe having an accident with the hammer, just a small one that would stop him talking at us.

I pulled back my hood and turned to face the voice.

A stranger!

Relief!

“You’re not Murphy!” I babbled.

“No, I’m Steve; I’ve brought you a fox trap.”

I felt like kissing him, but as we had only just met that was a bad idea, so I let him talk me through the principles of the fox trap and we set it along the side of the chicken run.

So now we wait.

There is a bet on to see which of the magnificent seven ends up caught in the first; my money is on a beagle.

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!!