Where are all the horses?

 Having broken the no equine rule here at Rock HQ, the question you do not ever want to be asked, especially after having just "run" 3 miles, half cross country, in the dark in the remnants of hurricane Gonzalez, is, "Where are all the horses?"
Chester, here pictured at 5.30pm was in his stable, or had been, I let him out to have a stretch and feed at a fresh bale, the others, save for Misty were on Oak Bank or the runway. At least that's where I thought they all were. 10pm saw Chester looking in through the living room window and begging an apple. With hindsight this was his way of grassing on his herd who were in the process of legging it as he crunched a windfall.

When my beautiful and oh so patient wife went out to put Chester back in his stall she found the gate to the runway wide open and unlike some cheap supermarket Lasagne's, a distinct lack of ponies. Hence question, "Where are all the horses?"
Answer, in the process of over the hill and far away, in the dark, windswept hill. As they were not hungry they were in  a playful mood and so began the lets run away from the headtorch that swears game. Finally they were persuaded to return to the yard and a bright orange bucket of allure coaxed them over the threshold and behind the gate.
The open gate was not as a result of another visit from the PGOOR, more a product of my own stupidity as I had not shut it properly when very helpfully fetching firewood earlier.

Not in my backyard

 As yours truly wended his way along the track after a hard day at the office (trying to access emails) my ponderings of how best to disentangle an excited three year old from a scalextric set was rudely interrupted by the presence of the PGOOR who had struck again allowing unfettered access from the common to the militias lands. Amongst the wooly backs busily munching the greenery were two familiar faces from our little flockers.
As I stopped Gerry and dismounted the difficulty of extricating two rampaging ryelands from 100 plus militias trainee lamb chops magnified when the militias sheep did what any sensible sheep would do when faced with an irate fat block trying to round up two of their species, they legged it as fast as possible. Now sheep being sheep like, the two insurgent Ryelands now faced with a choice of run after the many or stand their ground and wait for fat bloke began to make the wrong choice and gravitated downhill after the seething mass of running wool.
Feigning disinterest I "ran" up the track and "jumped" the stock fence between the divided lands, before running at an angle that would have made Pythagoras proud and intercepted my two sheep as they tried to make good their escape. Puzzled by the sudden appearance of yours truly to their front (when last seen wheezing to the rear) the naughty sheep turned tail and managed to find the gate (one ran into the fence on her first attempt) taking shelter on the Bonsai Mountain.

Once everyone's pulse rate returned to normal yours truly went for a stroll around the perimeter. Tomorrow more tales of Heidi. (The Ghost)

The sky fell in

The day erupted with a very rare event, a blue on blue attack. While I was tending to the important things in life, teaching the apprentice smallholder the finer points of sausage sandwich construction and an appreciation of Pink Floyd, my beautiful and oh so patient wife was trying to raise the alarm. When she could finally be heard over my "singing" a tuneless rendition of careful with that axe Eugene, little t and I tried to make a sentence out of "Don't know whats going on...sounds like murdered goats.....Trevor"

Poor Kayleigh who is at best of times nervous of the great outdoors due to the sky about to fall on her had been let out of her enclosure by the Pgoor(More likely Maisey standing up leaning on the door and her weight sprang the bolt). Having seen the doorway to a different world Trevor got amongst the goats and with his usual approach of if it stays still eat it if it moves mate it set about trying to create a new species by mounting Kayleigh who would have run away save for Trevor now hanging on and biting the back of her neck. Somehow fully laden (Anglo Nubian's are not pack animals so this was a feat of strength) Kayleigh staggered down the lane and crashed into the front door of the cottage in order to gain attention. In case this failed to elicit the necessary response she gave the universal cry of despair uttered by Anglo Nubian's when being sexually molested by a miniature stallion, which in case you have not heard it sounds like several cats in a paper shredder.

Opening the front door created an interesting mix of randy stallion, terrified goat, excited Bernese and yours truly barefoot trying to avoid injury and protect milk supply. A well aimed wellington distracted sex beast and Kayleigh was given sanctuary in the conservatory while footwear was used properly and animals given a chance for pulse rates to settle. The disturbed goat was taken back to her stall, at this point Easter decided to drop a lamb and so another day began at Rock HQ.

All quiet on the western front a quick headcount revealed that all lambs had survived another night, admittedly Audi and Izzy were in the kitchen all night so were given a bit of a boost, but 5 lambs, 11 piglets, one quail all going strong.

The majority of the day revolved around either building things for pigs, moving pigs, feeding pigs, chasing pigs, getting boar out of large green tank, running away from angry boar who objected to being made to get out of the tank and watching the piglets enjoy their first day outside the farrowing pen. Tomorrow should be quieter, I'm going back to work.

PGOOR unmasked!

The last three days have been a battle with porkers. Every morning at sparrows fart the Berners alert us to sausage on the rampage and skirmishes with buckets ensue as pork and mutton slog it out in the lane for supremacy while yours truly entices the beserker bangers back into the pig pen. The exit point was obvious, no tunnels this time, the gate was wide open. Had the PGOOR struck again?
The Ryelands, miffed at not getting their breakfasts first, loiter around looking for opportunity to create more havoc while the Berners charge around adding their thoughts to the mix, in all, chaos reigns. Iron gate slammed shut behind the last of the trainee bacon and all is well in my world.
So it is with some annoyance that half an hour or so after the first melee, when I am settling down to a full cooked English the sirens sound again and another raid is on. Squadrons of pigs swoop past the cottage cheered on by their fleecy supporters, the Berners do what can only be described as chuck a mental at this fresh incursion and the farce is only resolved by the limited patience of yours truly and the lure of the magic blue bucket. Order restored, gate shut (it was strangely open again!) breakfast rescued from vermin cats, a quiet normal life resumes.
For an hour or so.
The shrill sound of the Bernese siren alerts us to another raid by hostile forces. This takes some defeating as having had more than their fair share of rations the pigs are not so inclined to follow the blue bucket and have to be enticed with promises of carrots, fresh straw and access to a radio 1 hour a day. Despite this a Berkshire is MIA for an hour and is found making its way back for a safe landing in the fresh straw while the rest are drinking in the mess.
The gate is firmly closed.
Later on I am on a perimeter check. The sequence below is filmed. Had I filmed twenty seconds earlier you would have seen Bridget grasp the gate draw bar in her jaws, slide it back and push. The gate swung open and grunting the pig equivalent of "Follow me!" she was off again. She refused to do it on camera. Never work with kids and animals. But has the PGOOR finally been unmasked?

One thing after another

Its been a Sam and everything day, one small disaster after another which looking back will be funny but all have served to create mayhem here at Rock HQ. First light there was a very loud Moo, my shell likes detected that the utterer of the Moo was a lot closer to Rock HQ than she should be and definitely the wrong side of the cottage from where she was left. Yes Hetty was now back in the garden having jumped two fences and negotiated an open gate (left open not by the PGOOR but by the SAS) and was loudly complaining of the bullying antics of the Pocket Rocket who had forced her from the breakfast table. Time was too short to sort her or him out so she was fed and told to get on with life until naughty pony was spoken to about sharing.

First light also provided an opportunity to find bank card, bank card loss is serious matter but as it was lost between Vic and front door its unlikely that empty bank account is going to be further depleted by ner do wells. It was high on the embarrassing factor though as bank card was new bank card replaced by bank after I had lost first one in car park in town a few weeks ago. This set off a real comedy of errors as bank replaced lost card by posting new one to old address, several visits to bank where I explained carefully that I lived where they sent my bank statements and could I please have my new card, not to a house I used to live in five years ago. This was then sent but no pin number, that was sent to old house too, twice, finally new card arrived, old number failed to work it, new card seized, new card, new number arrived, both at right house but new number failed to buy petrol as new number needs to be activated at banks cashpoint, as no banks cashpoint is in our town (two horse towns don't need a choice of cashpoints) cannot activate card but can draw cash from other banks machine, no real problem except now lost new card. Goat eaten card is likely scenario as evil beast followed me around but feel less than inclined to report animal consuming plastic to bank so after long and pointless search under gloating scrutiny of evil horned beast decide to fess up and report I need new card to bank.

The bank card pales in insignificance compared to the lost keys saga. Front door key is kept where I cannot lose it, in the front door. Yesterday while looking for bank card found self shut out of HQ. Beautiful and oh so patient wife let muddy SOHF monster in mumbling about goats and cashpoints and dutifully joined in search for card and keys. No keys. This morning after three hours were expended on searching for keys and similar on card I was stood by kettle making refreshing beverage pondering how do we get cash from bank to buy new locks when a stifled cry from beautiful and oh so patient one alerted me to strange turn of events. Keys had now been found, centre of dining table, next to my car key and glasses. Now how two people managed to miss keys centre of well lit table, next to car key and glasses, a table that I checked several times is a mystery. Tracey is not prone to practical jokes, I am, but I know better than to play one that wastes so much of my true loves precious time so neither of us were responsible. That leaves only one explanation, Heidi the ghost. Heidi does exactly what her name suggests, she hides things. So far bank card has not been returned but we were grateful for the keys.

The SAS launched a joint attack on the large metal object in the kitchen we laughingly refer to as a cooker. The two highly trained SAS operatives frightened the rayburn into submission and it roared into life. They left, so did its cooperation and its back to sulking in the kitchen refusing to bake beans. They also left gate open see top of page for consequence.

Faced with sandwiches again I was stood contemplating ham or fish and just mentioned to patient one that at least nothing else could go wrong. It was at that point six black and white rabbits hopped past the kitchen window followed closely by a small pig.

Double trouble

Apollo the pretty boy pony has me very well trained. Everyday he hangs over the small pedestrian gate by the water tanks knowing I will walk past, and every day I open said gate and allow my white and brown wondersteed access to the hayledge. This infuriates his best friend and top dog horse William the very handsome Welsh Cob who then looks horsey daggers at me until I relent and let him out or throw fresh armfuls of sweet smelling roughage for his personal consumption.

Rarely, if ever do I let him out where he has unfettered access to the big round bale as unlike Apollo, William has a tendency to wander. Not far, usually just 30 feet in front of yours truly as I trudge round after him until one or other of us gets bored and gives in.

This morning as I began the morning rounds I was reminded by my beautiful and oh so patient wife that I had committed a major error and had left Apollo out all night. Fear not good wife I shouted over my shoulder, Apollo is a good pony, he knows the rules, he will be where he should be ready for breakfast.

Regular readers will not be surprised to read that he was not where he should be in fact he was nowhere where he should. Misty on the other hand, the petite and dainty shitland imminent nuclear explosion was lurking behind the bale, as were several Ryelands and a Bernese Mountain Pig. I congratulated Misty on her cleverness at negotiating the pig shaped hole in the fence and helping herself and with supreme confidence set off for The Cauldron where Apollo would no doubt be. Confidence waned massively when I found the side gate open, the Pgoor had struck again. This side gate requires muscles like Arnie used to have to open and close it and yesterday as I went in search of Pedro a second time this gate was most definitely shut.

William and Apollo were loose which could only mean one thing. Distance.

Spotting some fresh horse debris along the lane I made my way round to the Technohermits cave. No fresh horse bones decorated the entrance and he was in a good mood cleaning his teeth with what suspiciously looked like half a squirrel. No no horses had passed he foamed at me.

This meant I had gone the wrong way. I doubled back and entered The Cauldron was devoid of equine, and Trolls so it was relatively safe to cross the swamp. Half a mile on two naughty ponies watched me from the gorse bushes as I tried to appear casual in my approach. William snorted in contempt as the pretty boy pony spotted the blue feed bucket and abandoned solidarity for calorific gratification. The walk back would have been quicker had Apollo been able to see where he was going but once he had his head in the bucket he was not going to give up eating easily. Finally both were back in the slammer, and I was only 15 minutes late to the office. Not bad for a Monday!

In focus, the Pgoor

As today's tale is primarily about Horses it should follow, in a logical world, that any pictures should be of the nags cavorting around the smallholding and getting to places where no well behaved pony would venture. As logic has no part in our form of smallholding, and as brother in law has nice posh new camera it seemed a good idea to post a couple of his shots of the pigs. Neither he or Tracey, my beautiful and oh so patient wife, managed to get pictures of the skip being removed, which was full to bursting and half loaded with rubble so the baby lorry they sent due to restricted turning circle and tree overhangs had a right old job of lifting it, the chains fell off etc, probably quite boring really so I am glad theres no pic to bore you with.
There has been a mystery to solve here recently, starting with the pigs running free a week or so ago. The Sunday before last our guests just happened to mention over breakfast that it was fun seeing the horses trotting by. As the horses should have been secure behind a stock fence and gate this was a pickle and so before I could eat my full cooked English with extra toast and Oxford Marmalade four naughty ponies had to be rounded up, much to our guests amusement. The gate was wide open. Not one that could be opened by an equine we wondered which human had failed to shut it properly, worse still, if we were victim to the Phantom Menace who used to plague these here parts, the Phantom Gate Opener of Old Radnor, or Pgoor for short.
We put the word out through The Oracle that the Pgoor had potentially struck, but we were all a bit vexed as to who it could be as the original Pgoor has been rendered incapable of gate opening through a combination of geography and a continued love of scrumpy.
Last Saturday we were Pgoored again this was after the ponies were observed behind the five bar gate waiting patiently for their breakfast to be delivered through the scrum of Ryelands.

Today I saw the Ryelands go past in a hurry, a bit like a woolly Tsunami. Fearing a rogue canine had entered our domain I reacted immediately. Lack of neighbours meant there were no arrests as I patrolled the perimeter in my boxers and boots. The cause of the stampede was William who has found a secret portal in the fence line so didn't need the help of the Pgoor. Lured by the power of the bucket he relinquished his freedom for a mouthful of oats, and fence repair was added to the jobs list. Just above find the Pgoor. And get dressed.