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....."

In stitches!

Poor Geisha is recovering after an encounter with a most excellent Vet called Paul who attended Rock HQ and rebuilt her, he had the technology. It seems that the cuts on her leg were dog inflicted, which one of the ten culprits is yet to be established but thankfully she is on the mend despite having to have 8 stitches. Her addiction to dog biscuit was probably the root cause of the conflict and perhaps she will steer clear of the mutleys when their heads are in the bowls. Geisha has been compensated for loss of dog biscuit by scoffing ginger nuts. We cannot actually give her a ginger nut biscuit as that is against the rules of goat keeping established by Lord Defra. She has learned to help herself from the plate while we have elevenses.

Someone else who is also in stitches is our friendly builder Pritch who chopped the end off his thumb while chopping onions tonight. Luckily he had Ben on hand who is a bit used to dealing with blood and gore, although not usually self inflicted and took the unconscious leaking chef to casualty. Ben was really concerned, but when he found Pritch hadn't actually bled into the spaghetti bolognaise and dinner wasn't ruined all was well. Thankfully Ben phoned us first and now everyone is texting fake injured thumb pictures to Pritch in a bid to cheer him up. He can text back, a lot slower than most of us on account of having only one thumb operational. The joys of technology.

The curse of the smallholder

We planned to put four inches of concrete down today along the side of the stable so that we can get to the back of it without wading through a quagmire. We fell victim to the curse of the smallholder, the weather. Pritch donned full waterproofs and braved the torrent while I hid indoors on the pretence of making breakfast. To the accompaniment of the rain beating down on the conservatory roof we considered the options. As over an inch of rain was falling per hour there was no point in trying to work outside. Even with building a temporary shelter over the proposed path the water levels kept rising. So jobs outside were abandoned until it dries up, which given the current conditions will be around May 2010.

Who's been sleeping in my bed?

The Berners like to dry off after a walk in one of the stables. They roll in the straw and get rid of a bit of mud, well all except Dotty who likes to keep hers. Yesterday when we got back they had a bit of a surprise. Bronwyn had decided it was a good place to have a kip, after she had rearranged the interior.

Bronny is so expert at getting out of the pig pen that she now routinely lets herself out, tries to provoke the humans at Rock HQ into feeding her, has a quick check of the other animals feed stations before trotting back to the sty to make sure she isn't missing anything. Today I saw her in the garden so I quietly got into the sty and fed the other three. Bronwyn spotted breakfast was being served and lay by the side of the fence and wriggled under. There was no way an animal her size could get under the fence but she managed it.

She also kept Pritch, our very friendly and expert builder, company while we went on a quick sortie over to Mr20%'s for some apple cake cooked by his lovely wife. The day might have gone differently had I succumbed to the temptation of a glass of Calvados, but as I had to help with the concreting I decided not to sample the apple rocket fuel.

Coffee and caked up we got back to Rock HQ where Pritch looked a bit down. Things had not gone well since we had left him on his own. The roof he removed from the back of the black hole had then collapsed and crushed the metal ladder, breaking it, he reversed his new van up the lane and thoughtfully pulled over to the side to allow us to get past when we returned. Unfortunately he hit a metal gate I had thoughtlessly left open putting two huge scratches into his back door. Tracey went and made him a nice cup of tea as he recounted the tale of woe, as he finished his ipod and speakers fell off the wall. He shrugged as if this proved his point.

Ben called via satellite phone and cheered us all up, he and Pritch are best friends so they had a quick chat about Rugby, pubs and girls. Much happier he set back to the concreting. The shuttering was all in place what could possibly go wrong. As it turned out quite a lot, at a crucial point the wood holding back a dozen barrow loads of concrete gave way. I hope this was as a result of wood fatigue and not as result of my treading on the concrete from above to "move it along". Pritch was at the base of the concrete column we were constructing and in homage to the little Dutch Boy bravely held back the impending avalanche of grey stuff while I ran round to help him. Much sawing and bracing later we, well he, managed to rectify the situation and we continued mixing and laying until darkness fell.

He packed his tools and cleared away, he wasnt his usual self, no banter. He had had a hard day. I waved him off as he pulled out of the yard, maybe next time he would have a better day. And maybe the coffee mug on the roof of the van would still be there when he got home.

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.

Shear fun in the real world!

Back in the real world, the one where Tracey has had to do all the work while I stroll around the countryside with my friends, there is lots of work to be done. Yesterday passed slowly as I recovered from the exertions of the trek, both feet had swelled from bruising so I spent a jolly day with them in a bucket of cold water reading and drinking a few beers. We went to The Harp to celebrate and had the usual fantastic meal, once again David cooked a steak that could not be surpassed in any way shape or form.


Sunday dawned, along with a new batch of aches and pains but the shearing had to be done so no more lounging in the garden. Typically instead of being in the yard for breakfast the Ryelands were all over the place so very slowly the round up began. By the time this butch itinerant shearer arrived we were missing last years lambs, Sandy, Hercules, Maude and Bonny, two ewes, Roxy and Ebony and our Suffolk cross, Meg. Tracey volunteered to walk around the hill to seek them out whilst I kept up a steady supply of tea and chocolate hob nobs for the Shearer Man. Some of you may recognise him, for he is famous, not for being the sheep equivalent of Vidal Sassoon but for being the captain of Hereford Rugby Club.

Whilst Tracey was doing the Bo Peep bit he manfully wrestled the sheep and gave them their annual short back and sides, all the time keeping them calm by singing to them (see photos above and below)

Tracey returned with the missing flockers apart from Meg. Now we have already lost three Suffolks since we have been here, see postings for M.I.A.s to read the full story, and again it looked like Meg was now M.I.A and probably on her way to a pie filling plant, caught up in the annual roundup.

Job done the Shearer Man waived his fee donating it to the Prostate Cancer charity, a big gesture as the amount would have bought him five miles, so many thanks Pritch, you cant sing but you are a generous soul.

Once the sheep were over their trauma they wandered off, cooler if not happy.

Early this evening I took Mad Keith his dinner. Whilst we were chatting a lone sheep wandered down the trail towards the rest of our flock gathered on the technohermits lawn. Meg had returned, safe and crustless. She now has a choice, stay hot all summer or allow me to shear her by handshears, and does anyone remember how that turned out our first year?