Pig of a day...or Rocky saves the bacon

As predicted, and lets face it it was an easy prediction, today did not pan out as planned. Aside from the fact that Hetty steadfastly refuses to jettison her cargo, lots of huffing and puffing but no beef. As we were due to head up north to visit my folks an executive decision was made that I would go with little t, have a nice lunch and head back by tea time, my beautiful and oh so patient wife meanwhile would have manned the fort and if needed played midwife to the lazy bovine. Tracey also drew the short straw and did the night shift checking on the cow as I had a long drive, it was tough but I managed to sleep soundly ready for mine and the apprentice smallholders road trip.

Dawn broke, an hour sooner than yesterday thanks to the clocks re setting to summer time and the morning routine got muddled through. Now I have to be honest at this point as I shut the cottage door behind me and took the first breath of the morning air. I did think, everso briefly that Tracey might like to do the morning routine while I drove off for a free lunch. Being the gentleman and knowing the pain that would be inflicted if I suggested the same I fetched and carried rations to beasts.

While I was feeding the sheep, pigs and sheep-pigs Rocky stood pointer style looking into the pig pen. Eventually even yours truly took the hint that something had got the super canines attention. I stood behind him and followed his gaze. My first thought was several swearwords and look at the size of that rat! Followed by (once the how do I kill it with a bucket of feed whimsy evaporated) its not a rat its a bird its a mangy rabbit its a piglet. Oh my God its a piglet! Then, how on earth is there a piglet here, now. Yes the Bershires Guinevere and Morgana are supposed to be pregnant but not due til May time. The Mangalitzas had only just got acquainted with Thor. I looked across at the Berkshires chomping through breakfast, Morgana had blood on her and a stretched moneybox (moneybox is the pig equivalent of a sheeps tuppence) she was a mum. Trouble was she had obviously forgotten.

So to cut several hours of drama, building, disappointing my parents, chasing pigs up and down the lane into a few lines, eventually a makeshift pig pen was made out of pallets, string, some four inch screws and hope. By 4pm all piglets were feeding and mum was lying down. Unfortunately the last pic shows a piglet behind mum and she squished it just after, so we are down to seven Berkalitza piglets, all fantastically marked cute non pets.

So current scores are Quail 2 (one died) Pigs 7 and Cow 0. We are expecting more effort from cow but the pigs are going to win as at least two others are pregnant.

All this meant that I had to apologise to Thor, who's sexuality I questioned given his fixation on boy ponies. He is it seems the SAS of the pig world, able to get in and out without anyone noticing.

Day 25 30 30 lvl 12 outdoor training 13.2 km (American Idiot, Green Day)

Heart surgery

One of the best things and worst things about our cottage is the sulky lump of metal in the kitchen, the Rayburn. It is the warm heart of the cottage, always ticking over providing a gentle heat, heating our water and when it has a mind to it cooks our meals. You get used to the fact that it takes between half an hour and four days to get hot enough to fry a rasher of bacon, or its stubborn refusal to cook a Sunday roast when the wind is in the wrong direction or the planets are not aligned to its liking.

But we have soldiered on, putting up with its foibles, the need for the SAS to come and sort it out when it tries to set fire to yours truly or when it shuts down in a sulk having been made to cook three meals in a day.

It also runs our central heating, but we have seldom had that on as A) we cannot afford to and B) we are a hardy lot here on the Bonsai Mountain. Just before Christmas, as a precursor to the I will be more organised new years resolution, I dipped the oil tank to see how much of this fabulously expensive liquid we had left. 250 litres, might not be enough to see us through to the new year so frugality reigned supreme just in case we ran out of juice mid cook of Christmas dinner and were forced to finish roasting the turkey on the barbq, again.

Just after Christmas I dipped the tank and made the horrific discovery that we were down to the last 120 litres. Even with my rubbish math I calculated that we were using over 10 litres a day and as the majority of the time the days had been with the Rayburn on tick over, the lowest setting it could be that was an awful lot. Ten litres a day! Or six quids worth it real terms! Drastic measures are now called for, there was no way we could continue burning that much money a day for little return. So the money that would have been spent on more oil has been redirected and arrives in a box tomorrow.

The Rayburn is dead. The oil ran out last Sunday.

The cottage is in need of a heart transplant. One that runs on a renewable source. And we need to be able to cook. Watch this space.

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.

Highs and lows

We think there might be a problem with one of the bumble bee size quails, it hasn't, until this afternoon, lay on its side and run round in circles, so somethings not quite right unless its a freestyle quail break dance champ aged five days. The other one sits and watches with interest but thankfully has not copied this unique behaviour. Plans to rehouse the bumbles into a newly acquired plastic fish tank have been put on hold while we figure out how regulate the temperature. Key to maintaining a constant temperature in Rock HQ is the Rayburn.

The temperamental beast has thrown another wobbly and refused to heat up or do anything remotely associated with cooking for the last 24 hours and despite yours truly getting on his hands and knees and prodding around with its internals, relighting the new wicks it steadfastly refused to contribute to the scrambled eggs I wanted for supper. I chose to ignore the poor behaviour and showed my contempt by using the single electric hob, the type that frequently inhabits bedsit land, purchased after the last sulky shut down forced the consumption of sandwiches, soggies (cereal) and take-away until the arrival of the SAS forced the heavy metal paperweight to cooperate.

Good times!

A great day at Rock HQ, lots of good news.

Beth has passed her A levels and has done really well so we celebrated with a bottle of fizz and a whole host of msg from the takeaway, which was definitely the last time ever. Beth is riding the wave of success and loving the attention, the flowers and chocolates from her boyfriend Tom, the phone calls and text messages telling her she is a star. We always knew that but now she has certificates to prove it and one is an ology just like mine. Who knows where she might end up.

More good news is that our lovely Berners have passed their exams too, both have passed the hip and elbow scoring which means they can have puppies next year. This will undoubtedly be a trial for us as if and when they have a litter we wont want to get rid of any. I am already composing a dog ownership exam for any potential Bernese Mountain Dog owner and will probably visit to make sure they are going to a nice home. Entrance into the SAS will be easier than taking a puppy from Rock HQ!

The poor starving sheep is still alive and so far has consumed four pound of high calorie feed and is currently munching her way through half a bale of hay. She seems quite happy with her choice of quarters and the lump on her jaw may be a bit smaller.

All this and the sun was shining for most of the day too.

Oh and the pigs are getting fatter.

Nerves of steel

Some say the most dangerous job in the world is crab fishing off the Alaskan coast. Brave fishermen risk their lives in sub zero temperatures in wild stormy seas climbing into steel wire cages to empty them of prized crab for posh restaurants.

Others will argue that tree felling in Canada should be top of the list, where life and limb are exposed to horrific danger from natural sources like extremes of weather and falling trees to man made dangers like machinery and chainsaws.

Maybe the view that those engaged in mine clearance have an occupation that holds certain hazards, or putting out fires in oilfields, lifeboat crews, clearance divers, the SAS even.

None however face the hazards that Tracey and I faced this evening, that of trimming the hooves of a psychopathic goat. Our difficulties were compounded by Geisha who tried to assist. It was a simple plan, get Maggie eating, when suitably distracted trim her hooves. She has been limping so may have foot rot in her front right hoof. The hoof traps dirt, and this breeds bacteria and infection which in turn causes pain. Its solved by keeping the hooves trimmed and clean.

Maggie started off well by burying her head in the bucket and happily munching. Tracey gripped the offending hoof and began trimming. Geisha approached at speed and dived headfirst into the bucket I was holding, and as every action has a reaction Maggie freaked out at this sudden intrusion and gave Tracey a glancing blow from her horns just above her ear. Her cry of pain was somewhat drowned by my cry of pain as goat and bucket slammed into my groin.

Maggie has less of a limp now, Tracey has a headache, I am a proper farmer with two acres and Geisha was last seen heading down the lane with the bucket still attached.

We take comfort in the fact that there are only three hooves left to do.

I have always wanted to be a fisherman, maybe there are vacancies.