Guess who!

He's back. He's not happy!
Full story of how the Pocket Rocket was brought to heel tomorrow!

The Fellowship of the Ring

The Fellowship of the Ring is broken.

It was a valiant attempt to unseat the King from the throne, but alas, for them, fortune did not favour the brave and their ill timed rebellion was crushed and they all went to bed with no dinner.

It was most likely my fault. Perhaps I should not have laughed when, after much effort on my part, the water started to flow at high velocity along the 20mm water pipe. Had I thought I would have checked to see that there was no shitland pony called Trevor biting the free end hanging over the trough, hoping to catch a dribble of fresh water. I did look up in time to see his cheeks bulge as a million gallons of ice cold water suddenly filled his mouth. Pointing and laughing only sowed deeper the seeds of the later rebellion.

The boys, William, Apollo, Trevor and their sidekick Misty (a girl pony) are in a routine that goes roughly along the lines of wake up, wait for servant to open bedroom door, stretch, wander lazily to the hayledge in the Ring, spend all day eating while servant cleans and tidies bedroom, watch as servant appears just before sunset with buckets of tempting goodies, note carefully the goodies placed in bedrooms, wait impatiently at gate for servant to get a move on and open gate, wander into bedroom, ignore platitudes from servant and get nose down in bucket, have servant shut bedroom door and turn out light, create Himalayan range of horse dung for servant to shift later, lick salt block, snooze and do it again in the morning.

So aside from laughing at Trevor's water boarding mishap I was guilty of complacency. A sin that if committed by smallholders seldom goes unpunished. Putting the ponies to bed is easy. Five minutes max.

Which is why last night I was to be found shivering in the lane in unlaced boots, no torch, wearing a t shirt instead of the arctic gear I had been wearing earlier, because after all, this would only take five minutes I cheerily shouted to my beautiful and oh so patient wife as she reminded me to put my coat on as I set out to put the ponies to bed. The four ponies had gone through the motions of wander towards stables but at a key moment failed to enter and cantered down the lane. Misty who is as fast moving as a comatose Eeyore wandered miserably after her fleeing companions whinnying at being left behind. I followed after grabbing a feed bucket to tempt them with.

By the time I rounded the bend in the lane even Misty the wonder Sloth had disappeared into the night. Somewhere out there were four naughty ponies and 500 acres to play in. The tracks in the snow helped with direction, but each time I got to a point where they might be, the tracks led further away. Every now and then a whinny of temper from Misty prompted me not to give up and get back to the warm of Rock HQ and my coat. The whinny got louder, this one was real fury. The tracks ahead split, three went one way, Misty another, I presumed the whinny was her telling the boys they better make their whereabouts known. I followed Misty's little paw prints, up to the Ghost House, where she stopped and doubled back along the hedge line. As I descended toward The Oracles homestead I wondered how on earth four ponies could hide so well against a snowy bonsai mountain and how much I could sell horse meat for.

Finally I found them milling around like naughty teenagers. William advanced, ears back, your empty bucket trick will not work on us, he was saying, but in horsey, if he could talk we wouldn't worry about paying the mortgage, anyway, bluff was called, what you going to do, there are four of us in the Fellowship of the Ring, we will not be broken.

He was right of course. Me shivering with cold armed with an empty bucket was no match for a naughty Welsh Cob with an eye on the crown. So the next weapon in the armoury was deployed, divide and conquer. Holding Apollo firmly by the forelock words were exchanged along the lines of "For you Tommy the war is over" and with the promise of a full bucket if he behaved Apollo fell in behind and plodded after the true herd leader. Misty sensing she might share Apollo's good fortune dropped in alongside while William and Trevor cantered up and down trying to convince their former allies that all was not lost, they could win.

William continued his defiant stance right until the bolt was kicked over on the other's doors and suddenly the yard was a very large and lonely place. Mustering the dignity of the defeated he entered his stable without an apology while I did my best not to gloat. Fifty three minutes after the start of my five minutes outside I was defrosting on the range which was nearly as warm as the glow of victory.

Pastures New

After reading these pages many of you will sense that I have a certain vendetta against the ubiquitous "How to..." books designed to "help" the smallholder in the daily battle against life, the universe and everything, as you try to maintain life and limb of your charges. My argument against these volumes with their grainy black and white photos illustrating all manner of interesting things like how to get honey from bees, tend goats and tether ponies is that they are all done in ideal conditions.
They don't show "How not to..." I suppose the authors assume that no one would try to burgle a beehive dressed in shorts and t shirt, aided and abetted by their daughter who helpfully screamed "Run" a millisecond before disappearing leaving yours truly to negotiate an end of hostilities with the angry swarm as I carefully tried to put the lid back on the hive. Neither does the "How to.." book on goats have chapters on how to coax them down off roofs without resorting to using half a brick, how to stop them sleeping on cars or stalking anything of the male gender.
Similarly the books use terms of reference that the real smallholder will fail to recognise, so Shitland ponies are termed "wilful" whereas a more useful description would read "mental", or "bloody minded" or most apt "borderline psychotic". The book singularly failed to inform the hapless owner as to the best way to approach the willful little beast and catch it in the pouring rain in the dark whilst wearing ill fitting boots and only having one useful arm.
However once you get past the deficiencies of these slim volumes they do make interesting reading while you are sat by the fireside nursing a medicinal malt whiskey recovering from your latest injury.
A useful source of these books can be found in the links section on the margin, The First Pasture Bookshop is where the wanna be, the dreamer or the expert can find all manner of useful books containing new ideas on how they can hurt themselves. If you follow the link you will also see one of our old neighbours, Monty Don, he of course probably won't remember this particular claim he has to fame, being neighbour to TFTR but he might remember a lazy sunny summers afternoon in his garden interrupted by me and my canoe. Well I was lost and it looked a nice place to get out and stretch my legs.

Pit Pony

Years ago this little chap might have been unlucky enough to be a pit pony, although thinking about it in reality that should read, years ago there might have been a miner unlucky enough to have Trevor the shitland as his pit pony. That's more like it. So faced with the task of getting some coal to Mad Keith who lives halfway up the bonsai mountain, on the dark side, he wont see the sun for another month at least, William "volunteered" to venture out into the frozen wastes carrying a sack of the black stuff to the frozen Hermit's abode. William is a tame and calm animal whereas Trevor is a maniac who would stamp the brains out of anyone who dared ask him for help.

Williams growing, so after finding straps and fiddly bits that fitted his girth we set off and despite never having carried a load on snow and ice before he did a grand job. Mission successful and a nice juicy apple was given as a reward.



















Hermit was pleased with result and made the really helpful observation that I had brought my horse with me. The "Funny I hadn't noticed" reply was wasted on him. But William laughed between mouthfuls.

The yard is still an ice rink providing lots of opportunity for amusement for all the animals and the dogs have taken to sitting to watch the chaos unfold. Current chaos involves catching sheep. The Ryelands are coping quite well with being wrestled to the ground and having eye ointment squirted all over their faces in the hope that at least a micro gramme will get into the right place. They seem to be recovering and their appetites are returning now they can see what they are eating.

Breaking news

Today I had to fight my way through the paparazzi camped at the bottom of the lane, one of the minor inconveniences when you provide bed and board for a world famous Cult leader, Trevor the shitland pony. His small horse syndrome reached new heights last night when in an obvious attempt to gain attention tried to play football with a hen and then when chastised bit the finger of the chastiser. If the photographers thought they were going to get a free shot of Trevor they were disappointed. He hid in the back of the stable reading the latest copy of The Hereford Times where there is s feature about his pampered life at Rock HQ. His fan base grows, those that look on facebook for Trevor Shetland may be allowed to become cult members if they ask nicely.

Apollo, seen above, on the other hand decided that it was about time he got some attention and has learned to run and break wind at the same time, a great trick that will no doubt keep him entertained for years.

We were very impressed by the press coverage, a two page spread with lots of photos, a big thanks to Jess and Dave for braving the mud at Rock HQ when they came over to see Trevor a few weeks ago.

Breaking news?

Lots really, pig club has another member and Geisha's footrot is almost cured, but theres more.

We have a family group of goats arriving tomorrow, an offer we couldn't refuse. The credit crunch means smallholders are having a tough time, our feed bill is some 40% more expensive per month and that's not because our tribe of animals keeps growing! So a local chap is selling up having found work miles away it means he has to clear out his animals.

So for a few beans and half a gourd we get three nanny goats, a challenge at the best of times, but two of which are about to give birth. They will be housed in Goatanamo until we establish who is in charge.

All I have to do now is build a new goat house.

Oh and reclaim the dairy from Trevor who currently views it as his crib.

Second thoughts build a new dairy, its easier and less costly both emotionally and physically.

Hell hath no fury like a shitland on the rampage.

Pheasant Plucker

It was my fault, I took pity on him you see, stood there in the teeth of a blizzard he looked miserable and was very wet. The forecast didn't predict an easing of the storm until midday tomorrow so I put a lead rope around his neck and with gentle words of encouragement began the walk through the snow, slush and ice to the nice dry goat house.

Trevor fed up with waiting to be led by a man terrified of falling in the dark onto his not very able left arm and breaking it in several places again decided there was a need for speed and attempted a gallop to the promised sanctuary of the nice hay bed.

Say attempted as he was burdened by my great bulk hanging determinedly onto the rope. What happened next is a bit of a blur but I did a passable impression of an out of control water skier behind a very ungrateful shitland pony. My salvation was a fence post which I managed to wrap my left arm around and its a testimony to modern metal manufacture that despite Trevor's best efforts the anchor held and he was forced to stop.

There then followed a battle of wills as he wanted to go to his stable, currently occupied by a lame goat, and me who wanted him to go to the goat house. He in his mentalness got goat house confused with French slaughter house and dug all four hoofs into the deepening snow as I tried my best to placate him with soothing words rather than sort him out with a sledgehammer. After dishing out several bites and whinnies of disapproval he finally relented and went inside the goat house without further incident.

I managed to find my way back to the cottage and when I finally thawed out I spent the rest of the evening plucking pheasants and planning a day trip for Trevor to a dog food factory.

Christmas buffet

This is Trevor our Shitland who has decided that the cold frosty garden is not for him and where he would really like is to be in the house and help himself to the apples. By the bucket load!

Bad mood rising

Trevor the little Shitland Pony was in an absolute foul temper this morning. Before he even got out of his stable he tried to take chunks out of my arm as I unlocked the gate. Then while I opened the gate he did the time honoured, never boring, catch me if you can routine racing up and down the lane while I struggled to stay upright in the mud and open the gate to Willow Rise.

Having hoofed Reba in the chops cutting her lip the thunder of tiny hooves alerted me to the fact he had calmed down a bit and was perhaps ready to go into the field. I just managed to get the gate out of his way before he crashed through and performed his party piece of rolling in the dirt.

As can be seen from the clip above pony and owner nearly came to blows, it was only Trevor's quick reactions that saved me from having hoof prints on my forehead.

He might be mental but he is totally adorable.

The silence of the pigs

Exactly as planned.

That’s how taking the pigs to their final destination went, exactly as planned. By the time they were let out of their pig pen they were like a well oiled machine, each a cog knowing exactly what to do, each pig knowing its duty was to get in the van and enjoy the ride.

That was how it went last year. The fear of failure, having heard of all the horror stories other pig keepers had recounted about their efforts to get to the abattoir I was determined I wouldn’t fall victim to insufficient preparation. I spent over a week rehearsing the main event, and when it happened it was so easy, too easy, I forgot the nightmares of what might have been.

Wouldn’t it be nice if things went as well in reality as they do in your head?

Last year we spent a week training the pigs to follow the bucket along a well prepared pig proof route lined with bales and corrugated steel, up a trotter friendly wooden ramp into the safe confines of a waiting Toyota van lined with more bales and baited with the rosiest juiciest apples sliced up and laid out in tempting patterns, just in case the pigs didn’t feel like a full breakfast these offerings were irresistible. If memory serves correct it was a really sunny day and the whole operation took less than ten minutes and we had allowed an hour just to load them. Within the hour they were safely handed over to the nice man with the stun gun and sent to piggy heaven. I felt wretched about it but consoled myself the next day with slow roast organic home grown pork, and the pigs we raised have lasted us all year.

This time, well I know what went wrong, from the outset I was too confident, complacent even, for now I am a seasoned pig keeper what could possibly go wrong? Quite a lot actually and not bothering to get the pigs used to the trailer was just the start and when they were confronted by this instead of their usual trough containing breakfast they were rightly cautious and refused to get in. Then as I was so sure they would go in I didn’t spend a day constructing a huge barrier either side of the trailer to funnel them in, no instead I spent ten minutes putting up a flimsy barricade of bales, a broken gate and a bright green log trolley. You might argue I compounded my difficulties by not ensuring the pigs were very hungry so when faced with me and my bucket of standard pig feed they were more interested in exploring the world and finding much more interesting titbits. It was also raining making the ramp as slippery as an ice rink so when the standard pig feed was replaced by carrots and apples they were loathe to put a trotter on the silver metal ramp as they risked breaking a limb.

The dogs really helped, I must say, anyone trying to coax four nervous pigs into a strange six by ten trailer would find five Bernese Mountain Dogs careering around barking encouragement a real asset. Even more helpful than the canines were the sheep and goats who have no fear of new trailers and spotting an opportunity for another free breakfast pushed the reluctant pigs aside and were only prevented from breeching EU loading and carrying capacity regulations for small trailers by yours truly who by now had lost the plot and was wielding a fencing post like a samurai sword prepared to defend the pile of carrots held within to the death.

Luckily for me and the animal world in general Saint Tracey arrived with a bucket of goodies, disarmed me with a raised eyebrow and patiently sat in the back of the trailer and spoke soothing words to the perplexed Berkshires. These words fell like sugar coated pearls before the befuddled swine who eventually climbed into the back of the trailer with her.

All except one.

Dot is a particularly large Berkshire, massive shoulders and destined to be several hundred dinners. Perhaps aware of this destiny she refused to succumb to the lilting tones that soothed the other porkers and set off in the other direction. Now a word about Berkshires, they are particularly alert for pigs, whereas your Gloucester Old Spot for example has a world that exists in a circle five feet from its nose, head down, it knows its food is there somewhere type of personality suits it fine, the Berkshire on the other hand is a very heads up pig, ears pricked and it has a sense of adventure. Don’t ever think that they cant run either, Dot cleared the bales with the ease of a Grand National winner and ran off towards the stables. By the time I got there she was nowhere to be seen. A whiney of indignation indicated that she had surprised the shitland pony, Trevor, and Dot squeezed under the rails of his enclosure narrowly avoiding the very irate ponies flailing hooves.

Now even with two good arms I wouldn’t take on a nearly full grown pig as obviously agitated as Dot so as I ran away from her I consoled myself that no one could see my cowardice, she wasn’t really chasing me and we were definitely both running in the right direction. By the time we rounded the bend I had let her overtake me so Tracey could see that I was in control and bringing home the potential bacon. With Dot back in the make shift stockade we considered our options. Keeping Dot was not one of them; somehow we had to get her into the trailer.

We discovered another rule of smallholding in the process; usually animals can get through holes half their actual body size, especially if you don’t want them to. The opposite is also true, if you want to get an animal through a hole and it doesn’t want to then it needs to be twice the size of the animal, we discovered this as we tried to get Dot in through the trailer door, as we tried to push her in two could easily walk out through the same hole but it took all our strength to achieve this seemingly simple task. In case you didn’t know all pigs are fitted with a secret weapon, if you try to coerce them to do anything they squeal. This is so loud and so effective it renders those within hearing incapable of further movement. Its effect is similar to the siren fitted to the Stuka dive bomber whose screaming dive paralysed those on the ground with fear. As we attempted to lift the uncooperative pig and post her through the doorway she went off like a demon. Once again Tracey saved the day and somehow managed to shout above the hellish din instructions to place the pigs front legs on the door ledge, somehow I managed this and Tracey with her wonder woman powers picked up the quiet end and shoved the protesting pig inside.

Door shut we leant against the trailer exhausted whilst Dot sat and sulked sucking an apple. It was now half nine, still had plenty of time to make our slot at the abattoir where I planned to totally embarrass myself by jack knifing the trailer across the yard. Fortune smiled on me and I was able to get another driver, a nice man called Brian to do the deed for me, so yes I am still a trailer virgin. The trailer ramp went down and just like soldiers leaving a landing craft the pigs charged down the ramp. Once in the pen they demonstrated how stressful the journey was by eating bits of food they found in their new, if somewhat temporary bed and flirting with a couple of boars the other side of their gate. This is why we take them to this little abattoir, it’s a family run small concern suited to the needs of the small farmer and the animals final moments are free from torment and stress.

We said our goodbyes and left them, by the time we were home we knew they had shuffled off their mortal coils. The smallholding was quieter, and we set about the rest of our chores. This was only the start to a very traumatic day, when we got home all was not well with the sheep, suffice to say they were worried, which has a very different meaning to a sheep than you or I, but that’s another tale.

When Trevor met Apollo

Trevor has been very calm about Apollo's landing at Rock HQ. In fact the pocket rocket has calmed down an incredible amount since the episode in the garden when he tried to get on the hammock with Tracey.

The little shitland has almost stopped biting people, I say almost as he still bites me, usually when I am not looking.

So as he gave up his stable for Apollo, moved to the dairy round the back, we thought we had better introduce the pair.

For a first meeting it went very well, Apollo did the I am a little foal act, being all submissive and making smacking sounds with his lips to show he was no threat.

Trevor on the other hand returned to form and once he decided that he couldn't eat him spent the next hour trying to mate with him. He hasn't changed that much!

Other news!

Ben has had to stop the Tour de Farce as he got tendonitus and couldnt move his leg, he did do 350 miles in three days in awful weather but had to admit defeat and Sara still holds the record for unplanned distance cycling.

The fox returned last night and helped itself to the cats dinner, the leftovers of a pheasant on the woodpile. Even when it was being shot at it just hid beind a tree and checked to see if I was serious about shooting at it. It eventually ran off once live rounds were fired.

Its time will come!

Have teeth, will bite!

This is our mighty warhorse Trevor the Shitland taking a chunk out of Geisha.

He likes to assert his authority with a combination of teeth and heels.

Obviously he needs more sleep before he can contemplate world domination.

Bathtime for Berners

Its been a strange day at Rock HQ, not much got done because of the weather, yet again all jobs were rained off. We were supposed to be showing Rocky and Reba at Newport show but as our hay is ready we cancelled our trip to lug 300 bales into the not quite weatherproof barn.

Unfortunately it rained all night, the baler man didn't turn up and best laid plans have been ruined once more. Plus I really hurt my back wrestling Meg back over the fence, it was bad anyway, now its agony. But at least I showed her who was boss! No jumping fences on my watch.

So we did some admin, yawn, and when the dogs rolled in something that smelt worse than fox pooh we took the drastic step of bathing them all. So a production line was set up and Tracey was locked in the wet room and not allowed out until the dogs smelt better. Rocky immediately took exception to being clean and dug a pit under the bush and rolled in the dirt until he achieved a satisfactory state of uncleanliness.

By now the sun had dared to break through so we took advantage of our enforced idleness, ignored all the jobs and sat in the garden.

This was fine until Trevor the Shitland decided that he wanted the hammock and made a valiant attempt to climb into it despite the fact that Tracey was occupying it at the time. Forced to shelter from the attentions of an over amorous pony once more we settled down to more, yawn, paperwork and packed all the stuff sold on ebay to buy our cow(s).

At least its done.

Thanks Trevor!

Personality Transplant

This is Faith our gorgeous Gordon Setter, a very complex character who is happiest when she is careering around the hill chasing bunnies and foxes. Not that she ever catches one, but if there was a prize for effort she would win it.

She is quite a grumpy character, or rather, has been a grouch. For some reason she has undertaken a radical personality change. Several weeks have passed without a single grump from her. She spent most of yesterday racing around the hill or protecting the farm from all intruders, especially Blackbirds by endlessly running from one end of the track to the other. Most of the time yesterday we were gardening or working on the current priority project, that of building a new set of quarters for the rabbits. This may seem a bit of a pointless task, ours not Faith's, re homing the rabbits but it has become a bit more urgent over the last few days.

The rabbits are pets and sit quietly in their hutches not bothering anyone. The goats on the other hand quite often bother Sybil and Manny, quite often knocking the hutch over in their attempt to liberate the rabbits of their breakfasts. Sybil was so traumatised by yet another aggravated burglary that she took refuge in one of the goat houses currently home to the last batch of chicks. These are quite big now, not big enough to go out with the other birds but a good size. Unfortunately Sybil the traumatised rabbit sought comfort from one of the small chickens, she obviously wanted a special friend and the hapless chicken was smothered to death whilst Syb's gave it the kind of loving only a confused and traumatised rabbit can. A new house is therefore a priority to protect the virtue of the remaining hens from the unatural attentions of a marauding lovesick bunny.

By late afternoon we were running out of wood and I was running out of enthusiasm so we adjourned to the garden where I fought off the attention of an inquisitive shitland pony called Trevor as he tried to sample my cheese and onion sandwich and my glass of wine. For a moment I did consider letting him sample the wine, thinking the hangover might teach him a lesson, however the prospect of a drunk belligerent pony rampaging around attempting world domination as opposed to having just a belligerent pony rampaging around attempting world domination was too awful to bear so good sense prevailed.

The occupants of the garden settled down to a lazy Sunday afternoon once the food was gone and Faith continued in her quest to be nice to everyone by settling down to sleep by Daffodil the Ryeland lamb on the patio.

It was a blissful, peaceful afternoon.

Until the goats climbed the cliff again and chaos ensued.

Double trouble

These two are currently the biggest trouble makers at Rock HQ.

It used to be Maggie that caused the mayhem but her antics have been out classed by these two felons.

Trevor the Shitland might look the epitome of cute on four hooves but his obsession with biting or humping animate and inanimate objects know no bounds. Having been dragged off the feed bin where he had been trying to have carnal knowledge with a sack of oats he further disgraced himself as he was led back to his luxury apartment. He jumped on my shoulders as we tackled the descent from Willow Rise.The gradient gave him a sudden sense of superiority as I led the way along the zig zag path on the steep section. He suddenly found himself above me and whilst my back was turned he decided to take the leap of faith and mount me. With a horse leg either side of my head pressing down on my shoulders it took a second or two for my panic stricken brain to register that I wasn't being mugged but that an amorous pony was trying to force his wicked way on me. I narrowly managed to avoid being stabbed in the back by a worryingly large part of this miniature horse's anatomy and clipped him around the ear once for not asking me nicely before trying it on and twice for giving me an inferiority complex.

Geisha has kept a low profile for a while but has obviously been undertaking Ninja training. She can now move so swiftly and silently that you are completely unaware of her presence. She can, for example stand in your blind spot, just behind you, and stay there. So no matter how many times you turn around like a pantomime Dame with the crowd baying "Behind you" she remains totally invisible. So great is this skill that she managed to get in the house and was found in the fire place eating a large and expensive bunch of flowers. No one saw her come in. She will get into the feed store as you carefully close the door behind you. You turn away from the door and find Geisha stood with her head in the feed bin where a second before the room was empty. Should this new found stealth fail she uses brute force and will headbutt a door to test the lock, several times doors left on the latch have been discovered and she has wreaked havoc before being turfed unceremoniously back outside.

Nothing is safe from her attention. I picked some roses from the garden for Tracey yesterday. It was some consolation that she did actually see them before Geisha ate them.

These two ruffians are lucky they are either pet status or they are mammals who are not culturally acceptable to be placed on the menu. A sheep behaving in this manner would have been put in Mr Whirlpool a long time ago.

I like sheep.

Especially with new potatoes and gravy.

You can take a horse to water

Its been a busy night at Rock HQ, the battle with the Bracken is brutal and ruthless, no quarter asked or given. I have cut back one and a half acres of the dreadful plant, in most places it was over a foot high and it really didn't look like I had been over it at the weekend. I consoled myself by looking across the hill and over our fence, its over four and five feet high there. I got covered in green mush, this happens so often now I have taken to wearing a full army camo outfit, armed with a strimmer now instead of an SA80 to protect myself.

Anyway, the jobs done, for another four days. So I got back to the cottage and started to feed the animals, all is well at Rock HQ, the animals are all well behaved and I even got inside before the rain started, which has saved a job, watering the garden. Somethings not right, I get the feeling they are plotting something. Evenings where it all goes as planned are few and far between. Maybe they know this week there is a Friday the 13th.

Above is a clip of Trevor the Shitland demonstrating how much he likes his very expensive rubber mat bed.

Trevor is now on Facebook, Trevor Shetland, look him up and he might let you be his friend.

Our mighty warhorse

I was right, it has been a great day. We have spent most of it in the garden planting more spuds, digging more of Williams contribution into to soil and winning the war against intruders thanks to the Great Wall of Rock HQ (fence) erected by Tracey and I over the last few weeks. This mighty construction towers over the beasts that threaten our vegetables. Any bigger and it would be visible from space.

There is one small gap, and true to the rules of smallholding animals twice the size manage to squeeze through. This takes effort on their part and as there is a vast array of tasty goodies available their side of the fence an uneasy truce now exists between stock and gardener. I have only had to evict three chickens, Budge the Jersey Giant Cockerel and a rather surprised beagle who inadvertently managed to get through the gap, thinking I was missing her she braved the thorns and barbed wire and feeling very pleased with herself trotted across the pea seedlings to greet me. Quite what reception she was expected I cannot say, being chased down the path by an irate owner wielding a garden fork probably didn't feature too high on her list and for a nearly sixteen year old dog she managed a remarkable turn of speed as she dashed back through the gap.

Filling the gap is on tomorrows job list.

As I look back over some of the tales from the Rock I often wonder if it's only us that has these adventures, or problems, sometimes near disasters. So much happens on a day to day basis its hard to keep up. Today we found that we are not alone in having to deal with the unexpected.

Tracey was going to the hairdressers, I decided to go and collect the animal feed from Countrywide while she was having a girly moment. As we set off along the main road we always look out for two things. Bernese Mountain Dogs, a friend has three so we look to see if they are out in the garden. We also admire the three working horses in a field next to the road, Shire Horses, massive beasts and they always look fantastic. Today as we drove past we could see one of them had its right front leg over the wire fence, head down it was munching on the grassy verge. It was obvious the horse was in danger, the other two were pressing against the wire and it all looked like an accident waiting to happen.

We turned Rene around and went back to see what we could do. As we stopped alongside the horses we saw in the equine melee a young man struggling to free the horse from the wire. What had happened was the huge Shire had been leaning over the wire and somehow managed to tread the wire down, this had then got wedged between the sole of its foot and its shoe. Trapped, it tried to tread the fence down and had caught its other foot the same way. As it struggled to free itself it ripped one of its huge metal horse shoes off but the left foot remained stuck fast.

There it stood until the farmers son had seen it and he was now trying to free the beast. Now these are big horses, standing over seventeen hands high, about six foot to the top of its shoulder, and the three were stood over the chap desperately trying to cut the wire. Tracey helped him by soothing the worried horse, I stopped the others as they pressed forward to have a closer look. Its a testimony to the gentle and calm nature of these horses that they stood quietly and allowed their owner and two strangers help out one of their comrades in his plight.

At one stage the trapped horse looked me straight in the eye, he seemed to be searching me to see if I was going to be any help. After fifteen minutes of effort the young farmer freed the beast, very relieved he stood up and thanked us for our help. The horses reassured each other that they were fine and began to line up ready to walk back to the farm. We told him we were from the Rock, he was looking after the farm while his parents were on holiday and could have done without his dads "toys" making more jobs for him. We sympathised as he went on to explain that the sheep had broken out yesterday, keen to show his ability to manage while his parents were away the animals seemed to be conspiring to undermine him. We got back into the car as he walked off across the field with three shire horses dutifully following him. Top of his job list now was fencing, no matter what else was on the agenda he had that as well.

We drove past an hour and a half later and could see that he had already repaired the fence. So its not just us that have our days totally rearranged by the antics of the animals we look after.

I would love a Shire one day, they are falling in numbers as no one wants such huge horses any more. Not so long ago every farm had at least one and these loyal beasts were responsible for transporting and getting the harvest in.

For the time being I am happy to learn my horsepersonship with William our Welsh Cob and Trevor our Miniature Shitland. Trevor got a treat today, a wooden hurdle instead of his stable door. This allows him for the first time since moving into the stable to see whats going on, the standard stable door is as you can see a bit too high for him.

I thought as I have been extolling the virtues of Shire Horses I had better show you a picture of our Mighty War Horse stood in his stable.

Scary isn't he?

That was the week that was...

It has been a great week at Rock HQ. We have made so much progress and done so many interesting things it’s hard to imagine how we crammed it all into just seven days.

The week started with us taking cover from the appalling weather and fretting about getting the garden fenced to stop the goat et al getting in. Yesterday the final piece of the puzzle was put in place in the shape of a six by three gate we built. We can now plant out the seedlings and plants that are taking over the greenhouses and we should get a lot of veggies later in the year. This year we have focused on staple stuff like potato, onions, courgettes, squash, and greens like cabbage, cauliflowers, and sprouts and so on. Last year we went a bit mad and planted eight types of melon and four types of cucumber and didn’t get anything worth eating. Mind you the garden project was hampered by rampaging goats that ate anything that looked remotely edible and then gardening stopped 24-9-08 when I had my fall.

The fence and gate even look good, mostly; there is a patch behind the stable that looks a bit dodgy but as long as it does the job its fine by me.

The sheep have all been tagged; a major job involving lots of paperwork, each sheep must have two tags, one in each ear, with our flock number and a unique identity number for the sheep. So Crispen our pedigree Ryeland Ram is obviously number one, whereas April the nutter Suffolk is tagged thirteen. The actual tagging didn’t take too long and the sheep are now all legal, able to travel without fear of arrest for no I.D.

The sheep have been released onto the common land now to eat the new grass and give our fields a rest, so hopefully they wont get into too much mischief, but you might have seen already Meg got herself into a spot of bother late yesterday evening on the cliff, more of that in a separate post, I need counselling to get over the post traumatic stress before I write that episode of smallholding up.

The lambs are tagged and on the garden, the grassy bits anyway. We are trying to get Katy and Daffodil to realise they are sheep and mix with their own kind but they have a panic attack if they cant see Tracey or a Berner and insist on pushing past anyone entering the cottage and jumping onto the sofas in the conservatory where they stay until a heartless cruel owner kicks them out.

We have also had a week where visitors have made the hazardous journey along our track and spend time with us. Three extra Bernese Mountain Dogs came to stay for half of the week. Most surprising though was a visit from Peter and Jane who travelled from Rugby to visit Rock HQ.

Now I have known Peter for years through the Navy, we both do our bit for the Queen every year and mess about on the water around Portsmouth teaching Cadets to sail. Well he teaches. We are very different in many ways, not least of which our sailing styles, he is more of a Russell Crowe in a Master and Commander role, whereas I am more of the Mickey Mouse in The Sorcerers Apprentice in my attempt to navigate the sea lanes. Now I am a fantastic rescue coxswain, give me a boat with a motor in it and I can perform manoeuvres James Bond would be proud of, but give me something with sails and I am in trouble unless Peter is around. My introduction to sailing was not entirely without incident, the Navy discovered one of its officers had no boat time so sent me on a variety of courses one summer. The sailing course had to be passed to get onto the rescue boat course. Getting off the train at Plymouth and finding I should be in Portsmouth was not the best start and I managed to make it to the ship just as the briefing was ending for the instructors and crew. As I had missed the introductions I didn’t know what the level of experience was of those seated in the room, when asked to tell the group what sailing I had done I gave a completely fictitious answer. The fact that I had only done four hours sailing on a windsurfer was glossed over and the room nodded approvingly as I dropped in a few nautical terms to talk myself up.

Probably went a bit far as next morning I was the only crew member given their boat in a box and told to assemble it. I then sailed the thing around a course and was relieved to be towed back to harbour without capsizing it. The rescue crew were wetting themselves laughing as I was summonsed to the commandant’s office. Apparently I had been sat in the boat facing the wrong way and sailed it for three hours backwards. The Navy is not keen on its best racing boats being abused in such a manner and I was lucky not to be kicked off the course, but as the commander said after yelling at me about never having sailed before “Sailing that backwards shows some talent, you can stay, but don’t expect to pass the course”

So for the last twelve or so years Peter and I have met up on HMS Bristol and messed around in boats, and despite our different personalities we get on really well. Whenever we go on the water I pay close attention to what Peter’s boat is doing and point mine in the same direction and pray I don’t sink it. So as I was not going to be there this year they came to see us at the Rock.

Jane and Peter loved Rock HQ, and most of the inhabitants. Trevor, the shitland pony, disgraced himself again by deciding that Peter was inedible therefore he had to try and shag him. This surprised Peter as he was trying to take a photo of Rock HQ at the time and Trevor managed to sneak up on him.

After a guided tour and tea and cakes they left, leaving me with a model sailing boat as reminder of what Peter will be doing without his shadow this year.

I have also had my operation which went well and some of the metal has gone from my arm. We worked at our paid jobs, finally did some gardening and last night relaxed and had a bar b queue. So a very full, varied and busy week, even by our standards.

And today is going to be a good day.

How do I know?

Our piglets arrive today! The barns been cleared and made ready for its new inhabitants and as I type this Steve the Stable Sprite is manfully wrestling pigs into his van to deliver them to their new home.

I love smallholding at Rock HQ.

Things you don't see everyday

This is something you don't see everyday!

In fact its the first time I have ever seen William, our handsome Welsh Cob, lying down. We were busy in the garden building a goat proof fence, how effective it proves to be remains to be seen and as Maggie the mental goat was watching from the cottage roof an eight foot high stock fence might not pose her too many problems. After a few hours hard toil we made our way back to the cool of the cottage and just checked to see how the boys were in their stable. Trevor the Shitland practically took a chunk out of the inside of my right elbow so he was fine whereas William next door was having a lie down.

Now I thought he would stand up when he saw me but as you can see he remained on the floor. There was, I thought, no way he would let me enter the stable and stay on the floor but again he stayed put and let me stroke him.

Tracey came in too and for a full ten minutes this lovely Welsh Cob posed for photos and put up with us making a huge fuss of him.

It is a sign of how much he trusts us that he remained so calm and vulnerable allowing us to sit down with him. We are socialising him well, he is only just two years old and unbroken. We are getting him used to us and gaining his trust so we can train him to work with us on the small holding, harrowing the fields, crushing bracken, carrying wood and dragging logs, that type of work. We would like him to be able to pull a trap, or small cart which might be good fun, especially on summer evenings on an outing to the local pub. He should also make a good steady hacking horse, a plodder, I don't want a fast mentaler, a nice bombproof steady ride will suffice. So William is maturing into a nice people pony, trusting, good natured and affectionate.

Lets hope he stays that way the first time we put the saddle on him and climb on board!

A bag full of surprises.

Its been a busy evening, and one which has presented us with a mystery.

Apart from watering all the plants, watering the garden, feeding dogs, chickens, rabbits, sheep, horses and goats we have chucked twenty kilogrammes of grass seed over Oak Bank. Apparently this quantity is enough to cover one acre, we barely got it to cover half of the field. The sheep and goats followed me round hopefully treading it in rather than eating it, and I am hoping its going to rain tonight, though looking at the sunset its not likely. Strange that I should be wishing for rain after only two days sunshine but that's smallholders for you, a fickle bunch when it comes to weather.

The horses were needing to stretch their legs so we walked them down the lane, past Ducky, Poppy's favourite toy and up onto the hill to have a munch of the grass that's fighting a losing battle against the bracken.

Not too far up the hill I noticed a few days ago a black holdall type bag which I thought one of the dogs must have taken from the workshop and deposited it by the gorse bushes. As I was not far from it with Trevor the Shitland pony I thought it high time I retrieved said holdall. We wandered over and to my surprise it wasn't a bag of ours at all but a day sack from a hiker. Sorting through the bag whilst holding onto a very hungry and ever so stroppy Shitland was not going to be an easy task but I persevered. I stood on the lead rope and started my investigations, a large radio, optimistically I turned it on, nothing, so I shook it, still nothing, I put it on one side for later. A strange bundle wrapped in a bandage, drugs perhaps, yes indeed, paracetamol, plasters, scissors, rennies and some perished sticky tape. A phone charger, Panasonic type, no phone though. A disposable camera, all pictures taken, I pressed the flash button, no high pitched whine, water dripped out of the casing indicating there would be no point in taking it to Boots and claiming the 100 extra points getting it developed. There was another camera in the bag, this one unopened in its protective foil. Might be useful. I put it by the radio. Bonus points a diary, this was getting interesting, 2005.

I looked around, 2005. How had this bag lay here undiscovered since 2005. The outside was clean, one corner had signs of rodent or slug attack, one pocket of the bag contained mush so it must have been out here for a long time but 2005 was a bit of a surprise. The diary was wet and all the pages were stuck together. I carefully peeled apart some pages. In black ink neatly written May 4th 2005 it said pay fine, get credit. Another page see Dad? Some pages ripped, another entry, pay fine, get car, get Gary. Obviously who ever made these entries was a literary genius.

I looked up, Trevor was bored and was pulling on the rope, I ignored him and delved into the bag again. A clasp knife. A big one with a big blade. My blood ran cold, I was in a murder scene, I was in a murder scene with a Shitland pony who was dropping lumps of dark green DNA all over the evidence. I looked around for bones, there were none. I put the contents back into the bag carefully. I was intrigued, did the diary writer, see Dad, was the fine paid, could they afford the credit and did the knife have anything to do with getting Gary? What had Gary done to deserve getting? Or was Gary still waiting to be got, or had he got away with it?

But how had this bag lain undiscovered for nearly three years, had it been concealed in the rocks just above, that was full of crevices and hiding spaces, big enough to hide Gary's corpse. Had the dogs found the bag and dragged it here into the open, would they be seen later on playing with a strange ball which turns out to be a skull. Gary's skull! Unlikely, but how does a walker lose their day pack? They carried it here, you would think they would notice their backpack suddenly gone.

Trevor continue to express his discontent by tangling us both in the lead rope and kicking the bag back into the bushes.

Hometime.

We unwound and wound our way down the hill.

I got back to Rock HQ and told Ben about the bag, as I did I tapped my pocket and found I still had the knife. He examined it with interest, murder weapon, definitely, what was I doing he asked, rummaging through a murder scene like that, the trouble I could be in, he laughed and walked off.

I know its just a bag dropped or left by a walker.

I know there's no body hidden in the rocks and bushes.

I know Gary's safe.

So why am I fighting the urge to wipe the knife clean and put it back?

Our Lawnmower does tricks!

Your lawn mower might cut the grass faster than ours, it might cut it neater, and might not make as much mess as ours can when its full, but our lawn mower is better looking, greener, cute and does tricks. Observe how he self rights. Trevor is a very special Shitland.

I contacted our web tech friend, Sara, who is very busy, see the link to her blog and read how she is struggling to deal with growing old, anyway she is going to develop this site for us.

Soon you will be able to access a variety of pages with fascinating information about life at Rock HQ. A page will tell you the history of Rock HQ and how the current human inhabitants wandered in. A rogues gallery will give you a portrait of the animals and some background information on them, their likes, dislikes and hobbies. Perhaps most useful will be a Rock Recipe Page which will be updated weekly with current recipes of seasonal foods served at Rock HQ mealtimes, a mix of hearty meat meals, delicious veggie foods and some pudding, cakes and preserves. What wont be quite so much use is a Compost Corner page, ah memories of TISWAS, anyway it will be gardening tips, quite what use tips from a one armed amateur will be remains to be seen.

When will this all new web experience be ready, well as soon as I write it and as soon as Sara stands still long enough to be shackled to the computer.

She says June.

She didn't say which June.