Today Is Saturday Watch And Smile

It is such fun living here, really, no matter what happens to the outside world there is always something going on here to raise a smile, and today was a real tiswas day. The two clips of video show a couple of major things that happened. We played lumberjacks bringing down a spindly Ash tree that would eventually pose a bit of a hazard to the smalls, Trevor and Misty, one tree down, two to go. We gave the wood away as a belated Christmas gift to some friends. In return they gave us some marmalade, chutney and some eggs. To find out what happened to the eggs click on the Dolyhir link in the margin, a warning, its not for the squeamish. The tree was chopped up in double quick time, I refused to dress like I was in an audition for The Village People, Steve (another one ) was seemingly quite comfortable dressed this way and once he stopped frightening the ponies all was well.

We had two bales of Haylege delivered, it cost 50% more but at least they got here without any effort on our part, were placed exactly where we wanted them so posed no threat to man or beast and still they were 50% cheaper than feeding the hoofed beasts hay. Speaking of which the grass must be coming through as our Ryelands have started to venture out of the yard which on the the one hand is a good thing as it reduces the trip hazards and mess in the yard, on the other they might get the travel bug again and disappear.

On top of these jobs we got the trailer repaired, Trixie's jockey wheel collapsed after the pig run so a nice new shiny wheel and jack had to be fitted. As Trixie was over the at the Hall of the Stable Sprite we got to see him and his family who were sat quietly discussing the laws of quantum whilst cooperatively making a 5000 piece jigsaw puzzle of The Haywain, we felt bad disturbing their tranquil morning with our idle chatter but they didn't seem to mind.

Nessa and Stacey were less entertaining than the Sprite's clan and can only just be seen in the ark. The only reason you can see them is that they have kicked the back out of the ark, Stable Sprite said he didn't mind having to fix it, it would give him something to do as he was sick of puzzles.

In all a very busy day what with the usual routine, moving the felled tree, putting up the last wire panel on the new chicken run, turning two cockerels into coq au vin ingredients, making appreciative noises while someone else spent an hour of his valuable time sharpening my chainsaw, sawing a pile of wood in the lane, a training session for the BBMT and picking up all the rubbish from the black bin bag the Ryelands had savaged in search of sheep treats. A real tiswas.

Poke it and see

More snow today so the bale and I were saved from a close encounter which is more than could said for Steve the extreme Rayburn repairman. He has been here before, he is the SAS of Rayburn repairmen, brutally efficient, clinical in his execution of failed oil burning appliances.
The fact that I answered the door to him wearing the front half of a heavy horse harness, blinkers and so on did not faze him, he brushed aside my stammering explanation with a sooted hand, if S and M was my thing he was not to judge. It seemed a fruitless task to explain that our heavy horse harness had just arrived by courier and was deficit instruction manual so I was wearing bits and holding up other bits of brass buckled black strap work whilst Tracey adjusted lengths of complex leather work.
I kept quiet and made him a coffee while Tracey steered me round the kitchen. He unrolled his prayer mat and knelt before the stricken Rayburn. Now it is the heart of the cottage, it is our cooker, heats our water and when we can afford it it runs our central heating. The later part of its function has not been operational since January. 2009. As some of the furthest corners of the cottage are getting decidedly damp, and as luck would have it we had 500 litres of oil more than we anticipated we thought it a good idea to get the heating fixed and dry out the house.
We watched as Steve carefully dismantled the control panel. 3 inches of dust fell out.
"Ow ogen ave ee gok oo ave it erviced?" I asked through a mouthful of bridle.
"Every six months" came the terse reply, Steve was concentrating, which wire was it, the red or green? A mistake now and it would be all over.
Beads of sweat formed on his brow. "Have you got a stick?" he asked. I passed him the riding crop. He threw that away muttering something about perverts and pulled a thin allen key from his bulging utility belt. He poked the Rayburn. It burst into life. The radiators began to warm. The master had taught the Rayburn well, any further misdemeanor would result in a thrashing. Steve finished his coffee and patted me on the shoulder. "I'll leave you to err.... get on with whatever your getting on with then."He winked at Tracey who was adjusting my girth.
"Ank ooo" I replied. He rolled up his mat and made to leave, Tracey placated him with money and pork and finally convinced him that I was in fact normal and safe to be around and nothing strange was happening . He grinned, "Its ok, I see all sorts in my job. "
Probably not the best time then for the technohermit to step out of the shower room and ask for help finding his soap on a rope.

And the winner is.....

Today we left Rock HQ to attend a local show, a great opportunity to meet up with other farmers, smallholders and wannabes and compare notes. Firstly we met Champ's owners who started three years ago, same time as us, without previous experience and lucky enough to have sold a business to buy their smallholding outright. Champ here is a lovely Shire Horse who works their land in the traditional way. They also keep pigs and so we were able to discuss the rights and wrongs of modern farming and how tasty home grown bacon is. We didn't get her name but, please believe me, he was another Steve, really he was, and the guy who refurbished Champ's cart was also called Steve.

These two lovely dogs were taken straight from their farmyard and entered into the dog show. We thought it would be useful social experience, a small local show where no-one was taking it too seriously. What we discovered was that there is no such thing as a non serious dog show and some of the entrants had travelled from afar to bag rosettes and dog food samples. The first indication that its all a bit serious was as we parked alongside a couple from Birmingham who were in the process of putting up a tent to accommodate their five Cocker Spaniels, cages and mobile grooming parlour.

Dotty who had never been on a lead until today, seen children or hundreds of adults before coped very well with being prodded and poked by the Judge but steadfastly refused to walk the ring. She came a very creditable fourth and got her first rosette. The Judge told me after that I had a lovely Bernese, for Gods sake get her ring trained. OK.

Next to enter the arena was Rocky, her dad and pictured above psyching himself up for the competition hes on the left). Thankfully the Judge missed him slipping his lead and running away, when Tracey finally cornered the brute and dragged him back he did his circuit of the ring and came first, then fourth in the all comers arena. So we are very happy with them both and Rocky had a reward of a bowl of ice cream. Their rosettes are proudly pinned to the Bernese tapestry in our lounge.

On the way home we called in at the Stable Sprites smallholding. It looks a bit different to the last time we were there, basically he has been let loose with a small digger and cleared a vast area of trees, rocks and anything he hasn't liked the look of. The desolated site will be seeded with root crops for his pigs. Another of his sows had dropped a litter overnight. Here you can see one of the Berkshire sows having a snooze with her piglets at her tail. The larger piglet in one that is from the other sow and only three weeks old. They grow so fast!

Rain stops play

A frustrating day to say the least, the weather put paid to outside work for most of the day so we went and did some admin. First off we called in of the Stable Sprite as his pig Jess had died thus leaving him very busy feeding 10 very small piglets every two hours. We had a lamb feeder which might come in useful when they are older but until then its hard work and perseverance with a syringe full of milk.

We called in on a local feed mill and had a very nice chat with an extraordinarily nice man who I promise you is called Steve (so many are round here!) about organic pig feed. They don't actually make pig feed but as we knew the Stable Sprite Steve promised he could make a 100% organic generic feed milled from a variety of beans, grains and other wholesome goodies. We saw a sample and it looked good enough to pour milk on and eat so the pigs will love it. As will the goats, poultry, sheep and ponies. How to get it back was the problem, the smallest quantity sold was 600kg, a big bag full, too big to lift and definitely too big for Fifi focus. They quite liked my suggestion of Rene, lined with a builders bag with the sunroof open they could fill him from a hopper, but alas Rene the Rx4 would not fit under the chute. Deal was done, we would buy 600kgs of his finest feed, not because its so good but on close inspection I discovered that I would be able to drive in with a horsebox trailer and turn around without having to embarrass myself with a demonstration of reversing. Hopefully Stable Sprite will loan the trailer.

Then on to Presteigne Gates, a wondrous place we had always meant to call in on, but never having the time etc. Seeing as it only sells gates its hardly a priority. However they sell much more, oh yes, loads of shiny galvanised goodies littered the landscape, then a whole building full of tools and stuff, manly things like fence bashers, wire tighteners and bolt croppers. There was also a timber yard. Excellent. Room for a trailer to be turned round without reversing, I mean this place has everything!

Promise nice man we will return to buy bale holder, troughs and water tanks when we get a trailer. He sells those as well!

Back to the ranch before credit card overtakes good sense.


Meanwhile progress is painfully slow on the build, literally. I spend a while shifting boulders in the rain, one barrow load was ominously heavy, warning signs like tyre bursting was ignored and I pushed it uphill, along the lane to a dropping off spot opposite a hole in the fence. Boulders dropped I repeated the process many times, the photo shows hardly any soil or rocks have been moved but the photo lies.

Then under the careful supervision of the goats I attempt to cut down the holly tree. This is far thicker than I remembered and too much for the new chainsaw chain. I did sense that I was not going to succeed in getting rid of it today when the biggest branch defied gravity, bounced off the stable roof and fell upwards hitting me on the left forearm. Knowing that a sense of humour failure was imminent I gave up and had a sandwich and wondered at what point had any of this seemed like a good idea.

The rain finally stopped so I ventured back outside, Geisha was admiring my handiwork stood in what will be the new entrance passageway. The pigs needed feeding and so I set off to run the gauntlet of their snapping chops as I attempt to place their feed anywhere where there is not one foot deep mud. Upping their feed has not improved their temper, and as I crossed their domain in the style of a riverdancer to avoid bitten calf muscles I suffered extreme chest pains. Hypochondria took over and as I clutched my chest thinking I was too young to be having a heart attack, one arm wrapped around the sycamore tree trunk for support the other valiantly defending the bucket I promised everything Holy to be good and lead a healthy life helping orphans as long as I didn't die face down in the pigs wallow. I dropped the bucket which eased the pressure from the pigs but the pain got worse and now fear overtook hypochondria as I saw a new fate, I would be eaten by the pigs before anyone found me, like in the film Snatch. Gathering my thoughts and realising I wasn't dieing but merely suffering the consequences of torn chest muscles from the wheelbarrow man test boulder routine I rallied and climbed to safety over the fence. The pigs squealed their delight at getting another bucket to play with, they now have 9 and I left them too it.





Back in the yard the demolition site failed to improve my mood, it all seemed like such a good idea 48 hours ago. The sun came out. I climbed Oak Bank to see the boys, they are always pleased to have company. Trevor looked great in the evening sun. The view across the valley and into the Cauldron lifted my spirits and I resolved not to be so impatient, after all life's good. Even with chest pains.

My Hero!

I cant even begin to tell you how happy I am today, how good I feel, or how tired for that matter, but nothing and nobody stopped us achieving what we set out to do today. Its been one of those rare days where it all goes to plan, where even minor catastrophes didn't impede out progress. I feel great and I am going to ride this wave of euphoria caused by finishing a hard days work where for the most part of the day I have had the wind in my face and the sun on my back. I am going to milk this happy feeling before my body remembers it doesn't belong to a 24 year old marathon runner but to a 44 year old pie eater with a left arm made out of mechanno. Tomorrow I have no doubt I shall suffer, but that's tomorrow, and tomorrow I don't have 50 metres of fence to put up separating the top of Oak Bank from, er, well Oak Bank, so named as its a bank with an oak tree on it. Bank, more like apprentice cliff, up which we dragged a seemingly never ending number of fence posts.

Tracey and I normally do most things together but today to speed things up a bit she went to get a few essentials from town and a bag of coal for our tame hermit while I fed the animals and sorted the critters out so we could spend the day up on the hill fencing. She had been gone only a short while when I thought I would start banging the posts in, hoping to get five securely anchored before she returned.

Soon I was lost in my own machismo world, stripped down to my shirt sleeves enjoying the sensation of bashing the posts into the earth with a a MK1 fence post basher, a hollow metal tube with handles either side that fits over the top of the post, you lift it and drop it, you lift it and drop it and so on until the posts in. As I bashed away the tubular bell ring of every drop eased my frustrations caused by the negativity at work, the metallic ring providing my very own heavy metal soundtrack to my very happy life. My mind freed from the constraints of the office roamed freely and as I watched the goings on of our animals around me I covered topics such as pregnant dogs, goats that refuse to give birth, how my arm now allows me to tackle such jobs as fencing (we have had the posts a year and this job has been on the list that long) which 9 months ago I couldn't have done. My thoughts focused on my arm for a while, it was working pretty well lifting the 60 pound post rammer despite the fact I no longer have a left triceps, yes it was working pretty well, my own gun show, every Saturday arms and back, welcome to the gun show. I started counting the number of hits it took to put the post in, this caused a slight mind panic as my internal counting monologue refused to let me stop hitting the post on an odd number unless it was a prime number, so I stuck with evens, if it needed nine it got ten hits and so on, convinced I had Obsessive Compulsive Disorder as I racked up even number hits I started to fret about finishing on an odd number and it became imperative to put an even number of posts up before Tracey returned from the shops. Post thirteen was particularly stressful but soon passed and eventually 20 posts were ready for the wire.

My mind games were interrupted by a shout, "Oi! Cloth ears!" A Damsel was summonsing her Knight. However this was hardly the shout of a damsel in distress but I did detect that Tracey needed my help as she was stood in the yard below indicating that if I didn't get down sharpish there would be murders. As she was deficit Rene the Rx4 which she had set off town in I didn't have to be Sherlock Holmes to detect a spot of bother had occurred.

"Its a good job you're not on call" she said as I fell down the bank to join her
"I am" I countered
"I know, I've been calling you for half an hour" clearly she was not happy at my lack of phone answering.
As we walked down the lane she explained that Rene had fallen off the track and was in a ditch, as can be seen above, a deep one. It was as we sorted this out I knew it was going to be our day. A job that looked like it would take hours, thus preventing the fencing , took a matter of minutes as Rene was rescued by filling the ditch with rocks and simply driven out.

Steve and Little Steve called round just at the point where I needed a coffee so a fortuitous break with good humour was passed and then they helped drag the last posts up the hill, and carried the wire for me. Again, fortune smiled on us as we deposited the wire over the fence the wire roll began to, and as we watched in horror it stopped after a couple of yards refusing to obey the laws of sod and roll all the way to the bottom where we had fetched it from. Steve manfully hit the last posts in for me while Little Steve played Lion Tamer with the dogs, prising their jaws open and sticking his head in to inspect their tonsils. "I better get him home" said Steve as Little Steve approached Trevor with obvious intent of repeating the stunt.

They left us to it and the universe continued to bestow it good fortune on us as I hammered in 256 staples and not once did I hit my thumb or finger. We had enough wire, enough posts and as you can see from the picture below we finished before sunset and The Boys started to explore their new playground. Hey I even persuaded the birds to go to bed early, they went into the chicken house when I asked them to instead of exploding across the smallholding like an angry poultry firework. This meant that all the jobs were done and we have the evening to ourselves for a change. Nothing to do except eat nice food, share a bottle of wine and enjoy each others company.

Whats the betting the goat decides to give birth just before bedtime!

Pheasant Surprise!

The big freeze continued today, as can be seen by the state of the stables, some of the icicles are over a foot long. I was expecting Steve the stable sprite to visit with some pheasants that had been shot well before the season ended but were now in need of dressing. A hard knock at the door alerted me to someones presence at Rock HQ. I wasn't surprised that I hadn't heard a his van as parts of our lane still resemble a bob sleigh track. I was surprised to find two little old ladies shivering on the doorstep.

They looked harmless enough in their tweed over coats and hand knitted bobble hats but their smiles didn't fool me, I could see they were armed and dangerous for both were clutching in their mittened hands copies of a magazine that has caused more doors to slam in their faces than they have had hot dinners. The Watchtower was a dead give away, they were Jehovah's witnesses. Its taken over two years but they have finally tracked me down.

Actually being rude to old ladies is not high on my list of hobbies and lets face it they have enough rudeness as they go godbothering people so I smiled back. One thought she knew me, was I on last weeks crimewatch on the telly, no, you used to bother me at our last house and I was the one who always asked you in for a cup of tea. Yes they remembered, ours was the house with the horse painted on the workshop door, yes that's right, the house after the one where they always threatened to set the dogs on you and the one before the one with an injunction on you.

We carried on with the parry and thrust of polite banter, they looking for the opening to introduce me to God, me heading off any thread of conversation that could remotely be linked to religion. I led them to the start of the bob sleigh run and apologised for not offering hot beverages after their epic trek up the hill but I was in a bit of a hurry to get my jobs done, no not for Bible study, the six nations rugby starts at three and I have lots to do before I can sit down with my beer and shout at the telly. Now careful ladies don't slip on your way back to the car, stick to the road, stay off the moor and beware the moon.

They left promising to return en masse in the summer.

I shall be ready.

A winters tale

As usual anything above a millimetre of snow and the whole of the UK grinds to a halt. Without fail Councils run out of grit and lack the gritter spreading lorries to keep the network of roads clear and panic buying clears the shelves of the shops as the frantic population worry that they will starve to death before the weekend thaw.

This is the background to this tale of epic adventure, of heroism, of true grit, a tale that encompasses what it is to be a human being on a mercy mission to help another human being in distress, and to get it all done before his dinner is on the table.

Mad Keith the technohermit has established a base camp half way up the North Face of the Bonsai Mountain and has run out of coal. A rescue bid with Rene loaded with coal failed as the ice sheet turned a three point turn into a rather exciting slide that narrowly missed the drystone wall and ditch. Not wanting to leave the hermit to a cold and miserable death I loaded the sledge with two sacks of coal and with the hopefully famous but not last words "I'm going outside. I may be sometime" I shut the front door on the warm glow of the cottage and set out into the night dragging my load after me.

I took four of the magnificent seven with me primarily for company but also to fight off any Lions we might meet on the way. Initially things went very well as we descended into the ice plateau that was formally our lane, gravity assisted the sledge and it required very little effort other than steering it. Problems started once we began the steep one in four ascent of the North Face leading to the Ghost House and the start of the track up to his cave. It was too heavy to drag with my one arm, my left arm is still full of space age mechanno so I couldn't risk straining it and unraveling all the good work of the surgeon, so I had to break the trip into sections and take it one bag at a time. All the while I pondered the number of beasts we have on the farm that are not quite fit for purpose.

For example we have two Bernese Mountain Dogs who are a breed well used to pulling carts in mountainous terrain or sledges in the snow. But here they watched their brave owner battle against the snow pulling a sledge a la Ranalph Fiennes up a treacherous snow slope. We are also the proud owners of at least one horse suited to the role of pack animal, the power to weight ratio of a shitland pony far exceeds mine but its me pulling the heavy load uphill unassisted while it sleeps in a warm and cosy stable. Even our milk goats don't give milk at the moment. These thoughts kept me occupied as I went back and forth with the sacks of coal, each time gaining some some fifty metres.

Halfway into the trek, disaster struck, the sledge lost a runner and tipped over and a bag slid back down the Bonsai Mountain towards the treacherous ravine we had just negotiated. Rocky stopped it tipping over the edge thus earning a few extra dog biscuits if rations allowed should we make it back. We pressed on, battered but undeterred, firm in our resolve to get the coal to the hermit. A few hundred yards further on the sledge went a lot lighter and I had to double back until I found Rocky standing guard over the dropped bag, from his demeanour he was determined that no Lion would get the coal. At this point the Bonsai Mountain levels out and I could see across the valley to where Steve the electricians house shone like Blackpool illuminations on the opposite side. I pointed my torch into what would be his conservatory giving a signal that would only be understood by little Steve his son, who like me is also a superhero. I waited patiently for the response, nothing came, hmmmm, little Steve was either eating his dinner or being read a bedtime story, we superheros need our sleep. I reloaded the sledge and redoubled my efforts to get to the hermit.

Finally we entered the clearing that "belonged" to the hermit, to say he was grateful would be an understatement. He danced a little jig and clapped his hands together offering to pay me for my hard work, I declined, and not just because I thought he would pay me in rabbit skulls.
He seemed put out, surely there must be something he could do for me, I stepped back just in case he tried any funny business.

There must be something I wanted he continued, I silently prayed he wouldn't offer me a cup of tea.

"I know!" he yelled, I fought the rising panic.

" In the summertime, I know what I can do for you!"

Please God no! I got ready to leap on the sledge and make a fast getaway

" I can give you some rhubarb!" he enthused

I breathed a sigh of relief "That would be great Keith thanks."

Lest we forget!

We live on a hill. That's a fact of life that we accept here, nowhere is very level, in fact the level bits are just less steep hillside bits. Everyday I am reminded of the fact that we live on a hill, I get into Rene the RX4, release the handbrake and two minutes later find myself two thirds of a mile down the hill at the gateway to the road. So we never forget we are on a hill. But there are times we don't remember, there is a difference.

Like Beth not remembering so when she got out of her car and hadn't applied the handbrake she found her little green Fiat heading straight for her and actually running her down.

Or tonight when Steve the Logs and Steve the Chainsaw called round primarily to drop off a load of oak logs but also to have a close look at the two errant ash trees that still threaten to fall on the stables and house. As we unloaded the logs and discussed the merits of tractors pulling trees, the angle of slope and the levels of mess and mayhem they expected to create there was a collective lapse of memory regarding the degree of slope on which the 4x4 and half a pickup converted to trailer was currently parked. Steve pulled forward allowing Steve access to the tow bar and hitch. I watched as he uncoupled the massively heavy trailer.

Gravity reacted faster than Steve and despite his broad Norfolk accent reaching falsetto heights I could tell he was not enjoying having his genitals impaled on the tow hitch as the trailer rolled down hill pinning him to the 4x4. It took all my effort to ease the pressure by pushing against the trailer, all Steve the logs efforts to stop laughing at his mates crushed family jewels and assist and with Tracey joining in we finally managed to push the trailer back a fraction allowing Steve the Chainsaw to fall to the ground groaning and cupping his severely wounded bedsnake.

There was another few seconds of sweaty panic as Tracey left us to put a brick under the wheels and as soon as it had started it was all over. Steve crawled into the cab while Steve re coupled the trailer to the tow bar and they rolled out of the yard.

Never ever forget.

We live on a hill.

Steve wont, not until the bruising goes down anyway!

One man and his dog

If you venture along our lane and are spotted by the magnificent seven you are in for a rowdy welcome, and if we see you the human inhabitants make a point of saying hello.

Today we were enjoying the peace and quiet of the country, watching the horses idly munching the grass, listening to the birds and marvelling at how still and peaceful it all was. Standing doing nothing is a hazard of smallholding, its so easy to just lean against the gate or fence and gaze at the wonder of it all. The fact that the huge pile of logs you are stood by needs moving, or the pile of branches needs sawing, or the fence posts still need hammering in, or the sheep need their breakfasts before they die of starvation seems to fade into insignificance, for a while everything just is.

Reality returned with the magnificent seven letting rip so shattering the calm. From our vantage point up in Willow Rise we could see what looked like a local militia man scurrying along the track with a collie on a string. Both were doing their best to evade the attentions of our dogs who from the safety of the other side of the fence were doing their best kill maim disfigure impressions.

They stumbled into the swamp as I called the baying pack to heel. Most did their usual ignore him routine and once they had decided the unfortunate militia man and his dog were muddy enough, welcomed enough and by the looks cross enough they scarpered.

I apologised. No need said the militia man, nice horse he continued pointing to Apollo (obviously this militia member has good taste choosing Apollo over William) I got nine of them he added, and donkeys. A distant braying donkey emphasises his masters point.

We got talking, he was called Steve (uncanny) and he, it turns out lives on the next hill along, has done for so for over 30 years and took over his small farm from his father. Does all sorts now, got to to make ends meet, chainsawing and fencing. I looked at my efforts going on in the field behind me. So was he, he looked impressed, at least think that's what his pointing and laughing indicated.

He wandered off up into the hill looking for his sheep, he was missing six, we are missing three, neither of us think we will find them but we hope they are not pie fillings.

As soon as the magnificent seven got over that excitement they went apoplectic when a strange looking vehicle advanced cautiously into the yard. I could see two very worried looking passengers checking the doors couldn't be opened as the magnificent seven tore round and round their silver spaceship like camper van creating an insane canine merry go round.

With order finally restored, mostly by locking the dogs away a door to the silver camper finally opened. Tracey and I stood silently as the alien tumbled out, he smiled, we smiled, before he could tell us they came in peace I asked if they were lost as they surely were.

No. In fact they knew where they were, right down to naming Rock HQ and the hill, no they were in the right place, they were para gliders looking for the launch site. This sounded interesting, so I showed him the hill, the other alien wouldn't boldly go where dogs had already been and sat gripping the steering controls as I took his co pilot into the cauldron. He took his bearings, I gave him as much information as I could, this was good, our first para glider, much better than the usual archaeologists, ramblers and orthodox Jews that wander into our yard.

We returned to the mother ship where the pilot had managed to turn it round without vaporising the goats, sheep, assorted poultry and dogs who were plotting a second assault. Having established that this was not the place for over 20 like minded para gliders to descend, mainly due to lack of parking and the long and boggy walk in the alien took my advice and planned a trip to the dark side of the hill where with care a vehicle could make it to five ways crossing.

We shook hands, as he got in his craft he said he couldn't believe we hadn't seen more of his kind here, its on all the maps, an ideal spot in the summer, ideal, what on earth was it that stopped people coming here.

At that moment the dogs had mastered the combination locks on the kennels and launched phase two of the welcome.

Slamming the door to prevent another close encounter they sped off, perhaps the alien got an inkling as to why our lanes usually so quiet.

Same goat different day!

I don't know why she does it, but she does.

Later in the day these two wandered into the workshop like the school bullies intent on picking on Steve the electrician as he finished his work. This time he was ready for them and gave chase using the power drill like a machine gun complete with authentic dakkadakkadakka noises. This quiet chap who is more likely to consult a crystal to find a lay line rather than use a power tool as a pretend lethal weapon took the goats completely by surprise and they ran off down the lane as fast as their cloven feet could carry them. This spectacle was witnessed by Beth, our daughter who was almost as surprised as the goats but stood her ground as a very embarrassed electrician tried to explain that he hadn't gone completely mental and that he only used power tools on goats as a last resort.

We now have lights in the stables, a further delay was caused by a mismatched wire but the power of Steve's crystal saved the day and rather than having to strip the entire wiring system to find the break a quick dangle of his crystal and the faulty switch was magically discovered.

The lights are excellent, almost like daylight in the stables so we can work after dark til the goats come home. I do have one anxiety though, the light at the end, the one that shines into the wilderness is so bright I think aircraft might try and land here instead of the runway over in Shobdon. So far we haven't woken up to a Cessna taxiing along the drive but knowing the weird and wonderful things that happen here its only a matter of time!

Return of the Famous Five

Bernese Mountain Dogs are adorable, you can never have enough, we now have five!

Our friends across the valley have gone to Cyprus for a couple of weeks and so the tally of animals at Rock HQ has increased by three canines as their owners take a well earned break in the sunshine.

Ben, our son travels out to his barracks there tomorrow where he assumes command of an infantry platoon, his lifelong ambition to be be an officer achieved.

Meanwhile life at the Rock continues with its strange mix of companions and lodging Berners.

Steve the electrician tried his best to get some more work done on the weird and wonderful electrical system of our home. The work needs doing as at present its dark by half seven and trying to get all jobs done by nightfall really is a race against time so having reliable outside lights will make our evenings a much more leisurely affair and as we progress to winter when its barely light enough to do the rounds before we go to work it will be just great to turn the lights on and get on with it.

Steve would probably get along much quicker if he wasn't hampered in his pursuit of electrical perfection at every turn by our antiquated wiring and our inquisitive goats. In the time it took me to hand him a much needed coffee he had to turf the goats out of the tack room twice, disentangle one from the wiring loom waiting to be permanently fixed to the wall and retrieve a very complicated techno gizmo box of tricks that looked hideously expensive from a very curious anglo nubian.

Its hard to explain the effect having the Famous Five in the house, two Bernese Mountain Dogs lying on the floor take up a lot of room, or sofa space, so five of them, each weighing between 45 and 55 kilogrammes, well that's a lot of canine willpower. They tend to do what they want, and luckily they are a very placid breed so problems are few and far between.

I'm not sure Earl, pictured above, our tabby who launched himself skyward when he discovered the big dog bearing down on him was not his usual tame Berner but a more boisterous version and who, despite the rain, point blank refused to come down until all mutleys were safely contained indoors would agree that having the extra dogs causes no problems.

Mind you the picture does show how good the sanding is going!

Will she ever learn?

If you read last nights episode you might be thinking that this is a strange form of revenge exacted on Maggie the Ninja goat by Steve the electrician.

In actual fact this is self inflicted and the result of the greedy goat trying to steal oats from the food store.

As I was feeding Apollo I heard some crashing about and this is what I found.

When will she ever learn?

Silence of the Renault

Back to work today, paid work that is, bit of a shock to the system, ours as well as the animals who have all got used to us being at their beck and call suddenly find they are left to their own devices for 9 hours.

Being at work had one advantage, the Catman was true to his word and so the catalytic converter was delivered to my office 24 hours after talking to him on the phone, www.catman.co.uk if you need an exhaust!

At lunch time a nice man called Steve, I kid you not, fitted it for £21. In total we saved five hundred pounds on the price quoted by the dealer.

Driving off from the garage was a pleasant surprise, we didn't need ear defenders and could converse by talking rather than shouting. Rene is in fact the quietest he has ever been, even the annoying rattle that happened every time we accelerated has gone, obviously the exhaust was on the way out from the day we bought him.

Back at the ranch the animals are fed and watered, all is well and this little beastie was on the side of the compost bin, a common lizard, which was helping itself to leftovers.

Let there be light!

Another good day at Rock HQ, lots of jobs done and a couple of mysteries solved.

The weather has behaved and allowed us to venture outside dressed in clothing other than not quite waterproofs so we have pottered around catching up on little jobs. Currently I am in the doghouse for leaving an axe hanging on the workshop door which fell off and nearly amputated Tracey's arm, but apart from that the day has passed without mishap.

William is fit, well and deposited vast quantities of pooh on the stable floor in an effort to demonstrate he wasn't bunged up after last nights colic attack so was allowed out to graze in the sunshine.

One mystery we solved was the strange case of the disappearing smoked salmon. We went to bed and in the fridge was the remains of our dinner, a slice of smoked salmon saved for some scrambled egg for breakfast. Tracey got up early and went to collect our latest purchase of animal feed, I found the salmon gone thinking she had had it. She returned later and decided on a sandwich for lunch, found the fish gone assumed I had it. What actually happened was Ben our son returned home at 1 am, dropped off a ton of his army gear, couldn't resist looking in the fridge, after all the food in there isn't actually owned or wanted by anyone in the house and it was he who ate the salmon. And Cheese. Oh and some cold sausages, milk, bread and anything else that wasn't nailed to the shelf.

The second mystery was solved by the electrician Steve. He still claims his name is Paul, but as all professionals and tradespeople in the valley are called Steve he is only trying to buck the trend. So Steve tipped up in his van which is a special edition white van with chest of drawers and portable chemical toilet, both securely fitted in the back by the ubiquitous bungee strap. Steve's task, apart from sorting out quite how we get electric into the stables and fit it out with lights and switches, was to find out why the lights in the dining room, downstairs wetroom, utility room, workshop and pantry either fail to come on when asked or go out after a few minutes.

This is an old house, and it has had things done to it many times, the electrical system has been designed so that you are never more than an arms length from a light switch. In fact some lights have three switches, allowing a wonderful combination of on off pleasure and for the real thrill seekers there are spare switches on some walls fitted for no other purpose than to provide the home owner with the joy of switching. If there was on Olympic event for light switching this house would be the training area.

The lights in the shower went out about a year ago, we tried to shower by candle light but this was far from successful. Dinners have for while been candlelit affairs as the ceiling lights went out and refused, despite all efforts to illuminate. The pantry lights would stay on just long enough for you locate what you were looking for before plunging you into an abyss of darkness as you clutched your can of baked beans whilst praying that you found the exit before the pantry monster grabbed you.

We needed expert help.

We needed Steve, even if he was called Paul.

I watched with interest as he dismantled vital sections of the house, transformers and wires were laid bare as I fought off electricians tourettes syndrome. This is the overwhelming desire to shout bang everytime I saw him touch a wire. Seeing I was struggling with this Steve told me that shouting bang wasn't as scary as builders and their nail guns who have the habit of firing them everytime he tests a circuit in a new build house. That was scary enough to cause accidents. That explained the toilet in the back of the van.

By mid morning we had two bedrooms dismantled and most of the lights working except for the shower room and the dining room. We even phoned the nice man who sold us this wonderful house to see if he could shed any light on why we were suffering eternal darkness. Steve was shocked by some of the wiring, literally, only for the third time in his life as an electrician he got a jolt from the mains after turning off a circuit. What he didn't know is our house is so good some switches are wired into two circuits. He swore to be more careful, I swore not to stand to close to him in case he exploded.

Finally after much head scratching, endless trips up and down stairs the circuit into the shower room still refused to work. Steve had tested it, it was live, it all should work, the bulbs were good, it made no sense.

Pondering what to do we were stood in Beth's room, our faces glum, he about to admit defeat, me contemplating another year of dark showers and wondering if there was any money to be made from a patent for an umbrella for candles when he said "Whats this switch do?"

Low on the wall below Beths bedroom window was a switch.

He turned it on.

We have lights.

Home is where the Heart is.

One of the immediate things that attracted us to Rock HQ was the fact that the kitchen has a Rayburn. As we drove away after our first viewing we imagined pot roasts slowly cooking while we worked in the garden, sickly lambs in boxes recovering in the warmth radiated from the cooker or leaning on the rail drinking coffee warming ourselves after being out in the winter cold feeding the animals. Since we moved in all these have happened, and much more, the Rayburn is without doubt the heart of Rock HQ.

It’s a very warm heart; we haven’t had to have the central heating on as the heat it generates is enough for the whole house. On the coldest winter days we have a wood burning stove to assist, in fact the only times we have had the central heating on is when the orphan lambs moved in.
It’s central to the work at Rock HQ, it’s our only cooker, it dries our clothes, heats our water and keeps the cats happy. So you can imagine the problems caused if it doesn’t work. Fortunately it’s very reliable and the only time it has ever let us down is when it ran out of heating oil. First indication that this was happening was that dinner took an extraordinary long time to cook. The following morning I opened our bedroom door and didn’t receive the customary gust of hot air from the top of the stairs. Final clue was no hot water. This problem was easily resolved by pleading with the fuel oil company to make an emergency delivery.

Since then we have kept a close eye on the level in the tank. So it was a bit of a surprise the other day when it took over an hour to get a pan of water warm enough to boil an egg. We are used to the foibles of the Rayburn, like having to talk to it nicely, turning it on about twenty minutes before you need it, keeping the pan in the centre on the left where its hottest and so on, but this was not right. Tracey was convinced she could smell oil so we shut it down. In today’s PC climate it was crystal clear what we needed, we needed a repair person, fast!

The valley we live in is a very old valley, there have been settlements here for centuries where folk have lived, farmed and died. For generations farms have been owned and passed on to family members. This changed slightly in the early 1900’s when the railway brought a much needed communication link with the outside world. People left, people came, the roads were improved, the railway was dismantled and the valley life continued pretty much unchanged. As consequence of this stability a lot of the families local to us have the same name. In fact it’s not uncommon for the men of the household to have the same first and second name, which is the same as those on the next farm. This can lead to some confusion, especially if you are new like us. To get round this they refer to each other by their surname followed by the farm or the occupation. Without actually naming people perhaps an example is needed.

Let’s take a fictional John Smith, he might have a son called John Smith, Smith might be the name of the neighbour who may also be a Jim with a son called Jim, so when they are spoken of they are Smith of Sunnyside or Smith of Brookside. Smith might not be a farmer so may have an occupation making him Smith the Butcher or Smith the Bus and so on.

With increased mechanization and diversification most farms have developed from small operations that provided for families immediately connected with the farm and selling the surplus at local markets to large farms that just about scratch a living on the hillsides. It’s not unusual now for farms to be over 300 acres and only farmed by a father and son. This has meant a lot of houses have been sold to new people in the valley like us. Quite a few are smallholders who work full time and farm part time in an effort to be a bit more in touch with what eventually arrives on our dinner plates. This has meant that quite a few new trades have arrived in the valley, plumbers, carpenters, mechanics, or professionals such as doctors, pilots and social workers.

What’s particularly interesting about this valley is that the old school farmers seem to have welcomed us amateurs in and that most of the new inhabitants with the exception of ourselves are called Steve.

Without our Rayburn we were in a fix so had to get professional help. This was immediately apparent when I shut it down; I decided to take a quick look at the fire box on the front carefully opening the door. The nine foot flame that shot upwards left and interesting mark on the kitchen ceiling next to the one caused by an exploding bottle of Elderflower Champagne. This is a fantastic drink and simple to make but I advise body armour if you are next to the bottles for any length of time as the contents are highly volatile and explode with exciting regularity.
Never having needed a Rayburn repair person we had no idea who to call. A quick scan through the Parish Magazine and we were none the wiser, no one listed. I spoke to the Oracle, our neighbour, no he didn’t know anyone, but I might try Steve, Steve the Plumber.

I phoned Steve, he didn’t fix Rayburns, but he knew someone who did, phone this number and ask for Steve, if you’re lucky he can help. I phoned and spoke to Steve, Steve the Answerphone, and left a rambling message and waited developments.

That evening Steve the Rayburn made contact, how desperate were we, desperate enough to eat takeaway food, that bad eh, right I will be around tomorrow afternoon. Fantastic. No more sandwiches and cup a soups, no more huddling around a candle for warmth, ok so I exaggerate but you get the picture. The following day Steve the Rayburn arrived in his gleaming white van which he parked in front of the Stable Sprites chariot. It turned out that Steve the Rayburn knew the Stable Sprite, who is also, unsurprisingly, called Steve.

Steve the Rayburn prepared himself. I briefed him on what to expect, one casualty in the kitchen, not sure what type, never been serviced since we moved in. This news was greeted with incredulity by Steve the Rayburn, apparently Rayburns have to be serviced regularly and we should phone a Rayburn engineer every time we want to fry an egg. As we spoke Steve the Rayburn equipped himself with the tools necessary for the mission ahead, snapping on a utility belt that would have made Batman envious. By the time he had finished stuffing his pockets and pouches and checking his huge black torch he looked like a member of the SAS about to end a siege. We watched as this brave man knelt and whispered a brief prayer before entering the kitchen to tackle the wounded Rayburn single handed. We gathered nervously around the kitchen doorway and waited unable to look each other in the eye, the friendly banter now gone. If Steve the Rayburn remembered his training he would survive, if not we might have to call Steve the Paramedic.

After what seemed like an eternity Steve the Rayburn emerged blinking into the daylight, it was obvious by the lines on his face that it had been a tough mission but a successful one. The Rayburn had filled with soot blocking the heat to the hotplate; this had then fallen into the firebox making matters worse. He had also fitted a new control panel as the one we inherited when we moved into Rock HQ had never worked. Steve our Savior packed his kit and left us to play with the refurbished Rayburn promising to return one day and service it for us.

Steve the Stable Sprite finished his creation yesterday and bid us farewell. Left to our own devices we decided that last night was the night for our first bar b que of the year. Sat in the sunshine we waited for our home produced meat to finish sizzling. A white van drove slowly up the lane and a man got out. He waved and opened the back door fetching out a large white sack. Apparently Steve the Post had dropped our seed order off at a house across the valley along with his, the driver of the vans rabbit hutch. Steve the Post doesn’t feel the need to deliver to the actual address on the item, he just aims to get it in the vicinity, and you get used to it.

Thanking the driver profusely I asked what he did, I’m an electrician, of course we had met Steve the Electrician, he looked at me over the top of his glasses, no Paul, my names Paul. I shook my head, sorry mate that’s going to get confusing if you’re not Steve.

I showed him around the Stable Sprites creation, he would put the necessary electrics in but we would have to wait a while, no problem Steve, Paul, that’s right Steve thanks. He went to his van and got me a business card and promising to return in July left us to our bar b que.

I showed Tracey the card, she is the organized one of the two of us. She put Paul’s card safe in the Rock HQ phone book so we would know where it was later in the year.

It’s filed under Steve the Electrician so we don’t get confused.