Normal service has been resumed

We have had many strange evenings here at Rock HQ since we began our smallholding adventure, like the time thirty or so Orthodox Jews turned up in our yard, complete with all the gear, or the paramedic looking for an old man (not me) not to mention the predicaments the animals get into, far too many to list, but it all adds up to full and interesting lifestyle.

Tonight's turn for the surreal involved The Technohermit and a broken TV. Yesterday when I dropped his meal off I was not in the best of moods, a combination of tiredness and hunger made me feel less than inclined to go around the bonsai mountain we live on to drop off his Sunday roast. One word about lateness or him not getting enough roast spuds and he would be wearing them. He has the knack of surprising me when I get there, usually by appearing suddenly from behind me or jumping naked out of the bracken. Unusually he was waiting quietly by his gate with a big beaming smile, as I approached he gripped my arm and thanked me profusely for the help we had given him, he wasn't used to having good neighbours. This lowered my guard obviously because I heard myself say "Don't worry I will be around at seven tomorrow"

Seven tonight found Tracey and I outside his lair armed with wire cutters and a length of TV aerial cable. His TV wasn't getting a good picture, not sure why, maybe the aerial, maybe the cable he didn't know. The TV was wired into an assortment of car batteries charged from the generator. The screen was a fuzzy mess of black and white snow with a deafening roar from the speakers. "I cant get no picture!"he shouted "Bin like that all weekend!"

Finally I managed to turn the volume down and once I stemmed the blood loss from my ears I set about the task of reconnecting the aerial cable in the dim light of what appeared to be his bedroom. The sense of rising panic caused by my location mixed in with my inability to see wasn't helped by his inability to hold the torch steady and so the simple task of rejoining the severed co-ax seemed to take forever.

There then followed a comedy of errors involving a 70 year old hermit, a ladder and a rusty aerial, him asking if there was any picture as he turned it, my cries of NO! relayed by an ever patient Tracey back to the aerial tweaker.

Finally a ghostly image flickered onto the screen, barely visible was some sort of programme involving an air ambulance. It was like a magic eye puzzle, if you looked long and hard enough you could just about make out an image. Mad Keith joined me by the TV having safely descended the ladder, he folded his arms and stared intently at the screen. "What do you think of that?" he asked

"Not good" I replied

"Not good?" he sounded surprised, incredulous would a be more accurate description.

"No" I began, then I had a sudden sinking feeling, an hour as a TV repair man was wearing thin, "Was the picture like this before?" I asked, I had a suspicion I already knew the answer.

"No, it was like that" he pointed to the flickering screen

"Like that when it was broken?"

"No, before."

"That's what it was like before? It was always like this?"

"Yes, good innit"

"This is how you watch telly?"

"Ahh" he nodded

I turned to leave, Tracey was still relatively safe outside.

"I cant hear it now though" he shouted after me, "I mean I got a picture but I cant hear it"

I paused in the doorway, looking over my shoulder I could see his face lit up by the struggling TV full of concern over the lack of sound. I turned and reached over and slowly turned the volume switch back to its previous deafening level.

He grinned.

I left him to it.

New from M+B games

Enthusiasm is prerequisite for the smallholder. You need stacks of it, an unlimited supply of the stuff to force you out of bed some mornings to brave the elements and tend your animals. Luckily in the sunshine the enthusiasm capacitors are recharged very quickly which is why I have decided that milking the goat is a good idea. Good idea, no, great idea, why pretty soon I will be making goats cheese, feeding the surplus to the pigs and perhaps even bathing in the stuff as an ex colleague who saw a picture of me on the website sent a very encouraging e mail the other day. You are looking old. Just that. Cheers!

Anyway with enthusiasm bordering on the delusional I decided the Old English Goat, Juliet had sponged off Rock HQ enough, she might have provided us with two nanny kids to sell, she might be a very efficient weed clearing machine but her primary role was, when given a berth here, to provide us with milk. As was her sister June, who opted out of the milk project by exploding. Yes goats explode, look back over the pages to find how and when.

The how to milk goats book is a great help, and had I followed it I would have forked out a fortune on stainless steel apparatus to collect, sieve and cool the precious liquid in.(Hundreds of pounds) I would also have constructed a milking bench to save my back and not allowed what was supposed to be a goat dairy at the back of the stables to become another home for another horse.

What the smallholder really needs if they want milk from their goat is the patience of Jobe, the flexibility of a Russian Gymnast, the speed and reflexes of a panther and a fridge that has a lot of milk in it already because in the unlikely event of you being able to squeeze a few drops out out the writhing udder it is more than likely to be rendered undrinkable by the goats hoof, or hair, snot, bogies and numerous other foreign bodied that float happily in the jug.

First job is to lull the goat into a false sense of security that nothing bad is going to happen with a bucket of goats favourite munchies. (cost 50p) Dangerous pointy ends of goat are now facing away from you you approach udder in prescribed manner as per book. Remove goats right left leg from jug and shake out bits. Approach udder again. Remove both legs from jug. Stand up and straighten out back muscles. Empty jug. Hold goat against fence with your left leg, secure goats right leg in your right pocket, reach around smelly dangerous end carefully, approach udder and take hold of teat. Yelp in pain as sharp pointy end makes its self known, consider repairs for trousers (£14.99) Consider shooting goat ( 47p) Stand up, straighten back muscles.

Finally, grip teat firmly and resisting temptation to yank down hard to teach devil goat a lesson squeeze gently, first five squeeze are waste, do not attempt to catch them as they are full of nasty bacteria. Squeezes six to ten are range finding squeezes, ensuring milk hits jug held strategically out of range of goats hoof and bottom. Squeezes ten to empty are yours. Once one side of the udder is empty stand up, cry in pain because of need for osteopath (£35 a session) bend and attempt to milk other side.

Repeat above game of Goat Twister until one or both of you gets bored. Goat wins game if it can eat food without providing enough milk for a cup of coffee. You win if you gamble, risking the enough gathered for a cup of coffee and risk losing it all to get enough for your morning cornflakes.

I have run the gauntlet twice in 24 hours and so far collected a whole wine glass full of milk. The how to make cheese book is flawed, its measurements are in litres, wheres the millilitre conversion table when you need one.

Cost effective? Not really.

More fun than going to the shops?

Definitely. As long as the sun shines.

A braver woman than I!

I have to admit to being a coward today and I bow down to the superior horseyship of my wife who taught the brute William who was boss (not me, I was the one who pulled the eject lever and baled out first sign of trouble) She is definatley herd leader.

William is now three years old and ready to be backed, which in the world of horse means sit on the beast and show him what life has in store for the next 20 years or so. Now I am to riding what MP's are to justifiable expense claims. I used to ride, but then again I used to climb 300 metre frozen waterfalls, it was a while ago. In my head it all seems so straightforward.

Tracey put the saddle onto William and climbed on, he didn't bat an eyelid. She rode him up and down the lane with me walking anxiously by their side ready to head him off at the pass should he start to muck about. It turned into a bit of an obstacle course for rural hacks, rabbits running out from the bushes, goats suddenly appearing from no where, a flock of noisy sheep the wade through, two Bernese Mountain Dogs enthusiastically chasing bunnies and so on, all failed to elicit any startle response from the trainee horse. He did for some inexplicable reason kick me in the knackers just before the half way point, the automatic punch on the nose response had to be withheld for fear of unseating his rider so muttering oaths and walking funny I followed them home.

We returned to the yard.

My turn.

I climbed aboard.

Its all a bit blurred at this point.

The yard is an extension of the concrete floor I fell on 18 months ago and caused myself a bit of bother (nearly lost it) so I was already wary.

Quite why William decided to do a Silver and Hi Ho away is beyond me but at one stage I swear I was able to see into our bedroom window as Williams hooves flailed the air whilst he reared up and gave it a mighty whinny.

We landed.

I somehow managed not to roll off his back, in fact I rode it out quite well and as Tracey confirmed my "That was a rear wasn't it" remark I ejected off the side adhering to the motto he who lives to fight another day lives.

Tracey on the other hand saw this behaviour as total bad manners (his not mine) and climbed straight back on him and rode him off down the lane whilst telling him in the loud horsey type way that if he had behaved himself he would be tucked up in his stable now instead of walking down the lane in the now falling rain.

Suitably chastised he performed properly and only then did he get to have his nuts in his nice clean stable.

Full of admiration for my wife I went onto the Internet to source some Kevlar armour for round 2.

Or perhaps I'll ride Trevor, its not so far to fall!

Intruder alert!

There was a disturbance in the pig pen so I went to investigate finding all five cowering in the corner. The cause, a huge flesh eating Ryeland lamb that had somehow managed to find a way in.

The life of a smallholder, never dull!

The war continues

The are many battles smallholders fight. Some are massive wars of attrition such as the one waged against the ever encroaching Bracken, whoever gives up first loses. So far armed with a petrol strimmer I have managed to carve nearly three acres of reasonable grassland from the strangle hold of the dreaded ferns.

Then there are battles that you cannot win, like the one against the weather so you adapt, adopt and improvise to get the jobs done before the weather wins. Or how about the battle you must win at all costs, keeping the goats out of the garden, constant vigilance is called for and sometimes parts of the garden have to be sacrificed in order to let the goats think they are winning while you regroup and launch a new offensive.

Perhaps the strangest battle is the one over the eggs. It seems all of the inhabitants of Rock HQ want to get their hands, paws, claws and even hooves on the rent from the hens. I turn my back for a second tonight and Faith hurdles the barn door and takes off with two eggs in her mouth. Last night Reba ate 14 eggs collected and put for safe keeping on the kitchen worktop.

But the strangest thief of all is Trevor, caught on camera having eggs for breakfast!

Great mysteries of smallholding

As I returned home from work I found this on our drive, a very long way from where it should be.

It is the "gate" that keeps The Pocket Rocket in his lair.

Fearing the worst I left it where it was thinking someone had been foolish enough to disturb the little monster while we were away. I wasn't at all concerned that he might be missing, he knows hes landed on his hooves and enjoys lording it over his minions too much to run away but I was half expecting to find dismembered bodies of hapless hikers who are lulled into a false sense of security by his doe eyed sweetness and light demeanor until you are within biting distance when he transforms into a whirlwind of teeth and hooves.

As I got closer to the stables I remembered he had been turned out (put in a field) so he was not responsible for the wandering gate. What was?

Had I inadvertently thwarted a gate theft? No one in their right mind would consider my wood working skills worthy of stealing.

I puzzled for a while.

The answer?

Ryeland sheep trying to get third breakfasts. One particularly fat one must have tangled up in it and framed itself, panicked and bolted until it finally fell off as it ran down the lane. The wreckage of the garden furniture showed a clear path as the beast tried in vain to lose the gate along the way. As I collected it from the lane and began the long walk back wool adorned the bolts and edges.

Well done Holmes, another smallholder mystery solved!

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.

I do try, honest I do really try.

Since moving to RocK HQ I have learned of the importance of being organised, and I do try, really I do try.

The smallholder rules we have picked up along the way are a help but probably the most important lesson any smallholder can learn is to be organised. Simple tasks are kept that way by having the right tools for the job, which are always put back in the same place.

Time and time again I found myself walking from one end of the smallholding to the other to fetch a vital watchercallit necessary to complete the task in hand. Had I put the tools away I would have only had half the walk or set out with the right one in the first place. So far I have managed to train myself to always put them in the same shed, a massive step forward, next is to always put them in the same place in the same shed to cut out the fun half hour search that precedes most tasks to date.

Being organised would mean that jobs would get done in the right order, for example a barn emptied before the hay is gathered in, or a stable would be built before a horse is bought, or the trees felled that might damage the house before a stable is built exactly where they would be felled, or a felling licence obtained before the trees are felled and so on. The list is endless and each lesson learned means that we are better equipped to deal with whatever smallholding throws our way.

So today a friend from way back kept his threat to visit and popped over to Rock HQ to see what cards life has dealt us. It was good to catch up, we worked together years ago and were identified as potential high flyers, me carving out my niche in the job market with a particular type of high flying that involves crashing and burning from time to time, he moving on to pastures new without too much trauma. Both of us happy to have left the old firm way behind but still carrying the scars of the experience.

Even better, he was thinking of starting off as a smallholder, if all worked out he would be buying a nice place with a bit of ground. So he had the grand tour, saw the pigs, the garden, the buildings we put up, the ground we cleared, the progress made, he was impressed, particularly as when he knew me I was a gym rat into cars and model soldiers, where did this gardening and farming gig come from, did I fall into it or was it planned he asked.

I gave him the advice, hard earned, be organised, if you want to smallhold its hard work but ultimately worth it. Today I sat down to dinner and all but the salt, pepper, flour and butter were all our own produce, not bad for a three course dinner! He listened avidly, get things done when needed, I pointed to the two trees currently causing problems, much easier if they had been dealt with before the build project, now instead of felling them we have to take them down branch by branch. Planning, organisation is the key. He nodded and thanked me for my words of wisdom, he would bear what I said in mind when he sets up his own place and maybe I could go over and help him out from time to time. Love to. I waved goodbye as he set off down our bumpy track in his shiny 4x4.

I went into the cottage happy that I had perhaps help someone move one step closer to achieving the dream of self sufficiency.

The phone rang.

It was him.

"You're not going to believe this" he said excitedly "I've run out of diesel on your lane!"

Some how I don't think he's got off to the best start.

Starting Out?

Anyone thinking of starting out smallholding or perhaps giving up their current lifestyle to return to living off the land out there will have, perhaps, ideas in their heads thoughts of producing delicious meals like that pictured above which is entirely fruits of their hard labour.

We managed to produce this plateful of liver casserole, turnip, new potatoes, peas and spinach within ten months of starting out with no previous experience.

It can be done and Tales From The Rock is testimony to the fact that you can work full time and start off your own little farm if you are lucky enough to find one.

I had a very interesting chat with a very nice lady called Rachel who runs a production company making TV programmes like Jimmy's Farm. She has another project in mind where complete novices who are about to embark on the joys of smallholding are given expert advice rather than run the gauntlet of the "How to.." books like we did. Their trials and tribulations will be used as material for a new TV series for Channel 4.

This sounds like a great opportunity for wannabe farmers to get free advice and help, something we at Rock HQ could have benefited from.

I have copied her email below, if you feel like this is something that you would like to know more about give her call.

An independent production company is looking for people for a CHANNEL 4 series who are interested in setting up a smallholding, or farm. I am interested in speaking to anyone, initially for background research.
You can reach me on my mobile, and I will call you straight back. All calls are confidential. I look forward to speaking to you. Thank you. Rachel. 07930 550 821.

Mind you given the weather as I type this anyone who wants to do this type of small scale farming wants their head examined.

Low maintenance sheep

A busy day at Rock HQ on the sheep front.

We had expected our friendly shearer to turn up and give our flock a short back and sides. This meant we had to capture the maniacs, but as they are led by their stomachs it was an easy task luring them into the stable with a bucket of oats. William vacated his stall and busied himself mowing the lawn for us and we waited for the man with the clippers.

And we waited.

It was a good plan, once he had finished taking the fleece off the beast it would be passed to me so I could trim its feet. Sheep are fairly self sufficient animals so easy for the smallholder to care for. There are however essential jobs that have to be done to ensure the welfare of the animal and therefore provide a plentiful supply of chops. Every year they have to have their fleece removed, otherwise they get too hot, they do shed their fleece naturally if you don't shear them but it happens in patches and your fashion conscious sheep doesn't think this is a look that suits it.

Their hooves grow all the time so they need trimming at least once a year otherwise the hoof starts to grow misshapen, folds over on itself so trapping dirt, this can become a breeding ground for bacteria and the sheep gets footrot, which can eventually cripple the poor beast.

As they are not toilet trained they need their bottoms cleaned regularly, this process where you cut away the soiled wool from their sheriffs badge is called dagging. Ours are suffering a bit from eating fresh spring grass and so have the squirts, their backsides and sometimes other sides are liberally coated with bright green poo. This attracts flies who lay eggs and the hatched maggots eat the poo and then start eating the sheep. So clean bums means happy sheep.

As ours were going to be sheared dagging was not so essential but we were spraying them with an anti fly spray to prevent infestation.

And we waited.

Once the sheep were sheared, had their feet clipped and bottoms wiped the plan was to inject them with part two of the vaccine to stop seven nasty parasites giving them poorly tummys, and they were going to be drenched to clear any worms from their gut.

Apart from that list sheep are low maintenance.

Honest.

It was a good plan, failing only because of one element, our friendly shearer didn't turn up. He was coming tomorrow night. Not good as I am away on a course.

So we carried on with the part of the plan we could do as Tracey is going to busy enough with me away again without having to attend to the sheep. My arm must be getting better as I am now able to wrestle the unruly Ryelands and trim their feet. Each animal in turn had a pedicure, bum wipe and spray, injection and worm drench. True to form I managed to inject my left index finger, just like I did last time, whilst injecting the same lamb, Daffodil. Judging by the way my finger is throbbing I gave myself a pretty good dose this time. I refrained from shearing the sheep, after what happened last time I realise it one country skill I may never achieve proficiency in. I will post a picture later to show you the results of my ham fisted efforts.

Whilst I was sheep wrestling Tracey provided me with backup, handing full syringes over the stable door, doses of drench when needed and plasters a sympathy when I self administered medication.

She also brought down Crispy our massive Ram single handed. After several attempts by yours truly to corner the brute in the bottom corner of Oak Bank he sought refuge in a patch of nettles and looked like he was going to make a fight of it. Tracey stepped in and calmed the monster by talking to him, amazed at the audacity of the sheep whisperer approach the bemused Ram stepped meekly forward allowing her to tickle his ears while I sneaked up on him and leapt on him rodeo style bringing him to the ground.

While I was engaged in this round of sheep maintenance my mind wandered, as it often does, at one point I was considering the usefulness of velcro gloves when catching sheep, but mostly I was wishing my Dad could see me now, shepherding. Don't worry, hes not dead, its worse than that, he lives in Manchester. Anyway its thanks to him that I am a smallholder, and keep sheep.

He was a shepherd, quite what insanity drove him to change careers back in the early nineteen seventies from working in a garage to being a shepherd I shall probably never know. Quite how he managed to convince a hardened and typically Herefordian shepherd called Ivor to take him on as his assistant shepherd when Dad's experience of sheep previous to his interview was sliced on a plate with gravy and mint sauce. Somehow he convinced him and we moved to a four hundred acre farm which became my playground. Without Dad taking such a life changing chance when I was five years old I would have missed the experience of country life that helped shape me into what I am now, an enthusiastic amateur small scale farmer. To him for that I am eternally grateful.

Happy Fathers Day.