Before and After

Bronny came back to Rock HQ today, in a slightly different format to how she left but still very much appreciated.
Breakfast tomorrow will be all our own work!

Mud slide

Another two excellent pictures from the lens of MrEd who visited a while back. So long ago that the horses were still here, the trees were still standing and we were dry. Only about six weeks ago then.
Its rained almost constantly for the last 24 hours. As there is no roof on the extension things are mite on the damp side. A lesson constantly reinforced here is do it when you think of it, so I didn't when I did think and now the seats that should be in Rene, removed to make him a useful van to transport pig carcasses from abattoir to butcher, have been left in the rain and so have developed a rather fetching white mould on the leather upholstery. I also meant to fix the gutter over the "door" that current serves as an alternative entrance/exit to Rock HQ. As I didn't the workshop has transformed from a workshop and storeroom into a swimming pool. The water is currently lapping around the pantry door and if it continues to rise then my morning bowl of soggies really will live up to their name.
The one advantage of the current torrent is that is helping wash the mud from the yard that the little green pressure washer has started to shift.

A splash of colour

Autumn gives us some wonderful colours here at Rock HQ

Signs and portents

We are getting a lot of rainbows lately, signs that things are going to be fine.

Tea for two

You do forget how small they were, the piglets when they arrived were tiny compared to the massive porkers taken to the abattoir today.

The pic below is taken in the same trailer, they are as tall as the side bar now and not quite so cute as the little piggy pictured above.

It all went like clockwork today. The Stable Sprite rode shotgun as I abused Rene's clutch once more towing a horse box of potential roast dinners to the abattoir. I even found a parking space, always a problem as the small village with the small slaughterhouse gets rather busy as hordes of smallholders descend on a Tuesday with a motley collection of animals ready for the big sleep.

I must admit that I experienced a twang of jealousy as the three smallholder queuing before me all had matching Land Rovers attached to insanely large shiny clinically clean trailers containing two beasts cowering at the far end, spotless wellies and Barbour jackets that were missing the obligatory dog paw prints that my clothing has. Each new arrival meant delay as they messed around with a bewildering amount of paperwork and soon a backlog of impatient smallholders threatened mutiny. Well one did anyway.

There was a new form to fill in, always a nice surprise, this one committed me to disinfecting my vehicle within 24 hours of transporting the animals, failure to do so means a criminal offence. Hurrah for bureaucracy. I handed in the sheaf of papers that allowed me to eat pork for the rest of the year (providing the vet passed the meat as fit) and made encouraging noises at the Stable Sprites reversing skills. He achieved something of a minor celebrity status as he was the only one able to reverse with a trailer and soon he was doing good deeds for the squeaky clean smallholders by maneuvering their vehicles into the right places thus clearing the bottle neck. Meanwhile I chased ill prepared smallholders out of the yard and wished plagues on those that had abandoned their vehicles while they just popped in to the cutting room to give a list of cuts the butchers were to apply to their lickle lamby and wickle piggy. Why they cant sort that out before they hand the hapless beasts over like what I do is beyond me.

Pigs suitably dealt with I went back in a now sterilised Rene, the little green pressure washer got some of the crap off him at least, to fetch the pork.

Stuart the butcher received the carcasses and once again praised the quality, good to hear, and for dinner I had the traditional belly pork slice to sample the goods. Fantastic in a word.

Night fell on Rock HQ. Quieter than last night, no pigs grunting for apples by the front door. There a was a strange sound though, not Bronny, more of a crash, an incomprehensible oath and a dull thud. I opened the front door and the Technohermit fell in. "Oh hello" he sounded quite surprised to see me. I was very surprised to see him as he struggled to his feet. "Cuppa Techno?" we are on first name terms now

"Only if you are having one" he delivered the correct response that initiated The Marches Tea Ceremony, a ritual as old as the drink itself

"The kettles on" I showed him to a chair

"Ah go on then" and so the ceremony continued perfectly right up to the "Got any more milk" a classic variation only known to those who share the hermits postcode

"Too hot for you?" I countered, he nodded, he knew I was an expert at the ceremony and he slurped his tea down approvingly.

The reason for his visit took an hour to establish. After he watched Emmerdale and Eastenders, having dried out in front of the fire he finally broke the silence. "Got any bread?"

He left clutching a frozen loaf, not entirely convinced it would defrost by breakfast time but happy it had only cost him 50p.

The traps set

Lots of jobs today, top of the list was to collect the trailer to transport the pigs to the abattoir. Bronny immediately tried it out for size and so the trap was set, baited with fresh food the pigs were called. The pork tsunami thundered inside and so they are bedded down in nice fresh barley straw ready for the off.

I also fixed the water supply to Rock HQ, it went off yesterday while I was using the little green pressure washer. No water is a real hindrance when you are trying to jet wash the offerings from 80 odd animals bottoms from the yard. The goats were immediately blamed for the pressure washer malfunction, they have a history of sabotage. My "outside" stereo has been smashed to bits by an angry goat who vented its spleen when Marillion was replaced by Metallica. Goats like prog rock, the choice of heavy metal caused consternation in the yard and they took action. A similar nasty episode was had the other weekend when Pritch's choice of Barry White sent the goats into a frenzy only solved by shutting them in the back stable, not before one had hoofed his ipod across the yard. Fussy listeners these animals.

I checked the electrical wiring, no teeth marks, still plugged in, Juliet leered at me as I shoved the herd off the step to no where to ensure they were not hiding any attempts at rewiring. The dogs were the next target of my wrath, they have an appetite for destruction that rivals the goats. I have lost count the number of times an essential piece of kit has been altered by our Beagles jaws, or taken off up the hill and buried.

No. A visual inspection of the pressure washer and fittings all showed no sign of animal interference. I disconnected the tap, no water, great, we have our own water supply on our bonsai mountain and now it was blocked. The way its extracted and brought to various taps is along a labyrinthine series of pipes, tanks, reservoirs, taps and connectors that rivals the cockpit wiring of the space shuttle in its complexity.

I began the task of working my way along the water supply, dutifully disconnecting and reconnecting every section in front of an appreciative audience of dogs and goats. We worked our way along, no obstruction found. The second from last connector was disassembled and a fountain of dark brown water shot out, a plug of dirt had formed blocking the supply , I had found it, the dogs and goats applauded and gave each other high fives, peace would descend on Rock HQ again. I went to reconnect the pipe, water pouring out of the one end, the dry end didn't look right. There was something unusual about the pipe. It had two green legs sticking out of it. I dropped the water pipe and gently pulled, a very small bright green very dead frog popped out. Thanks for your input Kermit, you were a great help.

Totally underwhelmed

We called in on the boys. As you can see they were overjoyed to see us!

Pastures new

The boys were moved to pastures new yesterday. Tales abound amongst horsey types of the difficulties encountered moving stroppy ponies, the joys of persuading willful beasts into horse boxes and the hoof shaped injuries caused to the unwary as they get up close and personal with their disobedient mounts trying to coax them up the loading ramp. Our boys had run out of green stuff a while back, the offer of unlimited grass a few miles away at a fraction of the cost of hay and without risking life and limb carrying it up the slope of Willow Rise, which when dry is a difficult enough task, but when wet resembles the north face of K2 for its treacherous footholds, was an offer I was not going to refuse. Even if it did mean loading two horses into a horsebox, an experience neither of them have had more than once in their short lives.
So as the D day dawned I was fully prepared for combat, no horse was going to leave its mark on me. Whilst Tracey was dressed in her usual attire and looked attractive as ever leading her horse along the lane in the weak autumn sunshine I waddled along behind like the Michelin man with padded layers designed to deflect many an angry hoof.

Half way down the lane and threatening to pass out from heat exhaustion I dumped the cricket box and cycle helmet, undid the NATO body armour and extricated myself from one of the padded jackets. I left these neatly folded amongst the bracken as a shrine to the unknown horse botherer and fell in behind Tracey and William who were waiting patiently further along. Tension was high as H Hour arrived, the trailer was reversed into position and the loading ramp of the horse box crashed to the floor. Time stood still.

It was all over so quickly. I walked up the ramp in front of Apollo, turned round to find him close enough behind me to almost count as a horse blanket. William followed and suddenly we were all eye to eye shut inside the trailer. As simple as that. The boys tucked in to the hay, Tracey and I took the emergency exit and soon we were following the trailer in Rene with Apollo and William taking it in turns to look back over their shoulders to check we were still there. When we arrived at the field the boys calmly walked out and when faced with 10 acres of flat on which to to canter and frolic (our "field" requires horses to wearing climbing harness and crampons so running is best avoided) they did exactly what we thought they would, sniffed the air, stuck their ears back, whinnied loudly and began a speed eating competition. The two horses a field away, on the other hand, went mental and ran around kicking bucking and rearing in a demonstration of horsey prowess. I almost felt sorry for the 8 year old lad, a look of utter terror on his face as the horse he was about to ride shot past at mach 3, flames exploding out of every orifice whilst his proud mum was saying, don't worry pet, he'll calm down soon as you get on him. We waited half an hour to see if they would explore their new surroundings, they did but only as far as their mouths could reach. We left them to it before the arrival of the air ambulance set off an equine chain reaction. Our boys, they didn't notice us leave. They are so laid back they fall over those two.