Piggin trouble

 One of the pig club pigs has been causing mischief and refuses to be a pig with the rest of them. Here she is the wrong side of the ahem.... well maintained fence after creating havoc with the poultry. We though a fox had got in the hen house but it was her helping herself to eggs and a chicken dinner!

Meanwhile Bridget has turned into a one teat wonder, on her right side anyway as for some bizarre reason her two front right milk pots just fell off. One morning they were there, next hanging off like a burst blister, following day on the floor. No blood. No gore. No crying pig or starving piglets, just two missing boobs. Piggin weird!

Animal lookalikes Number 1

First in a random series. Who does this sheep look like?
Clue? Famous cyclist.
Answers on a postcard please.
No prizes.

Ryeland Dawn

 As the sun rises on the Bonsai Mountain

the Ryelands prepare to attack the feed buckets.

Back in action

 Boris is back in action after giving us heart failure for the last three days

 He was up and about bright and early looking for love

 and inspecting his shooting skills

while Kayleigh, who also added to the dramas of the weekend, got on with important things like eating.

Walking on eggshells

The last 48 hours or so have been a nerve wracked affair as we had two suspected UXG's (unexploded goats) in the stables. Boris the take on all comers supreme champions champion goat is due to go back to his owner after having had relations with our two not so prize but equally lovely goats Kayleigh and Eva. Come the day of transfer Boris was not as he should be, that is upright and noisily demanding silver tray service, instead he was curled up in the corner looking miserable. A non eating goat is always a problem (as opposed to an eating goat which is also always a problem) and so after recovering from the immediate panic of ohmygodthisgoatsgonnaexplode the rational side of the brain took over and natural remedies were tried. These failed to excite Boris' interests and I suppose to be honest if I was feeling rough somebody thrusting bramble tips in my face would hardly prompt instant feelings of wellbeing. Logic also suggested that Boris was in fact feeling the effects of too much relations with the girls, but as he was breathing funny, not cudding (chewing yesterdays breakfast) and most importantly not ours a vet was called.
A nice Irish vet arrived and although he was having a half day and planned to be on a train shortly after attending to Boris he dutifully manned up and entered the stinkyones den and wrestled medicines into him before almost aspyxiating himself and begging to be let out of the med bay. Boris took all the wrestling in his stride but refused to rally. He curled back up into his fetid ball and looked wretched (Boris not the vet)
Signs were ominous, UXG.
The day was spent tip toeing around in case sudden noise or movement set him off. Meanwhile Kayliegh began to follow suit and by Saturday morning was in the same condition as Boris.
More vet was called.
Now vets, much like normal humans, are divided into two groups, those that know goats explode and die without warning, and those that have no idea that goats explode and die and so do not take seriously the paranoia of those who know better. With goats counting down to final detonation rapid response was required but vet thought we were panicking (damn right, you try and explain to nice man that his champion champion is a thin greasy layer on the walls) and tried to reassure us who definitely were past reassuring that all would be well.
Having already injected both UXGs with antibiotics ( I always wanted to be a vet) the only option left to diffuse the goats was a drench to restart their chemistry. This meant yours truly donning full bomb disposal gear and manhandling massive billy goat (the size of a small Gnu) and forcing him to drink foul liquid to stop him from going off. The fact that he did sort of go off all down my left side depositing the most disgusting (even by his standards) smelling pooh was taken as a sign of affection by my beautiful and oh so patient wife and by me as a sign that he was at least still working internally. More tip toeing and hourly checks, he sneezed and failed to go bang, his eyes watered (mine too he might be ill but he still strips paint with his body odour) he peed, pooed, broke wind with surprising volume and regularity, and refused to eat.
By tea time last night he was upright and sampling new hay, not old hay, or hayledge, but a rare type of sterilised hay free from any germs and made from rye grass cut by hand in the moonlight by buxom maidens, hung to dry in gentle sea breezes and pressed into bales  a blade at a time by buxom maidens grandmother. Or it should be at £12 half bale. Anyroad up Boris was sampling this with some indifference, but at least he was eating.
This morning he appears to have diffused and was eating like only a goat the size of a small horse can. Kayleigh remains poorly but again has rallied and is eating. We dont think we have UXG's anymore. On reflection it may have been that Boris was never in danger of exploding, just knackered after a love in. Kayleigh may not be UXG either, simply old (8 years) and having been ravished by a monster the size of Boris might have been a shock to the system. Time will tell. As ever the goats are the only ones who really know whats going on with their strange chemistry and having milked one in the morning and found her dead by the afternoon we were not taking any chances.

Schadenfraude

After a full on morning at HQ which included rounding up escapee piglets, catching Pam the runaway Mangalitza, sorting four girl piglets from the pack for sale to a nice man who called BEFORE breakfast, playing nurse to Kayleigh who is a bit under the weather (not UXG, yet, but did involve vet, injections and drench, but hey its only money!) and generally managing the mayhem that is our life, I was really looking forward to cycling in to the office to catch up some essential research (essential research is not possible at Rock HQ with little t's interest in computers, books and anything his dad is looking at) not that I wanted to spend my weekend doing research into the failures of the looked after system, no what I was looking forward to was the ride in. R200 might be badly set up but she does a fair turn of speed so Manflu and Biblical rainstorms were not going to persuade me to forsake pedal power in favour of turbo charged horsepower. So after a really heavy downpour, one which left the lane flooded and masses of deep puddles to aquaplane through, I donned the lycra and body armour and sallied forth to the feel good factor bikes provide. The Karma Police had other ideas, probably for my schadenfraude wry smile when the Technohermit told me that he had got 27 punctures in his back wheel thanks to the flail hedge trimmer, as my back wheel did a pretty impressive bang and the accompanying thudthudthudthud and sudden inability to stay upright told me that the odds were on for a car ride to work.
Late tonight I managed to salvage the crippled R200, 27 punctures was just the start, but as I began to make repairs by taking the spare tube out of the spare front wheel from R100 I wondered if the front wheel in the car was still at 80psi as intended. Alas that was also flat. Both wheels more holy than Lourdes on Sunday thanks to the rain washing the thorns back into the road.

Mini Banzai

Missy having a moment on the helipad.
We are man down at Rock HQ. Man flu has struck, not helped by walking back from work over the Bonsai Mountain in torrential rain. Me and medicinal single malt will have to cope.

The Highway Code

Curious onlookers wer treated to the sight of yours truly carrying his bike along the road rather than the more usual other way round. The joys of country lane cycling were interupted by a flail hedge trimmer depositing 20 trillion sharp objects per 100metres and having just got over feeling all flat in the tyre department I decided not to risk a longer walk by riding over the prickly surface.
Once past the obstacle course a quick remount led to another dilemma. Should a 50% lycra clad fat bloke over take a tractor as we sped  along the bypass?
Our paths crossed at the roundabout, he shooting straight across, me joining at speed from his left, we were around 100metres apart as we headed along the bypass. I could see I was gaining, albeit slowly. He could see I was gaining and with a puff of exhaust fumes piled on the revs to pull away.
Except he didnt.
 I kept gaining.
 I could see him watching me in his mirrors as I slowly closed in.
Now I wasnt racing, honest. (of course I was!)
He definately was.
I was keeping pace wondering what to do, the question going around my head almost as fast as my pedals were going was should a sweaty fat bloke attempt an over take of a massivley horsepowered blue behemoth with all the bells, whistles, flashing strobe lights, sat nav, radio, TV DVD, CD multi changer microwave and drinks dispenser as is now required by farmers, on his people powered badly set up R200 racer?
This was closely followed by question two which was if the answer to question one was yes, then how long would it be before tractor squished impertenant cyclist for showing it up.
 I decided that what was best was to tuck in behind tractor and take advantage of slipstream, my very own massive turbo charged peloton.
But again as I moved in I had less work to do as I was now slip streaming enormous diesel machinery and this meant I got the urge to go faster, just because I could which led to a repeat of question one.
The race was on.
 Thankfully for both of us the farmer turned off before the answers to Q1 and Q2 could be found. But what if he hadnt, what is the right thing to do when faced with a slow petrol head?
I should have put a pic of the badly set up R200 cooling off in the setting sun, you know, the inspirational sporty type shot, bike porn magazine style. But I dont have any and as a pig is probably chewing the back wheel it wouldnt look too good. So here is a pic to show that the chicks, or at least some of them have survived 48 hours here.

You never can tell

Just another circuit of the Bonsai Mountain

but the weather made

it extraordinary

and Rocky nearly found the pot of gold.

Time on my hands

Its been a strange sort of a day, one that has encapsulated every aspect of life here at Rock HQ. Paid work wise I ended up in the farthest reach of the Red Kite empire where my very taxing role meant 3 slices of home made date and walnut while talking to some very nice people about life the universe and all things fish. Or Bees. After some very complex negotiations about fostering (well some work had to be done!) I collected 20 cob chicken chicks who will feature as part of the Christmas menu (if they survive foxes) dropped off Lucy, a Berner girlfriend of the Rockmeister before heading back to the shire and a tad of office work. Back at the ranch I got to learn about the fine point of TV reception (hurrah the TV is fixed, have we missed anything important?) from a very nice man called Steve the Aerial who found our long lost TV signal and plugged us back into the matrix. A bit of playtime with little t was followed by shifting a ton of pig pooh, fixing the roof on the stable, settling the chicks into their new home and the evening feed routine. These two characters were found sleeping in the feed ring, they looked so comfy and the horse were able to eat around them I left them too it. I then took part in a Gallup poll measuring health and happiness speaking to Nancy from Nebraska, as I had just fed little t and was playing with his toys I'm off the Richter scale for happy so I may have skewed the result slightly, sorry Nancy, and once he was in bed it was time to play leader of the pack with the 10 Berners currently vying for sofa space and chatting to the Technohermit about the banking system, cat food delivery and the ex Queen Mother. In all a very full day. Think I need a hobby though.

Seeing the funny side

Little t developing his own sense of humour

Chalk and Cheese

 Pamela and Bridget are our Mangalitza sows, sisters from the same litter, and are as different as chalk and cheese. Both have recently given birth, Pam first had 5 chunky piglets, three weeks later Bridget had 6.

 Pam is a surly critter at the best of times, its all bluster but she does like to try and get to the top of the food chain and wants the sty to herself. Bridget on the other trotter is a mild friendly girl who likes company.

One of them, tonight, caused a riot when being transferred from one pen to the other, she set free two other pigs, point blank refused to follow the bucket, chased a sheep, tried to chase an owner until her bluff was called, made several dogs cower and then finally after an hour of bad temper on her part and SOHF on mine she went into her new quarters like she had always intended to. Meanwhile her 5 piglets had scattered to the four points of the compass and had to be retrieved. By nightfall all but one escapee had been captured and all was secure. Bridget was moved then, fearing the same behaviour as Pam's I was not too happy about her being moved but as I was under orders from my beautiful and oh so patient wife I did it anyway. Bridget followed the bucket like she was supposed to and took a mere 20 seconds of my time to move from one pen to the other.
One of these sows has had her pet status revoked and is going to be sausages. Answers on a post card please.

Raaah!

The Nougat Bar Monster strikes again! Raaaah!

Little Missy

 Thinking about playing.

 Playtime.

Sleeping.

Repeat.

Dietary suppliments

I found this evidence of one of the hangers on at Rock HQ taking dietary supplements. Malt Loaf is one of my favourite snacks and so it would seem one of Preston our 21 year old beagle, sleeping off his ill gotten gains in the spare straw. He nabbed this while I was unloading the weekly shop.

Gone in 60 seconds

 Regular readers may remember the vandalism of Hazel the almost 4x4 by Apollo the wonder horse, he, for whatever reason in his pea like deciding that the best thing ever as a bottom scratcher was the smooth panels of the poor Honda. So for a while now we have been driving around in a car that looks like it should be condemned and that has foxes living in it (the interior is my fault although I think mice moving in is taking the Michael) So used are we to the wrecked motor that we often forget and wonder what it is that people are staring at (sometimes pointing, rude!) when we pull up.

 And so it was today, there I was on a visit that was already interesting due to being asked to hold a 7 foot Boa Constrictor called Lucy while her not at all Goth owner cleaned Lucy's boudoir. Apparently this was a tame snake that liked men (no reason why other than men are perhaps broader, therefore more to get a grip of) and was well fed. So while I was eye to forked tongue I was asked about the state of Hazel parked across the road. I explained about the soppy horse with the itchy bottom. Visit over I was just getting in the car when a very nice man came out of his garage brandishing a fluorescent sink plunger. "Hang on chap, I have always wondered if this would work" and before I could say watch the paintwork he spat on the plunger and banged it into the largest dent, swiftly pulling it out to as good as new. For the next 60 seconds he went around the car and pulled out all but three of the smallest creased dents, one of which was caused by a shitland kicking in temper. We were both impressed with the results, for once Hazel looked almost like any other busy 4x4 from these here parts rather than one driven around a Kabul scrapyard.

Meanwhile Apollo watches and waits.

Howdya like them apples?

 Yesterday was like Clapham Junction at Rock HQ, our single track lane would have, without such, ahem, careful management (yeah right) been congested more than a free buffet at a weight watchers holiday camp. At various times there were people collecting lady dogs visiting Rocky, or dropping them off (much to the exhausted canines astonishment) dropping off birthday presents, coming over to see if we were still alive after the recent plague, calling as they were buying sheep and pigs, or in one case (Grandma) escaping to get some peace and quiet.

 So while various vehicles manoeuvred for pole position I spoke to would be pig keeper and shepherds about the finer points of animal management, giving them top advice like, all you need to know is on google, and don't feed your pigs scrap food from the kitchen or the food police will arrest you and you will die in prison for such a heinous crime as feeding pork boiled carrots. I did pass on the really useful tip before they left with 3 little pigs and four wikkle wambs, free food is available from fruit trees. This set me off thinking about my fruit trees (my as in I get there first and help myself) so this evening as a way of introducing Bear to the Bonsai Mountain we went to a local tree of indeterminate ownership and helped ourselves to a dozen or so pigs dinners. Rocky stood guard on the booty while Spotty tried eating the spares. Bear was so close to me that I could not get a pic of him without my leg so you are spared that example of photographic incompetence.

Back at the ranch the pigs tucked in to the juicy fruits and Bear demonstrated that he is a true clan member by getting up to his chest in pig muck and drinking from the trough. See him over on the dog blog.

On through the night

 The day started at Rock HQ with its usual mix of chaos and smiles, one of the pig club piglets has decided to be a sheep and no amount of persuasion, bribery or threats will make it live with the pigs. The day ended unusually, even by our standards.

Most of you know that we have one or two Bernese Mountain Dogs, the Carlsberg of the canine species. And we have been lucky enough to have had  three litters with Rocky and Reba, the pups all going to great homes and all the owners keep in touch which is why the pages of the sister site to these pages, Dolyhir Bernese Mountain Dogs, is so interesting.

And busy.

Very recently we heard from one of the owners from the class of 2009 who's personal circumstances were such that looking after his Berner had become difficult and he really wanted his special dog to have more time and attention. As he was such a top bloke he contacted us at HQ and asked advice, send him home was the immediate solution, that way his dog gets to play with 3 others from the class of 2009, mum and dad and numerous other playmates in a 500 hectare garden and he gets to keep up to date via the blog on how his lad is doing. Which was why yours truly, still recovering from the worst stomach bug ever, found himself on a ferry to the Emerald Isle late early yesterday evening.

The very nice man paid for a 1st class ferry ticket for me and Hazel, this was unfortunately the only part of Ireland I got to see in the 3 minutes 21 seconds I was there. Good to see the Nolan's are still keeping busy though.

Here is the big lad I had been tasked to repatriate, he was called Flash when he left us in 2009, hes now called Bear. And he is one massive Bear!

So fast was the turn around that I only got one chance to take a pic of the boat I had sailed over on nearly four minutes previously and no chance to get one of the bigger boat that brought me back.

Safe aboard Bear was not impressed with his quarters.

Mine on the other hand had a few bonus perks as well as a en suite cabin with a fantastic shower. So good was the accommodation that I forgave the endless playing of Enya on the radio and the complete lack of any Irish crew. The Irish ferries TV advert lies! I did try to sleep for the four hours or so while trapped in a metal box in the bowels of ship but I just kept re walking the escape routes (in my head) and hoping we A) Didn't hit any icebergs and that B) If we did there would be room in the limited life boats for a fat bloke and a fatter dog. In  the event the east European crew avoided all maritime hazards and made it back to Holyhead only 10 minutes late.

Bear and I got back UK side just past midnight and after a fruitless search of Holyhead for a 24 hour fuel stop we set off back to the Shire slowly trying to eek out the LPG and wishing that I had the foresight to fill with unleaded rather than rely on finding fresh supplies. An oasis was found with less than 1 miles worth of LPG left and after paying to fill the tank what I paid for my first ever car (a hand painted matt black ford capri) we went on through the night to get back to HQ at dawn chorus where Bear the Berner met his family. There will be more pics of him him and this reunion of the clan on the other site. Any thought of a long lie in was dashed by the knowledge that several visitors were due, some to drop off animals, others to collect and one mad lot even to buy some. More of that tomorrow but there is now considerably less sheep and even less pork wandering the smallholding. The sheep pig remains!

In quarantine

Life got a bit more complicated and messy at Rock HQ on Tuesday when little t had to be taken to hospital, he having been sick Monday afternoon then took it on himself to cover his mother and grandmother in vomit (and fill at least one handbag) to such an extent that by Tuesday afternoon he was quite ill, the doctor thought an ambulance ride was required but we made do with grandma's taxi, not quite so dramatic but just as quick. After an age at the hospital with pipes and bags attached to him the poor little mite was allowed home late Tuesday evening and for some inexplicable reason the words "ah well things can only get better now" were uttered which of course prompted a severe downturn.
Wednesday morning saw my beautiful and oh so patient wife fall victim to whatever bug it was, followed by yours truly and grandma. Little t being a mere sprog rallied quite quickly but has spent most of the last 3 days either asleep or being hugged. Me being a bloke was obviously the illest of the group (scientific fact, cant argue with the facts) and so began a fast (good for waistline but not recommended) as any food in became ammunition for innards to fire in all directions outwards without warning. Like I said, messy.
In seriousness the sudden unexpected explosive discharge of pre chewed foodstuffs was a minor irritation compared to the muscle cramp (why so severe in my left foot?)  feeling cold (I made a big mistake of falling asleep wrapped in a duvet fully clothed under another duvet and was still cold but then moved on to the next stage, cooking myself) excessive sweating, thumping headache and feeling of utter fatigue.
As this seemed to be a illness that was passed on we decided to keep it to ourselves and stayed in miserable isolation, with no telly.
Thankfully the worst has passed (several times over!) and having contained a tin of oxtail within my digestive system for more than 8 hours I am sure that tomorrow will be as fun a day as planned.

Reunited

 Yesterdays trek across the hills looking for a demonic shitland and his acolyte also revealed the hiding place of these two little flockers who have been MIA for several weeks. Daffodil went walkies shortly after being shorn, and this was about the time her lamb died. Nero the black ram lamb also lost his mum at the time of shearing, not through death but through sale, we actually sold a breeding set of Ryelands to another smallholder, they took Pedro, Maude and Bonny (I think) plus lambs at heel, but as they wanted ewe lambs Nero got left behind. It looks like Daffodil has adopted Nero, hes a very happy well fed big lad and from the pic below we can see Daffodil adopting the take on all comers stance when faced by two large Berners and a fat bloke. Luckily for all concerned we had other prey in our sights so left them too dinner. Having seen us obviously sparked a memory in the woolly brains and this morning Daffodil and Nero were lined up with all the others in the yard waiting for breakfast thus saving yours truly another trip over the hill with a large net. Trevor has yet to develop the same sense of direction and we await his return. Its not going to happen but we can hope.

Catch me if you can!

 I often find that what I plan to do on the smallholding varies a great deal from what I actually end up doing. Tonight was a good example, plan was to build a super duper double swing gate that would keep the warring factions in the Mangalitza pen separate (war has been declared between Pam and Bridget, both have a set of piglets, both have separate 12 by 12 sleeping quarters but a communal play area, Pam seems the think that all the piglets are hers so chases Bridget if Bridget tries to feed her own piglets. As Pam isn't feeding Bridget's piglets this is a problem that needs solving) but in actual fact after spending a bit of time making soothing noises to little t who suddenly began projectile vomiting (no idea why he coated his Grandma and mother in puke, lots of it and five times) I was dispatched to fetch some of our MIA animals from the vast area of common that we are lucky enough to live on. I did find all that I was looking for, but there is only time to tell you of Apollo the pretty boy pony who has been led astray by Trevor and wandered off into the wilderness. This is not a problem, my beautiful and oh so patient wife having nightmares about pretty boy pony being struck by lightening is however, hence the trek across the ridge to fetch him, at least, back to the well earthed safety of Rock HQ. Pretty boy is in the pic above to the right of the trees, I found him after walking 1.5 miles in the other direction.

 Here he can be more clearly seen, he is the one sending please come and get me psychic messages, and it was at this point I had one of those chance encounters often had around these parts. As I wrestled with two large Bernese Mountain Dogs who wanted to welcome a walker into their domain said walker introduced herself as Val, she was looking for Gladestry, well as I had just walked from there I was just the person (ok the only person she could ask as there was no one else about) to ask. Val was walking the Offas Dyke, on a whim, on the day of the Olympics she found herself at Prestatyn and decided to hike the 186 or so miles, never having walked more than 2 miles in a go before she was now managing a good number each day and would finish by day 17. I top trumped her 17 days by telling her of my 6 day epic on the Dyke doing the reat TODO. Suitably impressed she carried on shouting that I would probably see her again as she now planned to move to Kington from where she lived, Hay on Wye. Funny old world, but you do meet the nicest people. Anyway back to horse catching.

 Apollo couldn't wait to be caught. He stood as good as gold as I ambled up, he even looked in the general direction of home just to make sure I got the message. He had had enough of life in the wilds, the rain, the thunder, the rubbish food and no telly. Even when I told him we still had no telly and were not part of the 20 million who watched Usain Bolt win the 100 metres Apollo was keen to get going and get gone.

 So we ambled back down the slopes, me to a well earned cuppa and a medal for finding pony, locating missing sheep, lamb and ram, and Apollo to all the hayledge he could eat.

Trevor on the other hand stayed out of reach and made it clear he was happy to party on with the militia's herd. His time will come. After I build the gate. (Little t finished barfing and enjoyed a light supper of sausage beans mash malt loaf and grapes, som of which he ate, most he pressed into passing dogs mouths, or fur)

Life with ME

Today should have been the bar b que to end my beautiful and oh so patient wife's birthday celebration week but in the event it had to be cancelled due to ME. That's not yours truly, no Tracey has ME and usually copes very well, managing the condition that is totally debilitating (and stress related so as she married me she has no chance!) and strikes her down without any warning. So that's what happened this morning and instead of making burgers and organising a bit of a do I was texting, emailing and phoning all to break the bad news. Thankfully I got to everyone in time and hopefully we can do something later in the year to make up for it. So the day was a quiet one on the homestead (I say quiet, I was refereeing a massive fall out in the Mangalitza maternity ward while at the same time making sure Boris didn't break any girl goats in his quest to continue his blood line) with family giving TLC to the poorly one.
Mind you the weather at bar b que o'clock would have put a dampener on it anyway!

Nah! This is rain!

 While it cannot be described as the sunniest day ever, it was for a brief while sunny here at Rock HQ and as the major task of the day was the ever so arduous shift a ton of pig pooh and bed every animal down (additional man test to move a ton of straw) I was grateful for the lack of rainfall. Halfway through the clear out attention was drawn to a small Ryeland lamb biting its buttocks and as expected the poor mite had a nasty case of maggots. The wet grass has made them scour, the backsides get dirty, a warm spell after a wet spell, all the ingredients for fly strike and maggot attack. After bring unceremoniously dunked in a bucket of warm water with Jeyes fluid Tigs' backside was trimmed and sprayed with noxious chemicals that had the nasty bitey crawly things flinging themselves from her to their doom. She is currently in the nice cleaned out stable, along with the goats, as the Mangalitzas have now taken over what was the kennel block and goat house. As an aside, somehow Pam has managed to get out of new accommodation and leave her five fat piglets inside. There is no sign of exit, and she has obviously forgotten how she did it so she is the other side of a wooden wall and can stay there until its daylight and we can all see what we are doing.

Back to the bed down man test, the sun shone and shone some more and by 2pm all was well, stalls were cleaned, pressure washed, pooh safely stacked for composting, beds made, last bit of straw to put to storage when this happened.

The first raindrops spattered as we sort of ran back the cottage, and then the heavens opened. This downpour also meant our TV engineer couldn't come and fix things and so we missed Team GB's triumphs. Again.