Poles apart

Tracey and I, it has to be said, seldom differ in opinion. There are times that we think so alike its uncanny, yet there are times when we are at complete opposites it adds credence to the idea that men are from Mars and Women are from Venus.

Take tonight for example.

We are lucky enough to work together (paid work not work at Rock HQ, we do that together too)and today we were in different buildings but independently reached the conclusion that tonight for dinner we would have a fish salad with new potatoes. Both of us popped out at lunch time and bought the necessary fishy item, me limited for choice bought two reduced price salmon steaks and my last 50p on some Jersey spuds (ours are not quite ready yet) while Tracey couldn't find any fish worth buying so brought some prawns and a new potatoes.

After doing the rounds tonight our combined ingredients made a feast although I suspect Mad Keith was disappointed with the menu choice as his roast potato fetish has not been satisfied this week.

However, this harmony in food choice was only part of the evening.

From time to time we get waifs and strays wandering into our yard, who can forget poorly sheep from last year? Well this chunky lamb arrived tonight having decided that our mangy flock of Ryelands are the in crowd. This stocky black faced ewe lamb made itself at home, tried to get milk off the goats, explored the conservatory and dealt with the attentions of the Rock HQ pack with aplomb.

The difference was mine and Tracey's reaction as we oooed and aaahed over the new arrival.
She saw it as a potential new pet, I saw it as a large pile of free burgers and a lovely sheepskin rug.

Poles apart!

Shear fun in the real world!

Back in the real world, the one where Tracey has had to do all the work while I stroll around the countryside with my friends, there is lots of work to be done. Yesterday passed slowly as I recovered from the exertions of the trek, both feet had swelled from bruising so I spent a jolly day with them in a bucket of cold water reading and drinking a few beers. We went to The Harp to celebrate and had the usual fantastic meal, once again David cooked a steak that could not be surpassed in any way shape or form.


Sunday dawned, along with a new batch of aches and pains but the shearing had to be done so no more lounging in the garden. Typically instead of being in the yard for breakfast the Ryelands were all over the place so very slowly the round up began. By the time this butch itinerant shearer arrived we were missing last years lambs, Sandy, Hercules, Maude and Bonny, two ewes, Roxy and Ebony and our Suffolk cross, Meg. Tracey volunteered to walk around the hill to seek them out whilst I kept up a steady supply of tea and chocolate hob nobs for the Shearer Man. Some of you may recognise him, for he is famous, not for being the sheep equivalent of Vidal Sassoon but for being the captain of Hereford Rugby Club.

Whilst Tracey was doing the Bo Peep bit he manfully wrestled the sheep and gave them their annual short back and sides, all the time keeping them calm by singing to them (see photos above and below)

Tracey returned with the missing flockers apart from Meg. Now we have already lost three Suffolks since we have been here, see postings for M.I.A.s to read the full story, and again it looked like Meg was now M.I.A and probably on her way to a pie filling plant, caught up in the annual roundup.

Job done the Shearer Man waived his fee donating it to the Prostate Cancer charity, a big gesture as the amount would have bought him five miles, so many thanks Pritch, you cant sing but you are a generous soul.

Once the sheep were over their trauma they wandered off, cooler if not happy.

Early this evening I took Mad Keith his dinner. Whilst we were chatting a lone sheep wandered down the trail towards the rest of our flock gathered on the technohermits lawn. Meg had returned, safe and crustless. She now has a choice, stay hot all summer or allow me to shear her by handshears, and does anyone remember how that turned out our first year?

Take a horse to water

This picture shows you can, Apollo is "helping" fill the plastic boat that doubles as their water trough. Admittedly his help entails knocking the pipe out of the boat forcing yours truly to march back up the hill to put it back before racing back down again to out the other end back on the tap. The too and fro antics could be stopped by the judicious application of a jubilee clip one end and a sharp smack on the nose at the other. Until then the game continues until either the boat fills, Apollo gets bored or I keel over from exhaustion.

Still its all good training for The Great To Do, walking Offas Dyke in 6 days. The news that I am contemplating this trek has had a strange effect on our neighbours. The Oracle when he heard dug deep into his pocket and handed over a well worn fiver as a contribution. I had to promise not to spend it in the first pub I came across along the trail before he let go of it completely.

Mad Keith spotted the Prostate Cancer T shirt I was wearing when I dropped off his chicken and chips tonight. This sparked a fascinating exploration of his medical history which included graphic details of several operations, hugely interesting facts that he got up 8 times in the night to pee and several medical diagrams scratched into the dirt to illustrate certain technical points. During his gleeful descriptions I wondered how my chicken and chips eaten half an hour earlier was managing to remain in place and not add a Technicolour aspect to his anatomical drawings.

By the time I got back to Rock HQ the technohermit had phoned ahead and promised Tracey some money to support the walk as he saw it as ultimately helping him with his little problem. She did look pale when I walked in. It seems Mad Keith had been equally graphic on the phone. I had seen the diagrams and if too scale it was anything but a little problem.

Breakout from Goatanamo

We spent quite a big part of the day up in Telford celebrating my in laws' 40th wedding anniversary, a remarkable and lovely achievement. It was a celebration tinged with sadness as Derrick is so ill from prostate cancer, but he was having a better day and enjoyed everyone coming to share the occasion.

We got home to find the goats had broken out of Goatanamo and were playing on the rockery. I was tempted to use the gun I have borrowed to deal with the rabbit invasion but common sense prevailed and we sat in the sun drinking tea and watched their antics. Mad Keith the technohermit called in, we are now considered by him to OK and as such he feels able to pop round, drink our tea, eat our biscuits and pass on hermit wisdom. Current gems include stories about his uncle Jim, who he is named after (how?) and how his cat who has no name keeps letting live mice loose in his cave.

Thunder road

Five minutes earlier I was in my shirtsleeves gardening, then just before taking Mad Keith his dinner the heavens opened flooding the lane and making all inhabitants of Rock HQ take shelter where they could. Amidst the thunder and lightening the favorite spot seems to be the step to nowhere under the eaves of the stable.

Having seen the length and state of our lane you can perhaps see why we get so few visitors!

Karma

The picture above sums up how I feel, after 9 nights in a row of checking the goats three times a night at 11pm, 2am and five am, getting up at half six and doing the morning routine before work I feel like I might wake up with an unfinished tale and the keyboard stuck to my face.

Juliet has hung on and failed to deliver the goods and so we got ready for work slightly earlier than usual because I am delivering some training to some newbies, have to be there on time and all that. Just as we were setting off The Technohermit rang.

Now its a clear sign that at feeding time if any of your animals are missing they are either lost or in trouble. The Ryelands seldom miss their appointment at the trough so this morning when three were missing the alarm bells rang. A quick search of our side of the hill proved fruitless and as it was vital I was actually at work for once we called off the search and tried not to worry.

Mad Keith had spotted one of our sheep on his side of the hill on its side and bleeding, he thought it was giving birth and thankfully phoned us. Rene was press ganged into doubling as a makeshift ambulance and Roxy was found just up the hill from The Technohermit's abode. Now I am a firm believer in Karma, had we not befriended and helped this pensioner who has lived in the same spot he first dug it out of the hill in 1964 he would not have thought, perhaps, to tell us of Roxie's distress.

And she was certainly distressed, an hour and a half later after much traumatic pushing it was clear that it was all going horribly wrong and a strange aroma was emanating from her behind. The only way to resolve it was to give her a hand, literally, so the poor animal was subjected to a few minutes of my amateurish fishing around in her insides and slowly I pulled out a very dead lamb. From the smell and condition of the poor mite it had died a while ago and nature was taking its course with Roxy spontaneously aborting it. This solved the mystery of her giving birth today as she was about three weeks early and had showed none of the signs that she was due to birth and had no milk.

She was by now in a right state so we injected her with antibiotics and made her as comfortable as possible, and I am happy to report that after a day of sleeping heavily with Tracey watching over her (she took the day off) she is munching on fresh hay and looking very much healthier. Had we not been able to fetch her and help her out she would have died on the hill, Sheepskull lane on our bonsai mountain has that name for a very obvious reason.

I am however, not happy to report that since getting home Meg looks pretty close to lambing and now both goats are oozing goo from their nether regions and looking like they are in a race. I think its going to be a long night. Thank God its the weekend!

Feeling guilty

Its been a funny week at Rock HQ and I am beginning to feel like its my fault. No sooner had I waxed lyrical about spring about to sprung then the whole country grinds to a halt under a thick blanket of snow. Then when I make a comment about a mere millimetre of snow causing widespread havoc a fresh fall of 4 inches confines Rene to base so Tracey doesn't get to work today, I on the other hand had a day off anyway and was totally unable to get any of the jobs planned completed.

It was really sunny today but the snow remains, probably waiting for reinforcements. Huge icicles hang from the stables, it all looks quite ornate. One of the advantages of being snow bound and unable to tackle the jobs list is that I have been able to walk around the hill a few times this week. First was on Tuesday at last light, I had worked from home that day as Rene could not get down the ice track. I took the magnificent seven with me and they had a mad romp in the snowdrifts. As we turned the last bend before Mad Keith's I was put to shame by the old hermit who was pushing his 3 speed bike up the hill laden with supplies. Me with my macho 4x4 didn't attempt the journey to town, he with his Sturmey Archer 3 speed bone shaker had safely navigated there and back.

Just past his abode there is an old tin shack that has the remains of an aviary attached to the side. As we approached Faith went mental barking and lunging at the wires. An unfortunate Blackbird had found a way in to search for food away from the snow and now couldn't find its way out. I ripped the wire from the top corner and soon despite Faiths best attempts to stop it it found its way to freedom.

Faith looked at me in disgust as we wandered along in the snow heading back to Rock HQ. She wages a personal war against all Blackbirds and spends an amazing amount of time running along the hedge lining our track in an effort to catch one. The closest she had ever got to one and her human lets it go.

At least I think it was a blackbird, seeing how this week has gone I could be wrong, as I think about it I worry that it might have been something other than a common Blackbird. Some travellers purchased the land recently and they put horses up there from time to time. They have been clearing the assortment of tin shacks and making repairs. Perhaps the bird was theirs! It was probably a Bird of Paradise worth thousands of pounds and I have just released it. Come to think of it it didn't seem keen to fly out. Grief!

No. I am sure it was just a Blackbird.

But then again I am the man who took a buck rabbit to the vet, the poor creature was suffering with what I thought was a ruptured penis. The vet quickly examined the stricken animal and I nearly died of embarrassment when the vet told me that the rabbit was in fact female and giving birth.

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."

Berner Breakout!

They are fantastic dogs but agility is not one of their strong points!

However, if they get an idea in their heads you have a hard job convincing them otherwise. So today Rocky and Reba were in the conservatory, the bespoke redwood effort lovingly built by the nice man who sold us Rock HQ and they decided that what they wanted to do was go for a walk. I personally think they were egged on by Poppy the Golden Retriever who was with them.

Anyway the dynamic duo shoulder charged the double doors leading into the garden and set off on a great adventure which was only curtailed when The Oracle spotted them harassing Mad Keith for crusts of bread.

The Oracle being the good neighbour that he is walked them back presenting three muddy dogs to Tracey and Bethan who were enjoying hot buttered toast for breakfast oblivious to the mass breakout.

Best intentions!

Well tonight I did have half a plan just to do a quick couple of lines about Trevor and his fat balls. But as usual event overtook this smallholder who is home alone, aside from 60 or so beasts and Beth with her boyfriend Tom. Tracey is at her Mum and Dads because her Dad is still very poorly. So I was lucky enough to be driven home by Beth who models her driving style on a blindfolded Mr Bean, this time the journey passed without incident and I at no stage felt compelled to grab the handbrake or scream hysterically as she approached every junction.

Back at the ranch I intended to complete all jobs and then get the house not only tidied but completely redecorated before Tracey came home. First job was to muck the boys out who had each dumped a wheelbarrow load of fresh do all over the stable floor. As they have both got used to standing quietly having a munch from the ever decreasing haystack I let them both out for that purpose. I should have paid more attention to the mood of Apollo who was fizzing like an unexploded bomb. Whilst I was moving the latest offerings from his bowels he went off, down the lane at full speed disappearing into the darkness. William and I stood and waited. Soon the reassuring clatter of hooves heralded the wonder foals arrival. William chewed thoughtfully as Apollo circled him in the glow of the anti aircraft lights.

They stood shoulder to shoulder facing down the lane, William looked at Apollo and nodded and both took off down the lane Grand National style at full gallop.

I watched and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

No reassuring clatter of hooves.

Great.

They had whats technically known as done a runner.

I got my less than useful torch and with the Magnificent 7 in full cry set off after them. Precious few signs were there for an experienced tracker like myself to follow but judging by the hoof prints in the ice sheet at the bottom of our lane they had obviously considered turning for home before heading off up the hill towards the Ghost House and Mad Keith's. My spirit lifted slightly when I thought the torch had picked out Apollo but it turned out to be our sheep who panicked in the darkness unable to recognise the dogs as friendlies and so stampeded ahead of me hemmed in on the narrow track. We all got to the point it opened out onto the hill and as if by magic Mad Keith was perched on a rock watching the pantomime unfold. "Hi Keith, don't suppose you have seen two horses run through have you?"

"Yes, just now, they're up there" he pointed further up hill.

Great. I increased my pace, so did the tidal wave of sheep before me. Seven dogs ran amok on the hill looking for geriatric rabbits. I shouted over my shoulder, "Was one a white one?" Mad Keith thought a moment before shouting back, "No. Brown I think"

Half a mile ahead the track split in two, if I didn't head the horses off at the pass they would either head back around the hill or head off into thousands of acres of wilderness. I broke into a jog, unhelpfully so did the sheep. The torch illuminated a horses backside running ahead of the sheep, the panic of the sheep spreading to Apollo. William was just trotting along enjoying the adventure. Unbelievably the whole procession was brought to a sudden halt by the two Berners running back towards us having overtaken us all in the darkness. The sheep formed a defensive circle and Apollo skidded to a halt. I caught up with him, put a dog lead around his neck (it being the first thing similar to a lead rope I could find, be prepared, that would be a good motto to live by) and turned for home.

He was exhausted and shuffled along by my side alternately leaning on me for support or dragging his hooves a pace behind. William followed like a naughty child trying to pretend he wasn't really following and the sheep not wanting to miss out on anything fell in behind him.

And so this convoy of animals made its way back around the hill to Rock HQ. Right on cue as we got to the boundary of The Ghost House Apollo froze and refused to move freaking us all out. I had to drag him whilst at the same time conforming to the legend, don't look back.

Eventually we all got back to the safe glow of the anti aircraft lights and the two naughty boys were shut in their stalls without a goodnight story. This little escapade seriously ate into the time available for redecorating so Tracey will have to make do with just a tidy house on her return tomorrow.

What of Trevor and his fat balls?

Well the little shitland has made the most of his latest eviction from the stable block. The trees in the garden are adorned with fat balls for the birds. Little Trevor has managed to find all these bird treats and eat them all. I am expecting his latest offerings for the garden to pop out strung together in green nets.

A day of two halves!

First thing this morning as Tracey and I walked the horses back to their stables from the top of Willow Rise, as we sloshed through the muddy swamp of the Cauldron and slithered into the stream at the head of our lane, not for the first time I thought I was turning into Mad Keith. I don't mean I was suddenly overwhelmed with the desire to strip off and run naked over the hill, or cycle down an insanely steep path on a decrepit Raleigh three speed, or talk to petrol generators that inexplicably fail to start after three years on one tank of petrol, no, I didn't even want to carry the bones of a dead cat called Tim in a box on the back of my bike (actually I made that last one up but Beth believes it still) No, today as we walked the Boys back to their warm and cosy stables I felt so at peace and so happy with the world that I never wanted to leave here. Just like the technohermit who pitched up on the hill 44 years ago and hasn't moved since. Admittedly he has subsequently wished he had chosen the sunnier side of the hill but in essence he is a happy man.

In fact it takes a lot to get me away from here, work is the main cause of my absence, today being no exception so I dutifully pointed Rene down the track and set off to load another 16 tons before the big hand pointed up and the little hand throttled Mickey and it was time to come home. All that time its a strange thought that all this, and by this I mean our animal inhabitants, carry on without us. So my day is spent doing my best at work, really enjoying my work but all the time wanting to be back here where the action is.

You see there is so much going on here at the moment, the kennels having had their revamp are being tested by the weather, so far so good the ditch seems to have thwarted the dogs plans to set off in an Ark, its dry and so are they. Good news as a new dog called Casper is due to land at Rock HQ by Saturday, he will be fostered by us until he can be re homed. The poor lad is homeless, credit crunch victim, and as we are totally unable to do anything the easy way he has to come with his own problems, he is totally deaf. God knows how I am going to train a deaf dog, a colleague suggested using a torch, not to beat it with but to flash at the dog every time I want it to do something. This seemed like a workable idea until I asked how would the dog react to car headlights if following the torch regime. The thought of deaf dog chasing night time traffic prompted a rapid revision of training techniques.

We have recently purchased a home publishing and printing kit. Some of you dear readers may know that Rock HQ is part funded by sales of my toys on Ebay, all my toy soldiers have been auctioned, the dregs of the vast collection is going rapidly so we have invested in a mug and t shirt printing set up so now you can read about the animals, visit them, eat some of them and wear the t shirt. Mr 20% is currently working on a famous first draft of the life and times of two townies who have set their hearts on living the good life which hopefully will be an all time best seller as the world reacts against the misery genre of tortured kiddies and embraces a new wave of feel good faction.

And then there are the pigs, or lack of, the smallholding is smaller without them, and as I have eaten bacon or pork most days since the last lot took the long walk to Mr Whirlpool I have been plotting to get some more. Luckily current sales of the El Cid range of toy soldiers has liberated enough cash to buy two more and the Stable Sprite, being the nice kind sprite that he is has come up trumps and is selling us two little pigs at a bargain basement price.

So today, while I was rushing round at work I went out during my lunch minute to make final preparations for their arrival. I went to see Stuart the butcher in Drapers Lane and bought a second hand bacon slicer.

In from the cold

Talking to a friend of mine yesterday on the phone really brought it home how different a lifestyle we lead. He was getting ready to go and watch a football match, I was getting ready to go outside and begin the daily rounds of the animals. He was talking about the central heating, I was telling him about fetching the logs I had chopped. It was strange listening to him hearing how important it all was, his devotion to his team as important as our devotion to our animals. I suppose everyone focuses on something to give them a sense of meaning.

Today was one of those rare days where, as we both have colds, I wished we were more like River Cottage with a team of gardeners and workers to go and do it all for us. But once we ventured out into the chill the animals soon took our minds off how grotty we were feeling. The sun forced itself through the fog and revealed some startling colours on the hill.

By mid afternoon we were almost finished and the cold cure was wearing off so I headed indoors as Tracey fed the rabbits. A voice from outside alerted me that strangers were in the yard.

Not quite strangers but a strange man, Mad Keith was at our front door, as he was fully clothed and not visibly armed I went out for a chat. He was after a favour, now this was a first, the techno hermit has only once ventured up our lane and that was on an out of control motorbike a couple of years ago. Asking for help was visibly hurting him but the seventy year old hermit was clearly suffering from the cold, was there any chance we could get him a bag of coal he wondered. No problem, come in and have a coffee first.

He stepped inside the cottage and his jaw dropped "I've never been in here before" he whispered taking off his cap and clutching it to his chest "Its massive" he breathed as wandered around the living room like a pilgrim in a cathedral. As he lives in a seven foot by seven foot space I suppose the ground floor of the cottage does take on a new perspective.

Coffee made we sat and chatted. Mad Keith wasn't happy, the council wanted council tax off him, first time in 43 years, he had been banded group A and that was a lot of cash for a hermit to find. For a while now he has been writing to them asking why now, but the bureaucratic machine seems to want to squeeze the blood from his particular stone. Maybe as revenge for not being able to evict him from the hill in 1992.

I drove him to his shed to get his wallet, Rene just managing the 1 in 4 grass slope that this pensioner cycles up and down daily. He came out of the shed with a can, could we get some petrol too? Images of him trying to light coal soaked in petrol in a wooden shed were banished as he explained he wanted it for his chainsaw. The prospect of him armed with a working chainsaw was equally worrying but slightly more acceptable so I took him and his can to the nearest forecourt.

Hermit smalltalk involves ignoring any questions asked and sticking to a subject totally unrelated to the one under discussion. So I obtained his views on the weather, the council, the credit crunch and foreigners. All were despised with equal passion, the credit crunch because he was bloody sick of hearing about it on the radio. Asked if he had ever been abroad he looked at me like I had just asked him if he liked eating babies, "Never, No! Never!" he rasped.

"You have a radio Keith?" I asked steering the conversation back to safer ground.

Now I did know he was a modern techno hermit, having a mobile phone, but what I didn't know was that he was wired for sound! His shed has electricity!

Three years ago he bought a generator "Undred and seventy quid it cost!" and since then he has had electric. This powers the battery charger for the radio and mobile phone. But it doesn't work anymore, stopped yesterday, don't know why, wouldn't start, buggering thing.

We got the fuel and coal. For a moment it looked like there would be murders when the girl at the checkout asked for £2 more than he had bargained for, but as he had not bought coal for over a year her mistake was understandable and the queue breathed a sigh of relief as he shuffled through the door.

I drove up the hill to his shed and carried the coal to his door.

Did I want to see his generator, well theres an offer you don't get every day and one I couldn't refuse. He carefully pulled clear some sacks and coats and there in the gloom was a shiny as the day it was made generator. He stroked it like you would a Holy relic. "I just doesn't work though" he muttered sadly.

"What happened" I asked

"Well I tried to start it and nothing, I was here all day pulling, nothing." He shook his head and patted the silent genny affectionately. I avoided the double entendre trap and pressed on.
"When did you last have it going?" I asked hoping to gain an insight into the demise of the brand new looking contraption.

He looked up at me, "Let see now, it was when I cut the hedge, I needed the trimmer"

I looked at the nine foot high wilderness type foliage "When was that Keith?"

"Spring" he resumed stroking the silent machine "I don't use her much see"

"Has it, er she got petrol in it, her?" seemed like an obvious question but one that needed asking.

"Petrol?"

"Yes Petrol" I pointed to the can and the filler cap as he ran a gnarled finger along the words Petrol Generator.

"She takes petrol do she?"

I topped it up from the chainsaw can while he watched attentively.

He pressed the switch and pulled the cord. The generator spluttered into life and hummed along providing a backtrack to Keith's wild celebratory jig. He stopped "Why do you think she didnt work yesterday?" he asked and shook my hand and before I could answer he said, "What do I owe you?"

"Nothing Keith, glad to help" I said climbing back into Rene and heading home.

As I bumped along the track returning to my warm cottage, my lovely wife and a mug of mulled cider not for the first time this weekend I realised how different my life is and how lucky I am.

Dark autumn thoughts

It doesn't happen often but there are occasional days where I question whether or not smallholding is for me. Its been two years hard work, both Tracey and I work full time to be able to live here, then there is the hard work once we get home, the never ending jobs list, the weather and the behaviour of our animal clan all sometimes seem to conspire to make things extraordinarily difficult. Life was so much easier in our three bed modern semi.

Our two year celebration of having survived all that's been thrown at us was slightly muted by a letter from the bank informing us of a 50% increase in our mortgage payments. I say slightly as in the same way the Titanic was a slightly bad shipping disaster. Due to the current financial climate no new mortgage deals are available to reduce the cost of living here and the monthly payment is now at a level where we could rent a medium size farm for less.

It caused a couple of dark days where plots similar to Guy Fawkes were imagined to punish the wonderful bankers who created the current bust but they left me when I went for a walk around the hill. The autumn colours proved a useful distraction, as did the dogs charging around the dead bracken. I even managed to lose Faith, the Gordon setter, entirely for the walk, she does have a bright orange coat especially for this time of year so I can spot her on the hill, but today she disappeared until I rounded the final turn home and she came running towards me.

A bush spoke to me along the way.

Two years ago I would have been startled that foliage should suddenly find a voice, but having Mad Keith the techno hermit as a neighbour its common for him to spring up from the greenery, hopefully fully clothed, and start a conversation that either enlightens or completely baffles. Only last weekend he jumped up from a gorse bush exclaiming "Is that an orse?"

As I was gripping the lead rope of William the Welsh Cob I felt it was safe to reply "Yes Keith its an orse"

He climbed down onto the track, William eyed him closely, retaliate first is his motto and no strange man leaping from bushes was going to get one over on him. "Have you ever had an orse Keith?" I asked, hoping he would realise by had I meant owned and not anything unsavoury. He shook his head and patted William chuckling to himself, "No." there was a very long pause punctuated by a plop plop plop sound as William left his mark on the track. "I had a cat though" Keith added, "He was called Tim"

I looked up the hill to the rough location of a piece of tin on the hillside with TIM painted on it marking the cats mortal remains. Keith started down the hill "I got another" he shouted over his shoulder

"Whats he called?" I shouted back

"I dunno, I call him lots of things" and the hermit was gone.

It wasn't the hermit who spoke from the bush yesterday, but a traveller who was visiting his horse, Molly, who is on the hill. Molly is massive, able to eat a whole apple in one mouthful and the most gentle attentive beast imaginable. I saw him before he spoke but let him think he had surprised me, we spent a very nice ten minutes or so passing the time of day, talking about the weather, about his horse, how worried he was that she was up here alone. I found I was able to keep up with what he was saying, obviously I had learned a thing or two about horses and didn't make myself look a complete idiot. We parted company and I promised to keep an eye on Molly for him. It might sound daft but that conversation with the traveller confirmed that it really is worth all the effort to live here. The beauty of the place, the community of the valley all make life worth living. Any doubt I had was further expelled on my return to Rock HQ, as I turned my back on Trevor he gently reminded me that he was there by biting me.

Life's great isn't it!

A quiet day in the garden

Its been a busy 24 hours st Rock HQ and as usual the animals are up to their antics providing much amusement to their human owners.

Now most people don't get miniature horses having a snooze on their lawn, neither do they have dogs roaming round that are bigger than the horse.

But then again I get so used to seeing strange things everyday you get used to it. But today I saw something so strange, so extraordinary and baffling I still can't quite believe it happened.

Its been a glorious day, the sun shone, the birds sang and I took Rene off road for the first time to collect the apples for the pigs, who deserved a massive apple feed. With the help of a 20 foot stick and a quilt cover I managed to gather together more apples than I could physically lift. Somehow I wrestled them into the car and turned for home.

It was then I saw it.

Fleetingly.

But it happened.

As I did a three point turn up in the bracken I saw a figure.

It was Mad Keith, the techno hermit.

He smiled and waved.

I drove off, gripping the steering wheel in panic.

Mad Keith was naked.

I didn't stop to find out why.

Pedal Power

I found this bike dumped in the lane this evening, at first I thought Mad Keith had gone all high tech, then I recognised it as my bike, except cleaner than the last time I saw it.

Ben is on leave for a few weeks before going to the sun and sands of Cyprus where he is based for the next two years. As Rock HQ lacks the attractions of the sunsoaked island to keep himself occupied he has borrowed my bike and after paying for it to be serviced is setting out tomorrow on an epic trip.

Some while ago a friend of ours Sara, who is mental and currently claims to be an Aardvark with a massive sense of humour failure set out one sunny afternoon with a credit card and a spare pair of pants and cycled the length of the UK, Lands End to John O'Groats. She completed the trip of over 800 miles despite getting soaked and punctures in both wheels in the first five miles. Sara is a bit of a cyclenaut, her webpage is linked to this one.

I have always planned to do the same route, obviously quicker, but time passes and commitments grow so it never got the past the planning stage and the bike bought for the job sat quietly waiting to be put to the use it was intended.

With time on his hands and with similar lack of planning as Sara, Ben has decided to do the same trip. Good news is that thanks to him my bike is now as new again and when he returns I hope to be able to use the bike now and then providing my arm lets me.

It will also give me, assuming he completes the trip, two times to beat.

Not that I'm competitive.

All quiet on the Western Front

Strange weather here today, lots of heavy rain and then a fantastic burst of sunshine. Jobs got done in quick time tonight, one of those evenings when it all seemed to go too smoothly. The sheep were somewhere on the hill, the goats were almost certainly bothering them somewhere so they were not around my feet or jumping into the feed buckets as I carried them to the pigs and horses.

At the bottom of the lane I saw an ominous set of tyre tracks leading off up to the ghost house. I did think I would collect some more apples for the pigs, they like free food as much as I do, but as I was stood pondering the meaning of the tyre tracks, the pros and cons of carrying a heavy bucket full of apples a third of a mile home I saw out of the corner of my eye a familiar shape amongst the bracken. I pretended not to notice wondering what Mad Keith was up to, more importantly what he would do next and whether I should drop the bucket if I had to run.

He sidled over trying to look as nonchalant as a hermit can when discovered in the foliage.

He stood with me looking at the tracks and we shared a few moments silence.

"I thought you were Murphy" he eventually said his voice tinged with relief.

I looked at him, he was studying my face for a reaction, he nodded "Ah, Murphy's back" he added as he watched me scuff the stones in the track with my boot as the implications of the information were dawning.

"I didn't know" I replied looking up the hill to the ghost house perched on a small westerly facing spot, the hill looked so peaceful. Mad Keith followed my gaze, "Ah, I thought you was him see, I saw him this morning but I pretended to be busy, I avent got time for him."

"Thanks for letting me know Keith, I'll give getting the apples a miss"

"He likes the apples too,I dunno what he does with em, crab apple cider I spect." he chuckled to himself.

"Cheers Keith" I turned and headed back along the lane, a narrow escape, Murphy is back on the hill. It is indicative of how much of your time he takes in any encounter if the techno hermit hasn't got time to spend talking to him. I knew the evening was going too smoothly, with him back we would all have to be vigilant that he didn't catch us unawares with a "I can see you're busy...."

Perhaps we should pretend we've moved until Mad Keith gives the all clear.

Its a dog Holmes!

As its the weekend I did plan to lie in a bit longer than our usual morning routine allows. I should have known our tribe of critters would have other plans. The Bernese alarm clock went off at around half five and then the dawn chorus of hungry goats bleating under the bedroom window put paid to any thoughts of sneaking back to my bed and grabbing another hour of much needed kip.

Never mind I thought, this will allow me to catch up with a few garden jobs and I can have a long and leisurely breakfast. Again the plan and reality differed greatly as Reba, pictured here, decided to take off over the hill forcing her hapless owner to abandon his full cooked English and find her.

The hill is currently covered in five foot high stems of bracken so making it impossible to see anything unless its the size of a small elephant. Much calling and silent swearing failed to produce the missing pooch. Swearing has to be silent as Tracey has a swear box, a pound an expletive towards her new dog. Tracey joined the search, we found out why our sheep have suddenly stopped turning up for breakfast, The Oracle has taken to feeding them as they look so cute. So our fat Ryelands have persuaded a grizzled border farmer to part with sheep nuts, as he says they are now his friends for life, or rather as long as there are sheep nuts in his bucket. After a light breakfast with him they then bother Mad Keith for bread so no its wonder we don't see them.

Tracey decided to go back to Rock HQ while I was ordered to go up to the technohermits collection of shacks to see if he had seen our dog. I don't know why but as I approached the ghost house today I felt distinctly uneasy, the sun shone through the leafy canopy of the trees as they arched over the path but it was noticeably colder. Rabbits were grazing ahead, not actually going onto the lawn of the white house in front of me. No one was home, as usual. For the first time since we have been here I let the stories of the house influence me and I turned back from the path and headed home. I didn't, just like instructed by the stories look back. Anyway with rabbits on the path it was clear my dog hadn't ventured that way.

She was on the hill, probably adding to the legends and ghost stories that abound in this area. There is for instance a huge black dog that terrorises the hills, if you come to Rock HQ you will meet three real live ones, but this legend has been around since the fifteen hundreds.
A local Lord, a nasty fellow called Black Vaughn was on the losing side at a battle and beheaded. His ghost tormented the locals until thirteen priests were summonsed and were so frightened as they tried to exorcise his ghost from the local church that they lost their minds. One did however manage to reduce the ghost to the size of a fly and catch it in a snuff box, which was then thrown into a big pond on top of the hill next to ours. Some local sap let the fly out of the box and Black Vaughn's ghost manifested as a big vicious black dog forever roaming the hills and scaring the locals, usually on their way home after they had been to the pub.

Some chap called Sir Arthur Conan Doyle heard this story and published it as The Hound Of The Baskervilles. Now you know.

Anyway our hound of the Baskervilles was found by Tracey sat in the conservatory covered in sticky bods and reeking of fox pooh. Obviously she had picked up the scent and set off to investigate rolling in every turd she found along the trail.

She was feeling very pleased with herself, not nearly as pleased as the cats were feeling after helping themselves to my unattended breakfast.

Thinking in circles

The weather this week has been grim but we have still had a good week. The garden had taken a battering from the torrential rain but apart from a few small lettuce being ripped apart by the deluge it all seems to be surviving. Today I was going to plant out more seedlings but again the rain has thwarted my planning.


Instead I took William our magnificent Welsh Cob around the hill as exercise for us both, I never grow tired of the views and at the moment the fields are taking on different shades of green and gold as various crops ripen or farms gather the hay and silage.

William was well behaved as usual and we are both getting fitter as this time neither of us had to stop as we made the hilly circuit. Because of the rain we weren't tormented by flies either so in all it was a pleasant amble round. We saw our Suffolk's high on the next hill eyeing us suspiciously and getting ready to bolt if we showed any indication of turning their way.

Our route took us past the other houses on the hill, all were empty as usual, all very imaginatively have the same name as the hill differing only by being referred to as lower, middle and upper. I think its only been on two occasions have all the houses been occupied in the last 18 months. We share the hill with Mad Keith the technohermit and as we walked past his abode all was quiet, he has kept a lower profile than usual since he escaped from hospital last week.

The path took us to the Haunted House on the hill, this squat white walled building with its peeling black paintwork was a silent witness to our progress. Our neighbour, The Oracle, wouldn't venture as close to the house as William, four of the magnificent seven and myself now found ourselves. The house stands alone in a small garden which, despite the fact that the fence is down along one side, sheep never seem to venture into. Our garden only has to have the gate open for a few seconds and feral sheep rush in and strip the place of all consumable foliage, but this one they never seem to get into. The field to the rear and side of the house has nettles, thistles and weeds whereas the Haunted House has a verdant green lawn. As I listened to the lazy plod of Williams hoof fall I pondered on the fact that the dogs also looked like they were avoiding going too close as they all crossed to the other side of the track and had definitely sped up. William and I crossed the front of the house, me looking for movement at the dark windows, he ears pricked forward eyeing up the lush grazing opportunity passing him by.

We began the steep descent to the main track leaving the house alone. Perhaps the stories about the house are true. The Oracle certainly believes them.

Fresh marks on the wet grass showed that Mad Keith was out on his bike somewhere so presumably his indigestion is better. William isn't the most chatty of walking companions so I let my mind wander, thinking about how life has changed. All those years racing round on motorbikes at suicidal speeds, the extreme sports, the adventure training and lengthy expeditions away from home, the endless training, I was the absolute gym rat, I was, I concluded, undoubtedly looking for something.

As I returned to Rock HQ with my one horse power and my four wet canine companions, despite the rain, I felt an incredible sense of wellbeing, I felt extremely happy I had left that all behind.

This is what I have been looking for, my life with my family and animals here at The Rock.

21st Century Hermit!!

OK so the picture isn't of a 21st Century Hermit its of our very own dynamic duo Maggie and Geisha lay very comfortably on the step to nowhere outside the stable.

But I haven't got a picture of Mad Keith the hermit who dwells upon the side of the hill, and has done so for 44 years in the same spot, drinking from a stream and eating strange things he finds. I haven't dared point the camera at him in case he panicked and thought I stealing his soul forcing him to take me captive and keep me alongside Mrs Mad Keith in a pit amongst the bracken on the hillside.

These pits do exist, I don't really know what happened to Mrs Mad Keith, perhaps she got bored and wandered off with a band of itinerant sheep shearers on their way to make their fortune in sunnier climes like Morocco.

I will find out, but for now we know that Mad Keith the aforesaid hermit who has lived alone with the bones of a dead cat in a box around his neck, OK I made that up too, but he did have a cat called Tim and he buried it under a piece of metal on the hillside, hopefully after it died. I know its called Tim because the letters TIM are painted in white gloss marking the final resting place of the treasured moggy. Mad Keith who avoids strangers, hides amongst the rocks and vegetation if he thinks you are looking for him, he who has no possessions apart from a really old bike which he fearlessly rides down the almost vertical slope of the mountain we share, he who shirks all mod cons, who's idea of luxury is finding his stream hasn't been used as a toilet by the sheep or that the socks he has draped across the barbed wire fence to dry are not as crunchy as the pair he is currently wearing.

Mad Keith has joined the age of technology!

Yes people, Mad Keith has got a mobile phone!

One that actually works.

Its not an empty case like the TV he sits and watches, no this is the genuine article that he can actually make calls on.

How do I know?

It was he that the emergency services were looking for the other night, the missing sixty year old. He is in fact considerably older than sixty, more like 74 but they were close enough and lets be fair they were in the same county and on the right hill.

I know all this because I bumped into The Oracle this morning as he opened the gate for me as I went to work. Apparently Mad Keith went to bed (imagine one made out of a forest floor covered in sheep's wool and your close) and felt a bit poorly. So poorly in fact that he thought he was having a heart attack so at 2 am phoned 999. When they eventually found him he was in a bit of a state and so they took him to hospital where he was diagnosed as having severe indigestion probably caused by eating a pack of sandwiches left by a helpful hiker. Fully recovered and fully cleansed by the NHS he was returned to his hovel last night by a helpful hospital driver.

This episode raises even more questions about the eccentric old man who is our nearest neighbour. I originally thought that the most pressing question I had relating to Mad Keith was what happened to Mrs Mad Keith. Now I know he is a technohermit with a mobile phone another question has taken priority.

What network does he use and how does he get a signal living here when I cant!

Walking with William

I have just got in from walking with William, who it appears is the biggest fly magnet in the history of the world. Without resorting to hyperbole there were at least a million buzzing around us, some as big as flip flops and all intent on exploring and taking chunks out of this tasty equine feast and his human companion.

However having this annoying cloud of biting insects accompanying us as we circumnavigated the hill failed to detract from the simple pleasure of plodding along with a fantastic horse. He sees me as herd leader and so dutifully walked either alongside or one half pace behind.

Had he walked a full pace behind he might have saved painfully treading on my heels every other step, but at least he has given up trying to push me off the track and into the gorse bushes. He accepts I am boss, unless Tracey is around and then he sees her as boss.

Obviously.

Hes a smart cookie this one.

We had a brief stop at Five Ways Crossing, pictured here, it really is a wonderful view across the Herefordshire countryside, before turning off and heading back into Wales. We caught sight of Mad Keith, but he didn't want to talk today and hid, not very well as we could see him but we didnt let on in case he got upset and put us in one of his spare pits. We also found our two mental Suffolk sheep, Molly and April who galloped off down sheep skull lane the second they recognised me. Poor beasts must be suffering from the heat as they have evaded capture and shearing, therefore they still have a years worth of fleece on their backs. It should start to drop off soon.

Bill is still missing, there are very few sheep on the hills at the moment so he might be pie now, poor Bill.

Back at the ranch William was turned out in the field to cool off and refresh himself.

I returned to the cottage for my own refreshments. A nice supper of new potatoes, Rock HQ quiche and a bean salad. And a very cold cider. I am a lucky man.

The only fly in the ointment, its now pouring with rain and William is still outside.

Quiet evenings, who needs them!