One of those

We get them from time to time, walkers.

Being a walker myself I am happy to welcome one of the fraternity as they pass through, usually with a cheery "Of course, just up there keep the hedge to your right and the hill to your left" in response to their plaintive "Does the footpath go through here?"

Often further pleasantries are exchanged, distance walked, lovely spot, wouldn't like your feed bill, Welsh Border Collie? never heard of them, big aren't they? (In response to what sort of dog is that, Bernese, once, that's an odd dog, its a goat that's why)

Sometimes beverages are offered, rocks looked after (geologists are a funny lot) Orthodox Jews are put on the right path (literally not metaphorically) even sausages given on one really exceptional occasion (well they were the nicest walkers ever) in all walkers are welcome. Yours truly has trudged many a mile through foreign lands, militias farms, fended off wild beasts and crossed many an obstacle left by landowners.

I now realise that despite my credentials as a walker (186 miles in six days) I have crossed to the other side, I, or rather the bank, own land and this means that every now and then a walker feels they have to be obnoxious, for no apparent reason other than they think we are on different sides so seek to reinforce certain prejudices.

So there I am up to my arm pits in mud, trying not to drop a super heavy cast iron drain cover down the well, at the same time as this gravity defying drama plays out I am fending off curious pony and annoying pig (they are a strange pair) I am on the point of winning on all fronts when Bliss, a Welsh Border Collie (Bernese Mountain Dog) alerts me to the presence of a new threat. Suddenly out of the mist a fat bloke looking like he has just fell out of the pages of a Millet's outdoor catalogue lurches into view and stands silently ten yards from me and the well conundrum. Bliss, tail wagging trots dutifully towards me as I heave heavy metal to one side and shout "Morning, come on through"

Fat bloke in full Arctic expedition gear stands motionless looking at me, mud monster, pig, horse, dog, back to me. I wave him through "Paths that way" he still just stands there.

Sudden sinking feeling(unrelated to well problem) the walker is one of those who should have the third letter substituted. I climb the fence into the lane and encourage pig and dog to follow, they do. Bliss is put in conservatory where she can watch events unfold. Pig and man follow silently. Pig shut in stable. Man walks by in silence, close enough for us to have shaken hands, map case jangling with compass and whistle, his chubby gloved hands clutching a high energy bar that he is cramming into his hamster like face. He still stares at me in silence.

I break first. "Would it hurt that much just to say good morning"

More silent stares.

I walk back to the well, definitely one of those.

SOHF sets in, "This is my garden you're walking through you know, it wouldn't hurt to be polite" I shout over my mud spattered shoulder.

"Public footpath" he splutters back with oaty accompaniment.

I carry on, the well is well covered.

He staggers past our pigs.

In the distance I hear a dog bark, the Millet's man has made it to the land of the Oracle.

I see Oracle later on in the day.

Word is that a walker has passed through and felt the need to comment on our pigs being muddy. Poor pigs he said.

The only way to keep a pig clean is to keep it on concrete said the Oracle.

The man nodded.

A pig kept on concrete is an unhappy pig the Oracle continued. You ought to try living in the country not visiting it and complaining.

The fat Millet's advert broke out a Kendal Mint Cake and waddled off toward the bus stop.

He was one of those.

The Oracle agreed.

Decent sorts

We get all kinds of people passing through our patch of paradise, ranging from lost Orthodox Jews to benefit claimants who, after being told their benefit office had closed for a fortnight one summer packed his suitcase and walked as far as he could for a week before turning round and heading back again. He pitched camp her for two nights and enjoyed a bit of Rock HQ hospitality. We also get geologists, mountain bikers, lost paramedics, members of the militia (searching for sheep, hopefully theirs not ours) and once a drunk who decided the pigs were so cuddly she got in amongst. Its an amazing sobering effect cuddling someone elses pig.

Occasionally we get what are technically referred to as R-Sole types, who are rude, have dogs that chase our sheep/poultry and who think that as they are on the footpath crossing our land they have every right to be as objectionable as possible thus reinforcing the stereotype we have of townies in the countryside.

Today we had several groups pass through, all of which were thoroughly decent types. One couple having enjoyed a meal at our local decided to walk off part of the calorific excess by following the well worn trail around the Bonsai Mountain. They made it as far as the end of our lane, took one look at the swamp in The Cauldron, decided that yes, Trolls do live there and doubled back. They knocked on our door, one of our pigs was in distress, it might be nothing but they wanted to let me know. Sure enough one was, a Mangalitza piglet with a cut leg, probably from a failed escape attempt.

The second couple passing soon after had walking poles, so were more than able to take on the Trolls thus undeterred by the challenge ahead. But they stopped and said hello, and get the award for the nicest hiker we have met here in nearly five years. In fact they were so nice and so complimentary about the pigs, the smallholding, life the unverse and everything that they left with a free pack of sausage. It pays to be nice, the Karma Police say so!

Since we started smallholding we have encountered many unexpected things. Some big like 45 tons of rock landing in the garden, or 30 Orthodox Jews wandering lost in our yard or perhaps geriatric geologists searching for "the mother stone". Some not so big like goats hiding behind the TV, pigs in the kitchen or ponies in the living room.

We have also seen some strange things, like goats on the roof of the cottage, on the roof and bonnet's of visitors cars, up trees, up the cliff, in fact goats are strange full stop. No, strange things people don't usually see like Hermits running naked through the bracken, goats with feed bags stuck on their heads (goats again, there is a theme here) and Ryeland sheep trapped in all sorts of ways, by their heads, legs, ears and wool.

Today we were confined to barracks due to the foul weather and some much needed home admin got attended to, like defrosting the freezer. By lunchtime I was climbing the walls to get outside and as the weather temporarily changed from gales and rain to gales I took the Berners up the The Whet Stone. This is a sort of spiritual meeting place for Ben and I, he being away fighting in the war at the moment, so I took a few moments and said a few prayers and hoped he was OK. The chances of him coming home soon seem to have altered due to a second election. We are missing him very much. Hopefully the Taliban are also missing him very much.

Anyway, as can be seen from the video clip above, its a big piece of rock (only a third of the size of the piece that landed in our garden but that's a different tale) and a significant feature on the landscape. But take a look at the picture below. I only noticed as I was leaving. In the background you can see our hill, we live the other side of it. The rock in the foreground has a certain symmetry from this angle, the depression in the rock full of water, stories abound that during the Black Death coins were left in vinegar as payment for provisions placed by the stone. Probably as true as Old Nick being buried underneath it or Black Vaughn the robber baron. But look closely at the top of the rock, there is a big piece of sheep pooh on it.

How did it get there? Sheep would not really be inclined to exert that much effort to get on top just to do a number two. Having discounted a sheep with gymnastic tendencies and a bowel problem that leaves only one other explanation. A bored walker put it there.

Normal service has been resumed

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Not good" I replied

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

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

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

"Like that when it was broken?"

"No, before."

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

"Yes, good innit"

"This is how you watch telly?"

"Ahh" he nodded

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

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

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

He grinned.

I left him to it.

One man and his dog

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As old as the hills!

Living where we do, in an area of outstanding beauty, it comes as no surprise that people want to share the Rock with us from time to time. As we are only 250 meters from the Offas Dyke and almost exactly at its halfway point we sometimes see weary walkers stagger past hoping to find refuge in the pub at the end of the valley.

There is a footpath that runs along the boundary, and at one point it crosses in front of the house. Some people might view this as a disadvantage when at any time your peaceful afternoon can be interrupted by complete strangers tramping across your garden, but as we are keen walkers ourselves we value other people’s right to roam. It has at times provided us with entertainment and some strange conversations.

Most walkers are a friendly bunch, and as they are crossing our property I always engage them in conversation, usually with a cheery “Walking far?” query. This then follows a trail as well worn as the Offas Path itself, where you from, where you going, yes it is a beautiful spot, yes we are lucky to live here, yes the dogs are big, and friendly, stick to the path, stay clear of the moor and beware the moon.

Walkers usually respond to my friendly enquiries with enthusiasm whilst their heart rate returns to normal after being given the Rock HQ welcome from some massive dogs, some are pictured above. Having been on the receiving end this canine stampede as I walk up the drive I can understand that some walkers might view the welcome as bordering on the intimidating, but they have to understand that they are in the dogs’ playground. I sometimes wonder how some of the grumpy ramblers might react if I suddenly jumped over their fence and ambled across their back garden. Probably not in the same accommodating manner as we do at the Rock.

We often get Geologists, either singularly or in groups, as we live on a pretty old rock, it being 700 million years old while the ones the other side of the valley are a mere 300 million years old. Because of this geological accident those that are interested in this fact travel miles to wander over our hill chipping bits off here and there, examining the crystals, the structure and whatever else it is they do.

More of them later.

As I said previously most walkers are a happy bunch, now and then a few grumpy ones wander through trying desperately to avoid eye contact, shoving hands into their wet anoraks so as to avoid waving at me, but as anyone who knows me will testify I am particularly hard to ignore. Most appreciate the local knowledge I pass on to them or advice on how to find the path once they get out of our yard, thus avoiding incidents like two mountain bikers stuck at the top of the cliff or wandering into the Cauldron and sinking up to your knees in bog.

One walker was particularly rude, clutching his girlfriend protectively to his chest as the Rock pack bayed its greeting. Above the din I heard him accuse me of deliberately setting the dogs on him. My response was short, sharp, too the point and heard a few miles down the track. I don’t think they enjoyed their visit and they didn’t find the path.

Unusual characters turn up, like the time a chap wandered into the yard dragging a suitcase, he was dressed for the outdoors, looking very weather beaten but still looked odd dragging a suitcase, not carrying a rucksack. Turned out he was from Wolverhampton, unemployed and on holiday. He had been told he didn’t have to sign on for a month so he had just gone for a walk, two weeks away from his home he was about ready to turn around and head back. He turned down my offer of a shower and a meal but accepted the chance to camp and use the outside tap. He really enjoyed the peace and tranquility of the Rock.

Unfortunately for him he chose to camp the weekend of our son’s party before he went to Sandhurst so he had to put up with loud music and about fifty people dressed as The Village People or similar. Still, he enjoyed a burger from the bar b que, put up with the dogs visiting his tent (the beagles stole some of his food) and stayed on for two nights.

Another chap stayed and chatted for over an hour while we potted and planted in the spring sunshine, he refused a glass of cider as he had to drive but you could see he wanted it so much it was almost painful. He left us to our task vowing to return one day and take us up on the offer of chilled dry cider.

Groups tend to be fun; a rowdy group of women went through one sunny day asking if I was Ben, they were keen to meet him as pictures of him dressed as George Michael were along the lane, remnants of another party.

Without doubt the strangest encounter was with a group of thirty or so Orthodox Jews, complete with ringtails and headgear who stumbled up the track one sunny day. Their leaders were keen to convey their competence and insisted they needed no assistance, but as they pointed to their maps I pointed out they were in my garden and looking at the wrong map. As I tried to explain where they should be and showed them which map they were on it became clear I had more chance converting them to Christianity than getting them to understand where on the planet they had just walked to.

I eventually led the group up the hill and onto the ridge and to a point they could recognise and so walk towards where they should be. During the walk curious questions were asked, what’s that, a duck, how many ducks do you have, 12, how much is one duck worth, depends what type, approximately, five pounds, good good, what’s that, a dog, how many dogs and so on. Eventually I got bored with the questioning and started to give nonsense answers, 5000 sheep, 100 pounds each, huge collective intake of breath, how much land do you own, all this, what the whole hill, yes, how much is it worth, I don’t know I inherited it, why don’t you sell it and buy somewhere nice? I bit my lip and remained a helpful guide, I began pointing out the geology but as they don’t believe the Earth is 700 million years old it fell on deaf ears.

I left them to their own devices once I was sure they knew exactly where they were and where they should be heading. Rocky was stuffed with kosher crackers and we wandered home. Later that night, around 11pm we could hear voices in the yard. I lifted the bedroom window, another group of Orthodox Jews was hopelessly lost. This time I led them to the road and insisted they phone their leaders for a lift.

Walkers also have a habit of turning up when you least expect them. Once after a days toil, covered in grime and sawdust from the chainsaw, caked in greenery from strimming back the bracken, totally filthy I decided not to change but go for a walk around the hill with the dogs and goat before it got dark I wasn’t concerned about being seen in such a state as no one in their right mind would be walking on the hill late on a Friday afternoon in the winter.

Wrong!

I bumped into a gang of walkers all of which were a tad concerned meeting me, probably on account of the way I looked, maybe it was the goat, but more likely they were concerned at the massive sheath knife on my belt. Or the machete I was carrying to clear any stray branches or gorse bush off the path. I gave them a cheery smile which I think they mistook for an insane grimace from a psychopath, have you seen any walkers on the path one of them nervously asked. Judging the impact my appearance had on them I decided to play up a bit, strangers, in these parts, don’t get many strangers round ‘ere, I exclaimed rolling my eyes. They looked nervously at each other, walking far I enquired as they turned ran back down the track. I left them and set off again wondering what tales they would tell at the hostel later. As they were running towards Mad Keith’s shack they would probably have some more close encounters with deranged locals before their day was over.

Back to the geologists.

Several times a year we meet them. Last time they were here they were gratefully climbing over our cliff and eagerly taking samples from a 45 ton rock that had landed in the garden some months before. I tried to get them to take bigger lumps of it to save me having to break it up with a jack hammer later but they were already overburdened. I also resisted the temptation to swap the rocks they already had for ones from my new rockery.

This time two of them were sliding down the hill clinging to the perimeter fence like their lives depended on it. This was probably the case and to compound their difficulties the Bernese Mountain Dogs were trying to help by sitting on any extended limb. Suitably rescued they ventured along our track to find a one armed builder stood in the rain by a mass of concrete blocks.

Walking far I cheerily enquired.

And so they told their tale. They lived in Hereford, and digging in the back garden they found a rock. On enquiry they found it was a very old rock, 700 million years old in fact. So they thought they would come and see the Mother Rock.

I looked at them and at the hill containing the massive Mother Rocks. How would they recognise the parent?

These weren’t just geologists, these were geriatric geologists. Both had to be almost as old as the rocks they studied. It crossed my mind to ask what they were doing eight foot down in their back garden. I watched the rain dripping off their noses that were red with cold, the mud all over them, and the pattern of dog paw prints on their coats and decided that I had better not delay these pensioners any longer as they still had an hour to walk to their car. They might die.

The dogs and I watched them slowly walk down the lane. It really does take all sorts.

So if you are lucky enough to come and share our hill, be prepared for the Rock HQ welcome as you enter our playground, and don’t expect to stay clean.