Its rollover week!

I did wonder what Ambrose was looking at as I wandered about the smallholding this foggy damp autumn morning. Perhaps he was mourning the loss of breakfast to the ravenous Ryelands. Or contemplating jumping into the field belonging to the militia, or, more likely, calculating the angles needed to, in goat terms, drop the nod on Montana who was busy licking the trough clean.

A sudden movement alerted me to the plight of Roxy, shes the barrel like object upside down to the left of the trough. Now it may seem callous pausing to picture her plight, but as this is Roxy the death wish sheep it seemed only right and proper to preserve for posterity her latest attempt to shuffle off her mortal coil.

Not sure how she managed this, the trough is too big to pose a trip hazard to even the clumsiest sheep, but manage she did and at the point of rescue was firmly wedged upside down in the gap between logs and food receptacle. Left to her own devices her internal organs would have crushed the air out of her lungs and her attempt to be the first of the flock to the here after would have been successful.

Thankfully her guardian angel, yours truly, was on hand to sort her out again, and once the world stopped spinning she boldly went in search of new ways of hurting herself.

Its never boring being a smallholder.

Who turned out the light?

There is a certain routine to smallholding, the usual jobs have to be done, the usual suspects fed and watered. But its never really boring. Sometimes it is a bind having to go and see to the needs of the critters before sitting down to dinner, or when the rain is horizontally washing the windows its a bit of an effort to leave the warm dry cottage and round up geese who should know better and have gone to bed in the safety of the goat house rather than sit in a wagon train style circle in the cauldron. They do this presumably so that each gets a good view of the fox choosing which one to have for supper.

So today while attending to the pigs, there I was measuring out 18kg of feed from Trixie trailer. I had left four sacks inside her, partly through running out of time on the morning I unloaded her, and partly as she is parked next to the pig pen it seems logical to leave few bags in there to save carrying feed down to the pigs and running the gauntlet of veracious Ryelands. Normal circumstances involve feeding the Ryelands first, as far as possible from all the other critters which gives a window of opportunity to navigate the smallholding without tripping over sheep with their begging bowls out.

As I filled the feed bucket unmolested by the Ryeland who had fallen for the above ploy, again, there was a sort of crump sound from the rear of the trailer, closely followed by a pitiful "MeheeeeeeeHHH!" I really would have helped Ferny Fern Fern from Ferntown had I not been rendered helpless by laughing. I also knew that if I helped her she would help herself to the pigs breakfast so I decided to be cruel to be kind, and left her too it. Fern must have a better sense of direction and keener sense of smell than I gave her credit for because as I carried on measuring the feed she, bucket still attached, tried to get a share.

A mans gotta do....

...what a mans gotta do. And as the jobs list is getting even more massive than normal for the time of year and the bracken regaining a foothold (read blanket coverage) on last years battlefield I knew that even with the increased firepower of the posh blue strimmer I was going to lose this latest skirmish unless time could be devoted to exterminating the green menace.

Introducing Steve the Assassin, who boldly went with the posh blue ( I let him use my new toy rather than old yeller, not everyone manages his quirky temperament and the electric shocks) and decimated a huge area while I sat in the sun watching. Not really, much as I would rather risk death by wasps (see sunday) and a covering of green mush I was off site doing Red Kite Fostering stuff. I did get back in time to offer encouraging words and a coffee and cookies. During the interval the Ryelands, keen to make the best of any opportunity for calorific consumption, explored pastures new and made his task more interesting by lurking in the greenery and leaving fresh lamb mines to tread in.

Off on her holidays

The local militia are on the whole a helpful bunch and put up with my amateur attempts at animal husbandry. Our paths often cross, my path tends to be a well worn boot trodden dogs at heel path whilst theirs in aboard a top of the range quad bike with collies as optional extras. Courtesies are always exchanged, weather details confirmed and sightings of lost and found sheep compared. Its useful for all concerned given there is a 500 acre wilderness behind our homes that as many eyes as possible are watching the hills for signs of trouble.

Our Ryelands fit the category with a capitol T.

Take last Wednesday for instance. A new militia man phoned Rock HQ. Some walkers had found a sheep on its back in some signs of distress. He being the first militia they contacted was duty bound to go up onto the ridge and sort out the problem. The problem being this time an extremely fat, almost ball like ewe called Roxy who has an enormous capacity for self harm and has twice been dragged from deaths door after prolonged periods spent on her back. Third time she was still lucky and the militia man took her back to his farm and fed her while he tried to find out who was mad enough to own such a daft specimen of sheep. Rene served as a transporter and the fat madam was collected from a farm some six miles away and returned to base. The militia were rewarded with a nice box of biscuits and Roxy was reunited with the rest in the yard.

Today I went for a stroll over the ridge in the early morning torrential rain, the low cloud reduced visibility to around ten yards, but it was fun and I found breakfast (more mushrooms). What I didn't find was sheep.

Back at HQ another militia phone call. Two sheep, one desperately weak had been found bearing our tags. On our way. Now one of the differences between smallholders and real farmers is that real farmers have trailers. So once again the seatless Rene was used as a sheep transporter, much to the surprise of the militia who for a few moments thought we had lost our trailer en route, satisfied that we had just lost our minds she helped lift the "exhausted" Ryeland into the back of the Rx4. This time sausages were given as a token of our appreciation. The cause of our journey across the county was immediately identified as Roxy, who has obviously caught the travel bug and is keen on sampling other farmers bed and breakfast facilities. I am hopeful this wanderlust is sorted as the rewards for the militia are worth more than the sheep!

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!

Great mysteries of smallholding

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

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

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

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

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

I puzzled for a while.

The answer?

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

Well done Holmes, another smallholder mystery solved!

Finally!

Last night was, for the time being, the last night of interrupted sleep at Rock HQ for a while as Easter has finally condescended to give birth. She delivered at 9.10 BST a strapping ram lamb called Ivor, who alongside his cousin Levi will be brought on and sold as pedigree Ryeland rams later in the year, thus ensuring Crispen has done his bit for the Queen and contributed to the gene pool of this ancient breed of sheep.

Mind you given the trouble they have caused since their arrival at Rock HQ I can see why they are unpopular amongst mainstream farmers, the single large lamb takes twice as long to mature as commercial stock and giving birth to such large lambs is an eye watering experience to watch so it must be excruciating first hand. No wonder they delayed it for as long as possible!

Easter is an extraordinary ewe, she has all the mothering instinct of a Dyson Hoover, which she is ably demonstrating in the clip above. Instead of communicating with Ivor in the low grunt sheep use solely for talking to their lambs Easter is busy stuffing her face with the fresh hay put down to make it cosy for her labour. Last year she gave birth to twins, unusual for a Ryeland, and she refused to feed them. We didn't realise this was happening until it was too late so the lambs missed out on the vital colostrum milk feed so one died and the other, Daffodil, now thinks she is a dog after being bottle fed and running with the pack instead of mixing with her own kind. She is the one in the picture a few posts below stealing the biscuits from Poppy.

Ivor is doing well despite Easters limitations and we made sure that he had a substantial feed before we left them to it to start the days chores.

Spring cleaning! The only drawback of the season as far as I am concerned! The workshop hadn't been touched since last December so was way past a clear out. Pass the broom.

Head to Head

If leaning over the stable door staring intently at sheep's naughty bits were an Olympic sport then I surely would be in 2012 team and definitely in the running for a medal. I have even taken to arming myself with a torch which is aimed with uncanny precision as soon the reluctant Mum to be presents a free shot at her bits so I can attempt to gauge when she will finally release my future lamb chops.

These two fat Ryeland sheep, Rita and Rosie are currently head to head in a race to the finishing line to give birth. I have spent another hour watching intently for signs of life, the lambs inside them are so bored at their confinement they are trying to push their way out in a homage to Ridley Scott's Alien. They are already two weeks overdue and if they don't burst in the next 24 hours they may even continue for another week as the ram will have missed their cycle last autumn.

I take heart in the fact that I am not the only one struggling with the timing of lambing this year. One of the first farmers to help us from over Painscastle way is running late and does'nt know why. Like many farming families today his wife works full time off the family farm and he contracts himself out to various bigger farms to supplement their income. Time and timing is an essential element of this sort of life. His wife took two weeks off from her job to cover lambing and they only had 12 give birth over that time. Since she went back to work they are having 12 a night! He is the only man I know at the moment who looks more tired than I do.

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!

Rampaging Ryelands

A regular reader of these pages will not be surprised by the clip here of the Ryelands spotting a free lunch and descending like locusts on a felled tree. They have voracious appetites and regularly engage in fisticuffs with other species over meal rights. Most recent examples recorded are their blatant attempts to stop the pigs getting into the trailer by filling it themselves once they spotted the bait laid to entice the pork, I mean pigs to their final destination. Last week they upped their game and took on William the Welsh Cob, a very placid and laid back chap unless you interfere with his calorie consumption, even he was driven off his food bowl as they flocked into his stable like a great woolly tsunami and refused to be driven off either by a bad tempered horse or his equally bad tempered owner.

Feeding frenzy over they focus on other pressing matters like formation pooing, this entails them taking it in turns to dump on any clean bit of path, concrete, rock or grass until a suitably slimy mess has been left which will hopefully catch their part time shepherd unawares as he approaches in the darkness of the early evening causing him to slip and launch skywards the bucket of feed destined for another species. The resulting cacophony of swearing and bucket suddenly emptying sound acts as a rallying point to the sheep lurking in the shadows.

Another favorite is for a sheep to take one for the team and lie in wait, placing themselves directly in the path of the oncoming bucket carrier. This is a high risk strategy as said bucket carrier is no light weight and by bringing him down they risk substantial crush injuries. Bucket carrier inevitably prevents total change in circumstance from vertical to horizontal by jettisoning bucket and flailing good arm in the dark to re-establish balance.

There is only one thing that distracts them from their quest for gastronomic gratification, that is the ram Crispy. This morning they were not in their usual locations waiting to cause mayhem. The gate to Crispy's field lay flat on the floor, the woolly hoarde had broken in and from the look on his face they had a wild night of it.

I expect we shall see the results next March. Time does fly on the smallholding.

Take Cover!!

Having basked for days in glorious sunshine the weather finally broke with a vengeance.

Yesterday we had to take cover from the sun it was so strong, as did our animals. Maude, one of the Ryeland lambs came back into the yard from the common and keeled over by the stables. Even to my untrained eye it was obvious something was seriously wrong. A close inspection revealed that she was infested with maggots, her back left leg was home to a mass of the crawly flesh eating fly larvae and untreated she would probably die. We were lucky she had the sense to return home as another day and she might have been a goner.

All the sheep had been treated for maggots last Friday, preventative treatment is routinely given. All were checked and clear two days ago, its best to do this especially if a period of hot weather follows a wet spell, it creates ideal conditions for the flies to lay their eggs on the backsides of the sheep, who being messy bottomed types usually have a load of pooh welded to their buttocks.

Clearly the prevention hadn't worked on Maude and she was being eaten alive by the wretched things. After a good trim with the scissors the maggots were revealed, there were hundreds of them in a writhing mass, we killed them with a mix of jeyes fluid and warm water. Once the wound was cleaned and much TLC given Maude returned to her usual self and stood in the feed bin bleating for her mother Rosie. We kept her under observation for 12 hours but in true Ryeland fashion was now more concerned about getting her stomach full than worrying about having backside like a baboon, on account we had sprayed it purple with antiseptic marker.

Happy to be reunited with her companions she is out in the rain that has just started sheltering under whats left of the trees in the lane.

The two characters lurking under the bush are Katy and Daffodil, they lie in wait and as soon as they sense the chance they will try to get in the cottage. Sheep are not stupid despite what people think. They know where its warmest and driest, but as that is where I am they are out of luck.

Total Wash Out

The last twenty four hours at Rock HQ has involved us running for cover to escape monsoon like downpours that have halted all outside jobs. Except for essential feeding and daily checks we have been confined to barracks drinking coffee and moaning about the rain.

Yesterday started off bright enough and as I basked in the early sunshine watching the sheep feeding I had hoped to get a lot done.

Tracey's brother Stuart came over, our plan was to find Mr Fox and lie in wait guns ready to eliminate the pesky critter once and for all.

A search of our grounds found a few signs that Foxy likes our garden so much he regularly crosses it. So regularly in fact he has left a trail behind the remains of the rock fall and along the base of the cliff. This means he passes the fox trap with its now rancid bunny offerings and has the good sense not to venture inside. Meantime we are regularly catching collies and beagles who seem to have turned make their owner climb to the base of the cliff to let me out of the cage into a competition. I did see a buzzard in the tree above the trap and I am convinced it got in and helped itself to a free rabbit dinner. There are dozens of birds of prey around Rock HQ including Buzzards, Red Kites and Peregrine Falcons. Any pigeons in these parts are either lost or very fast fliers.

We searched the hill around the cottage and found amongst the bracken a den used by the fox worryingly close to the chicken coup. I had found it a while ago, while I was dragging Meg back to the track in Sheep Rescue 2, a previous post, but I thought the hole was just a large rabbit hole. Stuart pointed out the tell tale marks of fox habitation which included dollops of fox pooh. This has a magical quality and attracts dogs like moths to a flame. They go into raptures when they find a piece and while Stuart and I discussed the merits of sitting around this hole for twelve hours, arcs of fire, where to pitch the tent, the possibility of hikers straying into the killing fields and so on, my beautiful prize winning show stopping Bernese Mountain Dog, Rocky, took the opportunity to make himself utterly irresistible and coated himself in the foul smelling muck. Suitably streaked in excrement he bounded off to share the wonderful smell he had found with the rest of the pack.

As we wandered back along the lane the first signs of bad weather closing in could be seen. Across the valley hills were disappearing into a grey haze as falling rain began to reduce visibility. The Oracle was making his way along a hedge line way below us, he had seen the rain too. He shouted and waved, we did the same. Seeing him so active eliminated him from the likely suspects on the missing old man list the emergency services were looking for last night.

The rain began.

Trapped indoors with a huge jobs list to complete outdoors is not conducive to good humour. So I busied myself reading up on how to keep cows in the ultimate smallholders how to guide produced by John Seymor. The bull pictured above is not the type recommended for a smallholder, its a Belgian Blue, I think. The farmer closest to us has just turned the beast out. It has massive steaks on its backside, you can see them bulging out. They might produce huge amounts of meat but its pretty tasteless. I heard one food critic say it was like chewing your tongue eating one of those steaks. I am going to stick to Dexters who produce exceptional meat and small joints. When I raise the cash.

I also made some blackcurrant jam as this year we beat the birds to the fruit and the first pick gave us enough for four jars of jam. Making jam is so easy, everyone should try it. I just boil in a bit of water whatever fruit I want as jam and then add pound for pound the same amount of sugar as fruit. Boil for ten minutes, allow to cool a bit and pour into hot jars. How easy is that. Last year as jam novices we made 60 jars of jam, mostly from our own raspberries, logan berries, strawberries and plums. The only disaster we had was when I over cooked a blackberry and apple concoction, it turned almost toffee like, and a plum jam which didn't set as I hadn't left any stones in. Reboiled with some stones in a cloth bag it set nicely. So no excuses make some jam!

When the rain eased a bit Stuart and I attempted to get the van started. I had on impulse bought a new battery for it thinking that with a new battery it was bound to start. It might of, had I not left it at the end of the lane uncared for for 8 months. New battery fitted it showed signs of life but when the key was turned nothing happened. Just to spite me the van's immobiliser decided to work and every twenty seconds the alarm went off. How do I know its spite? Well I didn't even know the van had an immobiliser, we drove it twelve months and had never known of its existence. We used the van for all sorts of jobs, including driving to work which caused a great deal of amusement in my staff team that their most senior manager drove a white Toyota van full of straw to work instead of the nice shiney V6MGZT 190 he used to have.

You see smallholding does change you.

Anyway after several hours of pointless fiddling with the vans inner workings Stuart declared the Toyota's condition terminal. As if to emphasize the death of the Toyota it rained harder still. We took shelter in the cottage once again.

It was obvious that sitting out with guns would be a pointless exercise. The downpour was so great even our Ryelands took cover in the sheep shelter for the first time since we built it a year ago. No one in their right mind would be out in that deluge.

So the Fox had a reprieve and we had a beer.

Shear Fun!!

Finally the our tame shearer arrived and as so often happens when we have a big job to do outside the weather changed from bright sunshine to gales and torrential rain. Luckily for us and the sheep we have the stables so Trevor's stable became the shearing shed. As I had not wanted to run the risk of not being able to find our sheep when the time came for shearing I had got them trapped in the stable so they were nice a dry. Wet sheep are almost impossible to get the wool off so forward planning saved the day. A couple of surprises, Rosie is still producing milk, even though she has not fed her lamb for over a month. This may mean that one of the other sheep has started to feed off her, which is weird, or she is feeding herself, which is weirder. And then there is Ebony, the before and after pics say it all.

Its not often you feel like you have got your own back on your animals for all the bother they cause, but this is definitely one of those times.
The fleece will be used as insulation, if we tried to sell it we would probably have to pay someone to take it away. A farmer local to us sold 290 fleece for £100 the other day. It cost more to take them from the sheep and transport them.

Low maintenance sheep

A busy day at Rock HQ on the sheep front.

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

And we waited.

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

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

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

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

And we waited.

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

Apart from that list sheep are low maintenance.

Honest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Fathers Day.

Poppy's last stand

Here we can see Poppy our heroic Golden Retriever mounting a last stand defence of the dog food bins. Totally outnumbered she battles on against an enemy that seeks to overwhelm her position. Despite there being no chance of reinforcements she bravely battles tries to stop the enemy stealing the food. Agianst such numbers it is a lost cause.

This clip illustrates yesterdays post very well, the marauding gang of Ryelands stealing all the food once again.

Why Ryelands?

One of the many reasons why we chose Ryeland sheep over the other breeds was that they look cute. This overrode all other considerations when choosing what animal would provide us with an abundance of lamb chops for the rest of our lives.

We first saw them at the Three Counties Show, a fantastic event where those that do and those that want to farm get to mingle with farmers and farm animals of all shapes and sizes. When we were in the sheep shed we were drawn to the Ryeland as the lambs looked so appealing. As you can see from the picture Daffodil looks very very tasty, I mean appealing.

Even Mad Keith our hermit felt compelled to leap out of the bushes one day and grab my arm as I was passing to enquire what sort our sheep were. He had never seen any sheep like them, “The lambs look just like Teddy Bears!” he shouted as I prised his fingers from my arm and ran away down the track.

Having sheep that produce bear like offspring is hardly a basis for a flock I know but luckily for us they are the ideal smallholders sheep as they are good natured, easily tamed, small and not prone to illness or complications. Well that’s what the “How To Keep Sheep” book says but as stated in previous episodes most “How to….” books are written by experts whose grip on reality is not as firm as it might be. The book glosses over peculiarities of the Ryeland, in fact it minimises all problems regarding shepherding.

Ryelands are without doubt great sheep, the breed is an old one, thought to date back to Roman times, its hardy, able to forage for food and can thrive on poor pasture. They have a habit of producing one lamb a year which matures slowly and the meat is excellent whilst the wool is one of the finest fleeces known to sheepkind. It was renowned for its wool and it used to be referred to as Lemster Ore, due to the high prices the fleece would fetch at a local market. In a nutshell that’s what the book will tell you about the breed.

What they don’t tell you is that the term flock can be better described by the word Gang, and that they are incredibly greedy sheep who are driven by their desire to eat and whilst they can thrive on poor pasture they do that when there are no other options. For example, as a gang they wait round corners of outbuildings in the early hours of the morning watching for their part time shepherd carrying buckets of feed. They then have two choices, either mug their ever so patient owner, or let the goats get him while they run around the back of the building and rush to food store in the hope that he has forgotten to bolt the door thus leaving sacks of grain and sheep nuts unguarded and ripe for plunder. Should that fail they can always fall back on plan B where they run over to the chickens and lick up their corn scattered in all directions by the shepherd as he tries to beat off the goats.

By ignoring the goat human melee they add to their calorific consumption but once the majority of the grain has been hoovered up, or once they get bored of having geese angrily hanging onto their ears the flock moves stealthily over to the dog food bin. Here they find Poppy valiantly defending said bin. A semi circle of menacing wool forms around the hapless Golden Retriever and very slowly with menace aforethought they close in. Knowing full well her limitations the dog bows out gracefully and rushes over to mount a rear guard action defending her owner from the goats. If the sheep are lucky they get a few mouthfuls of dog munchies before they are driven off by a quick reaction force of owner and the braver members of the magnificent seven. If luck is not on their side they find the top of the bin is locked down and they have to turn elsewhere for sustenance.

Despite the fact the one of the goats is armed one or two Ryeland’s push their luck trying to get a mouthful out of the buckets containing the goats breakfasts. Wincing from the pain of fresh puncture wounds the Ryeland’s regroup for one final assault as they catch sight of the hay being carried to replenish the empty hay holder in the stables. The taller ones have a genetic advantage here but pressure of numbers may cause a wad of hay to be dropped and they will then carry the tightly packed bundle of dried grass away in triumph and devour it enmasse like a pack of hyenas around carrion.

This doesn’t happen every morning, just most mornings.

Having exhausted all avenues of supplementing their breakfasts they amble off down the lane and plan their next raids or they find somewhere comfortable to sleep off their huge meal. Here they also have a choice of where to rest their bloated stomachs. Current favourites include the doorstep, the concrete step outside the stable, a dog bed put out for the goat, and yesterday one even managed to get onto the swinging chair and fall asleep on the soft cushions.

I shall have my revenge, this weekend we shear them.

Scaling new heights!

This is the cliff at the back of the house, for some reason it attracts our animals. Maybe they view it as a challenge, they have to climb it because its there, or maybe the grass really is so much tastier if you risk life and limb to get it. Perhaps they just forget that the grass below is just as green. Could it be that there is some sort of dangerous grass club that they have to initiate themselves into.

Whatever the reason they keep doing it. Here is Sandy, a Ryeland lamb, about 8 weeks old beginning his epic assault on the west face of the Rock. He is a free climber, no ropes, no technical aids, just a bit of chalk dust on his hooves and away he goes. he bleats in the face of danger.

Faith the Gordon Setter takes a few moments to persuade him down but Sandy is made of sterner stuff, he will achieve his dream to top out at Rock HQ. Should he fail he will make an interesting pattern on the rocks and a very tasty kebab.

Pass the chili sauce someone.

That was the week that was...

It has been a great week at Rock HQ. We have made so much progress and done so many interesting things it’s hard to imagine how we crammed it all into just seven days.

The week started with us taking cover from the appalling weather and fretting about getting the garden fenced to stop the goat et al getting in. Yesterday the final piece of the puzzle was put in place in the shape of a six by three gate we built. We can now plant out the seedlings and plants that are taking over the greenhouses and we should get a lot of veggies later in the year. This year we have focused on staple stuff like potato, onions, courgettes, squash, and greens like cabbage, cauliflowers, and sprouts and so on. Last year we went a bit mad and planted eight types of melon and four types of cucumber and didn’t get anything worth eating. Mind you the garden project was hampered by rampaging goats that ate anything that looked remotely edible and then gardening stopped 24-9-08 when I had my fall.

The fence and gate even look good, mostly; there is a patch behind the stable that looks a bit dodgy but as long as it does the job its fine by me.

The sheep have all been tagged; a major job involving lots of paperwork, each sheep must have two tags, one in each ear, with our flock number and a unique identity number for the sheep. So Crispen our pedigree Ryeland Ram is obviously number one, whereas April the nutter Suffolk is tagged thirteen. The actual tagging didn’t take too long and the sheep are now all legal, able to travel without fear of arrest for no I.D.

The sheep have been released onto the common land now to eat the new grass and give our fields a rest, so hopefully they wont get into too much mischief, but you might have seen already Meg got herself into a spot of bother late yesterday evening on the cliff, more of that in a separate post, I need counselling to get over the post traumatic stress before I write that episode of smallholding up.

The lambs are tagged and on the garden, the grassy bits anyway. We are trying to get Katy and Daffodil to realise they are sheep and mix with their own kind but they have a panic attack if they cant see Tracey or a Berner and insist on pushing past anyone entering the cottage and jumping onto the sofas in the conservatory where they stay until a heartless cruel owner kicks them out.

We have also had a week where visitors have made the hazardous journey along our track and spend time with us. Three extra Bernese Mountain Dogs came to stay for half of the week. Most surprising though was a visit from Peter and Jane who travelled from Rugby to visit Rock HQ.

Now I have known Peter for years through the Navy, we both do our bit for the Queen every year and mess about on the water around Portsmouth teaching Cadets to sail. Well he teaches. We are very different in many ways, not least of which our sailing styles, he is more of a Russell Crowe in a Master and Commander role, whereas I am more of the Mickey Mouse in The Sorcerers Apprentice in my attempt to navigate the sea lanes. Now I am a fantastic rescue coxswain, give me a boat with a motor in it and I can perform manoeuvres James Bond would be proud of, but give me something with sails and I am in trouble unless Peter is around. My introduction to sailing was not entirely without incident, the Navy discovered one of its officers had no boat time so sent me on a variety of courses one summer. The sailing course had to be passed to get onto the rescue boat course. Getting off the train at Plymouth and finding I should be in Portsmouth was not the best start and I managed to make it to the ship just as the briefing was ending for the instructors and crew. As I had missed the introductions I didn’t know what the level of experience was of those seated in the room, when asked to tell the group what sailing I had done I gave a completely fictitious answer. The fact that I had only done four hours sailing on a windsurfer was glossed over and the room nodded approvingly as I dropped in a few nautical terms to talk myself up.

Probably went a bit far as next morning I was the only crew member given their boat in a box and told to assemble it. I then sailed the thing around a course and was relieved to be towed back to harbour without capsizing it. The rescue crew were wetting themselves laughing as I was summonsed to the commandant’s office. Apparently I had been sat in the boat facing the wrong way and sailed it for three hours backwards. The Navy is not keen on its best racing boats being abused in such a manner and I was lucky not to be kicked off the course, but as the commander said after yelling at me about never having sailed before “Sailing that backwards shows some talent, you can stay, but don’t expect to pass the course”

So for the last twelve or so years Peter and I have met up on HMS Bristol and messed around in boats, and despite our different personalities we get on really well. Whenever we go on the water I pay close attention to what Peter’s boat is doing and point mine in the same direction and pray I don’t sink it. So as I was not going to be there this year they came to see us at the Rock.

Jane and Peter loved Rock HQ, and most of the inhabitants. Trevor, the shitland pony, disgraced himself again by deciding that Peter was inedible therefore he had to try and shag him. This surprised Peter as he was trying to take a photo of Rock HQ at the time and Trevor managed to sneak up on him.

After a guided tour and tea and cakes they left, leaving me with a model sailing boat as reminder of what Peter will be doing without his shadow this year.

I have also had my operation which went well and some of the metal has gone from my arm. We worked at our paid jobs, finally did some gardening and last night relaxed and had a bar b queue. So a very full, varied and busy week, even by our standards.

And today is going to be a good day.

How do I know?

Our piglets arrive today! The barns been cleared and made ready for its new inhabitants and as I type this Steve the Stable Sprite is manfully wrestling pigs into his van to deliver them to their new home.

I love smallholding at Rock HQ.

Global Warming

As you can see from the video clip Global Warming has yet to arrive in our valley. It has rained almost constantly since last Saturday night making life for the smallholder difficult and life for the animals miserable. Most of them are sensible enough to take shelter except for the Ryelands who seem to view taking shelter from the elements as a sign of weakness so stay out all weathers. Since being here we have dug them out of snow, watched them spray gallons of water from their fleece as they shake like dogs to dry themselves and heard the ice crack as they run to the trough when its been so cold their wool has frozen solid.

Ryeland have only one concern in life, that's where is their dinner.

Its been a good month for us at Rock HQ, and the blog readership is growing, twice as many as last month and in 32 different countries. Even Norway has joined in, cheers George, keep reading in between kayaking trips.