While you were out

I've often wondered what it must be like to have one of these makeover programs descend and rearrange key features of your house. The hassle of a major DIY gone in an instant. The plan to get little t's room sorted last weekend delayed by my having to replace a vandalised toilet was further delayed by a massive sense of humour failure after I found the idiot proof flooring was not going down as planned. As almost every home I go to has this type of flooring seamlessly laid I was perplexed at my ineptitude. The painting had gone well, record time, in between two six nations matches, fantastic. The floor was another matter.

Stable Sprite, the genius with wood, loather of laminate flooring came over to view my attempt and to offer words of advice other than burn it. Had I read the instructions? he enquired. Well not wanting to break the habit of a lifetime, no, not exactly. My desk is liberally coated with instruction books and leaflets waiting my perusal. I am an experiential learner. I shook my head. Stable Sprite muttered an incantation that included a word that suspiciously sounded like Dickhead as he prodded the panels already laid on the floor. The cause of the failure to lay the floor properly was due to my interpreting the lay, click and lock as lie on floor next to each other. This explained the extraordinary movement and irregular spacing achieved.

Stable Sprite looked at the assorted doorways, pipework and other fiddly bits. He then looked at my toothless hacksaw, bent pliers and hand axe. Do you want me to do it for you?

And so it was that Stable Sprite came to Rock HQ while I was out righting wrongs, and manfully wrestled the flooring into place. And this is how I found it. Perfect. Thank you Stable Sprite.

Piggin rushing about

I didn't have the camera with me, unusual I know, so there are no pictures of last nights escapades with Hetty the love sick bovine. She escaped Rock HQ a few weeks ago and was ravished by a Belgian Blue Bull. It was her own fault and she jumped three fences and terrorised a hundred sheep before she managed to get in a position where he could have his wicked way.

Three days ago she jumped in with the Berkshire pigs Morgana and Guinevere and seemed happy enough, but given her capacity for show jumping we thought is good idea that she should be shut inside for her own safety while the time to bull passes. It was going to be very straightforward, Hetty would follow the bucket of extremely appetising feed up the lane to the small enclosure at the back of the kennels, and as I had Stable Sprite and his apprentice Gremlin as extra cowhands what could possibly go wrong.

Well as it took over an hour, we covered several miles, got The Oracle involved and ended up cornering the beast (cow not the Oracle) in the garden of the Ghost House under the watchful eye (only one) of the Witch who lives there (don't look back) quite a lot in reality. Thankfully with my careful management and Gremlins unbounded enthusiasm we got Hetty safely indoors, the Berkshires back in the pen and the Ryelands out of the conservatory. As Stable Sprite said as he fired up his aging magic white chariot, its never easy, but then again why would I want it to be. What else is there to do? Watch Telly?

Prime pork

I spent ages last night holding the trotter of Pam the Mangalitza while she potched around the stable, building a huge mound of straw, demolishing the huge ound of straw, building it back up again, knocking it down, turning over the water trough, rooting up the rubber mats that make the concrete extra cosy. In all she was a pain, moithering around and giving every sign that the end was nigh. Surely, I thought, tonight must be the night.

So as I dozed leaning on the five bar gate at the entrance of the stable I toyed with the idea of going to bed, but Pam would do something more convincing that piglets were about to pop out so I endured the lack of sleep until 12.30 am. Pam settled, nothing was happening. I crept indoors and grabbed an hours kip fully clothed on the sofa. 1.30 am I was back at the gate, Pam was doing her build it up knock it down routines. Disappointed I went back to the sofa, dismissing the idea of getting the sun lounger and sleeping in the stable doorway as going a bit too far.

2.45 am excitement as I found Pam doing something different, she had got her snout through the handle of her feed bowl and was really rather cross. Then she began pawing the ground and making funny noises. This must be it. 3.30 am I was about to give in and she lay down and began grunting, legs going like she was riding an invisible porcine bike. Nil pork delivered despite maximim revolutions. 4am I gave in and went to bed bed. 5.45 am back on duty, curses, still no new additions. So I dawdled through my normal routine hoping to see some action before setting off across the mountains to work in the valley that time forgot. I left at 6.30. Sat at my desk by 8am.

8.05 a phone call from Tracey, my beautiful and oh so patient wife. Guess what has just arrived while you were driving. So after all that I missed the birth of the lil pigs, but the wait was worth it, six lovely little piglets, 2 girls 4 boys. Stable Sprite flew over to reassure all that Pam had finished and all was well. I got home early evening and got my first hands on with our new rare breeds. As I drove back excited at the prospect of meeting the newbies I recalled a bit of advice from one of the local militia, a veteran pig keepers daughter told us that the bestest ever advice her dad had given her about a farrowing sow was to just let them get on with it. Presumably he would advise a pig keeper to sleep as well.

I want that one!

First catch you piglet. Easier said than done a they wriggle like demented snakes and squeal like air raid sirens. Luckily for us we had Safe Hands Stable Sprite on the case who showboated his technique, giving us a lesson in biology, er that ones a boy, and than picking up the specimen piglet we want to bring back to Rock HQ to be the start of our next what could possible go wrong enterprise, rearing pigs. This will probably translate into lets chase piglets across the common at midnight, but where we let our selves down in experience we will make up for in enthusiasm, and if we have any problems we can always give Safe Hands a call.

How high?

My beautiful and oh so patient wife Tracey told me to take it easy today, it being a very hot day and me wanting to take on the ever increasing green menace with the mk2 strimmer. Now the strimmer is old, and excellent for strimming the usual garden. Taking on acres of bracken its a bit out of its depth. The poor thing dreams of gently trimming the edges of lawns, getting up close to larch lap fencing would be a joy for it, and levelling the soft green grass under rose bushes would have it in raptures. Here its pitted in a life or death struggle with brambles, rock, vertical slopes, thistles, foxgloves, nettles, gorse bushes and an endless supply of Bracken. Each year it threatens to quit, each year its gently persuaded to comply with promises of lush pastures to frolic in if only the Bracken could be eliminated.
This week it seemed it would finally give up. I was at the far end of the Cauldron, surrounded on all sides by six foot high stems, we were desperately seeking a way back to the path, the strimmer creating a vortex of green slushy bits around me when it spluttered and stalled. Before the plants could rally and launch a counter attack I started the stricken strimmer again but in doing so the pull cord broke off. I nursed the machine back to the cottage knowing that this time if it stopped that was it.
A few days passed.
I looked at new strimmers.
The money tree shrivelled at the thought, and anyway its only a broken string so its a fixer upper. To its dismay I took it apart. I dropped most of its bits on the floor. The finely machined smooth bored bits like the carburettor I dropped carefully in the sand. My expert toolkit of a broken pair of scissors and a drill managed to get right into the heart of the machine. I found the broken string and re routed it. I put it back together. I took it apart again and this time wound the string up tight before I put it back together.
I pulled the short string, it refused to start. Now this strimmer has had major surgery before and the switches and accelerator don't work, it is in fact a motor on a pole held together with yellow gaffa tape. The electrics melted last year but a quick fix with lawn mower cable and sticky tape sorted that one.
Not starting was a problem. I left it overnight and hoped the fixit fairies would put the large spring back I found on the floor, perhaps it was a vital bit, who knows?
First thing in the morning I pulled the string. It started. Great!
Helmet and armour on off I go to do battle, yes I will take it easy.
Now as I cleared acre after acre a slight defect arose.
Anyone ever played those drinking games where you get an electric shock?
For some reason the strimmer went live, and as I was sweating and my hand became wet the jolting from the 12volts in the handle at first was a tad annoying, them became a trifle painful, eventually becoming a man test. I was not going to be beaten. So I carried on, fighting the live strimmer and the green stuff.
The picture above illustrates two things.
Firstly that the tide is turning, the Bracken is being beaten back from the perimeter.
The second is that it marks the spot where I was launched skywards in the style of a Harrier jump jet, not by an electric shock, no, much worse than that. After hours of toiling up and down the bonsai mountain fighting plant and machine I eventually got back on the track and was heading home for a cold one.
I had earned it.
Massively so.
I was almost delirious, lost in my own world of electric shocks, broken leaves and a howling two stroke.
So lost was I that I failed to hear Stable Sprite sneak up on me in his gleaming white chariot, getting close enough to touch me. To alert me of his presence he activated the air horn. Luckily for me the strimmer's power output was sufficient to bump start my stopped heart and how we laughed when I landed. Still, I cannot complain, he magically lifted the oak and granite kitchen unit out of Rene for us, he likes to help. A special thank you goes to our friends down under, see the link on the margin and go and visit their smallholding in Adelaide. Simon and Kathy spent far too much of their very precious time repairing the TFTR site, so if it looks better than it did before its down to them being the fixit fairies. Many thanks you two.

Happier days

A problem with smallholding is animals. As the title suggests, smallholding, small scale, small numbers of animals meaning big relationships with them. They achieve pet status quite quickly, and no matter how hard you try not to you do get close to them, especially an animal like a pig. This is Thea, a lovely Berkshire sow, mother to many a piglet who became producer of masses of roast pork dinners, tasty sausage and the best bacon.

She belonged to Stable Sprite until today. Past tense now as she got ill not long after this video and despite masses of TLC, the best medical intervention and lots of hope she refused to get better. Unable to walk it was clear she couldn't continue and poor Stable Sprite had to make the decision to have her put down. Some animals leave a very big hole.

What you looking at?

As a special treat today Stable Sprite took me to a pig keepers course run by the Pig Breeders Association or some such umbrella body. It was a marvelous opportunity to meet other smallholders and swap exciting stories about pigs while drinking fairtrade coffee, eating organic ginger biscuits and knitting tofu.
Ok. I am a smallholder. Its a fact. But I am a certain type of smallholder. The type who shudders when they meet the beardy sandal kaftan wearing rare breed saving types. I keep rare breeds alive by eating a lot of them. It got off to a tricky start today when a really enthusiastic bearded smallholder bounced up and demanded what type of pig I kept and were they for showing or breeding. I obviously misheard her and replied "Eating" which ended the conversation and she moved on.
There were some normal types there, the majority were called Steve and one Steve told a tale of how two Tamworth pigs decided not to get into the trailer like they were supposed to and decided to escape by going under the Daihatsu jeep which they flipped onto its side. Boar pigs fully grown can weigh over 50 stone, that's a lot of frustrated sausages that can be incredibly strong and aggressive.

Now on the whole the course was fascinating, and I learned a lot. One thing I learned was that pigs don't squeal like they are being murdered when picked up by their back legs. I also noted pig breeders use eye candy to attract potential buyers, like car manufacturers who adorn their latest models with scantily clad women, and that most of the male smallholders present today paid particular attention to one of the guest speakers glamorous assistant rather than the finer points of fat stock selection. It was amazing how many men suddenly took an interest in photography every time she showed a pig and when the demonstration of how to oil a pig began Stable Sprite and I were nearly killed in the sudden stampede as beardy sandal wearers rushed to get a good vantage point and several of the older smallholders had to be taken away for compulsory cold showers and a lie down in a darkened room.

Seeing a pig breeding system in operation start to finish (the tiny one that has escaped in the picture somewhere below is the start while the sleeping pigs above are the finish as they are due for slaughter tomorrow) was very helpful and elements will be employed here at Rock HQ.
Stable Sprite bought this mighty fine boar and a lovely maiden gilt from one of the top Berkshire breeders in the country. He was very happy with his purchase.
Me, I bought the most revolting sausage and chips for lunch ever, really if you are going to supply food to potential and pig breeders you should think a bit further than the pink sausage from Asda. But I was very happy. Mostly because I found that on a farm show casing the best of pig breeding in the country they use baler twine to keep the gates shut. Just like me.

Today Is Saturday Watch And Smile

It is such fun living here, really, no matter what happens to the outside world there is always something going on here to raise a smile, and today was a real tiswas day. The two clips of video show a couple of major things that happened. We played lumberjacks bringing down a spindly Ash tree that would eventually pose a bit of a hazard to the smalls, Trevor and Misty, one tree down, two to go. We gave the wood away as a belated Christmas gift to some friends. In return they gave us some marmalade, chutney and some eggs. To find out what happened to the eggs click on the Dolyhir link in the margin, a warning, its not for the squeamish. The tree was chopped up in double quick time, I refused to dress like I was in an audition for The Village People, Steve (another one ) was seemingly quite comfortable dressed this way and once he stopped frightening the ponies all was well.

We had two bales of Haylege delivered, it cost 50% more but at least they got here without any effort on our part, were placed exactly where we wanted them so posed no threat to man or beast and still they were 50% cheaper than feeding the hoofed beasts hay. Speaking of which the grass must be coming through as our Ryelands have started to venture out of the yard which on the the one hand is a good thing as it reduces the trip hazards and mess in the yard, on the other they might get the travel bug again and disappear.

On top of these jobs we got the trailer repaired, Trixie's jockey wheel collapsed after the pig run so a nice new shiny wheel and jack had to be fitted. As Trixie was over the at the Hall of the Stable Sprite we got to see him and his family who were sat quietly discussing the laws of quantum whilst cooperatively making a 5000 piece jigsaw puzzle of The Haywain, we felt bad disturbing their tranquil morning with our idle chatter but they didn't seem to mind.

Nessa and Stacey were less entertaining than the Sprite's clan and can only just be seen in the ark. The only reason you can see them is that they have kicked the back out of the ark, Stable Sprite said he didn't mind having to fix it, it would give him something to do as he was sick of puzzles.

In all a very busy day what with the usual routine, moving the felled tree, putting up the last wire panel on the new chicken run, turning two cockerels into coq au vin ingredients, making appreciative noises while someone else spent an hour of his valuable time sharpening my chainsaw, sawing a pile of wood in the lane, a training session for the BBMT and picking up all the rubbish from the black bin bag the Ryelands had savaged in search of sheep treats. A real tiswas.

Missing Chickens and Giant Hamsters!

This is Apollo in his summer coat relaxing at HQ. He is now in a field causing havoc, covered in mud and jumping fences to get to other horses to play piggy back, the sooner he is done the sooner order will be restored and we can all relax.

Any ideas about finishing the concreting were washed away in yet another downpour. I did manage to get a ton down yesterday despite the best efforts of the frost and then more rain. A two hour window late afternoon meant I finally got round to laying the slab in front of the back stable which has the much sought after "sort of" finish. This means its sort of flat and sort of smooth, all hopes of getting a perfect finish were thwarted by a combination of incompetence and a chicken who decided to try and fly over the newly laid wet stuff in an attempt to reach its perch. As chickens are to flying as fish are to bicycles it fell short of its target and had to be rescued before it became a novelty feature.

Part of the day involved taking the Stable Sprite to get his lambs. A quick trip over to the abattoir and the rewards of his hard labour were safely stowed in the glove box of the car. This was a bit of a disappointment to Stable Sprite who had thought of hiring an articulated lorry with freezer attachments to transport the meat back to his kingdom and who had scoffed at the idea that it would all fit in the boot of Ben's Peugeot. On the subject of which I have almost kept my promise to look after it and not transport animals or their foodstuffs inside the ultra clean car. I am sure he meant live animals so four dead ones don't count, and he completely failed to mention don't carry fencing posts and all the gubbins needed to build a chicken Alcatraz. Talking of chickens, like Stable Sprite and I were on the way to collect the sheep meat I was making the usual death threats to Mr Fox who had by my reckoning had five chickens this week. Shutting the birds away last night we were missing four brown ones and one white. Tracey is very keen that her birds are not on the menu for Mr Fox and a fun time was had searching the hill for the birds or their remains. It was only as I recounted this tale to Stable Sprite that I in fact knew exactly where the missing birds were all the time having been the one who had shut them in the back stable just before laying the concrete in front of it.

Back to the minuscule meat portions. Sheep are easily recognisable mainly I would hazard to suggest by their thick woolly fleece. When they are departed of this world the mortal remains are devoid of wool and therefore look, how shall we put this, a bit smaller than when last bleating. Stable Sprites lambs were small fully clothed. Naked and split in two they looked like giant rats. NO, rats are bigger and have tails, they looked like giant hamsters. He had hoped to cut each leg into three pieces he muttered casting an eye over the tiny rodent like carcasses. Well you still can I happily pointed out, bite sized.

The fox sat where?

Poppy making sure she gets a good coating of the latest offering from the fox.

A good day at Rock HQ despite a frighteningly early start. Famous last words last night as my head hit the pillow were along the lines of not having to get up early. Tracey, who is so organised quietly reminded me that The Stable Sprites white chariot is kaput, broken sump meant the engine melted so I had remembered I had volunteered mine and Rene's services to get his lambs to the slaughterhouse.

The first of December was heralded by a severe frost and it took as long to defrost Rene as it did to drive over and collect the sheep. Seeing the sun rise in spectacular technicolour over our hill from Stable Sprites kingdom almost made up for getting kicked where real men should never be kicked four times in quick succession by an ungrateful Welsh Cross sheep that I was carrying to its freedom from the trailer, Stable Sprite having spared its life as it was "pretty". It does get lonely up in these hills but hearing him describe a potential food source as pretty was a mite disconcerting.

The abattoir was its usual chaotic cheerfulness of surly smallholders eagerly pushing in the queue and dropping off their pride and joys to be transformed from the wife's pets to choice cutlets. For some reason whenever we are there the rest of the world assumes mine and Stable Sprites role is to guide trailers to the pens, unload the live cargo's and move the nervous smallholder away from the pens sobbing as wickle fwuffy wamb skips off to buy the celestial pasture.

I also intervened in a fracas between Steve (uncanny) who has to be the tallest slaughter man ever and Steve (really) who was a very irate smallholder who's sheep were not given permission to unload as they were too scruffy. All the other pens had nice clean sheep who looked like they had been to the salon for a wash and blow dry. His looked like, well, sheep. The type that you see in a field, especially in winter. However, these are not the sheep abattoirs accept, oh no, they have to be the cut and blow dried types or the slaughter men get cross as the mud clashes with the blood on their aprons. Steve, who had not thought to take his sheep to the salon was sent off by Steve who incidentally had a huge knife and its a golden rule of mine that you always side with the one carrying weapons.

As Stable Sprite reversed his trailer in I was interrogated as to the cleanliness of the beasts therein. I was sure they were clean and tidy, might not have the neat trimmed backsides and tummies of the others awaiting their fates but Stable Sprite looks after his animals well. He had also put them in a nice straw lined trailer overnight. We all held our breath (men, sprites and sheep, the sheep especially at the sudden appearance a giant armed with a razor sharp blade) as the tall knife wielding sheep inspector applied his mark one wet n muddy detector, a hand (his own, he was strange but not that strange), and judged that the sheep were OK. Cold but OK. We breathed a sigh of relief, except the sheep who realised a bit too late that in their case cleanliness really was going to be next to Godliness.

We left them with the knife man. Tomorrow they will be very cold. But soon warmed up in the Rayburn.

The missing link

Dinner last night at Rock HQ was an unexpectedly spartan affair and unusually a totally vegetarian meal. We were anticipating a feast of hot dogs from our own sausages and had stocked up on rolls and onions especially. The Technohermit was given a nice roast pork dinner but we favoured the Rock HQ fast food as an option for a change. The primary ingredient, the sausage was to be collected by the Stable Sprite from the butchers where he was having two of his massive boars done as bacon and sausage. Stable Sprite is immensely proud of his big boars and loves to tell everyone how they were itty bitty bottle fed runts who were at deaths door had he not fed them every 15 seconds and kept them warm with his own body heat. Somehow these wretched little specimens managed to survive their deprivations of piglethood and were now transformed into an abundance of rashers and 200 pound of sausage. We knew this because Stable Sprite sent us a text gleefully explaining he was now inundated with pork filled tubes. He had so many in fact that the butchers had bought some off him. The springs on his van were threatening to break he had so many stacked in the back. If you wanted sausage he was your Sprite.
Happily we waited for his arrival. It was getting late. No worries, he would probably drop them off when he took his apprentice gremlin to football practice. The clock ticked. We waited. Time passed hungrily. No sign of the Stable Sprite or his gleaming white chariot stuffed with pork treats.
Finally, just before we passed out with hunger I decided to cook the onions and we had bread rolls filled with onions livened up with brown sauce.
I sent a text, a gentle enquiry as to the whereabouts of the missing links, perhaps he had been struck down ill, or his van was upside down in a ditch the wheels spinning aimlessly as he hung in his seat belt awaiting rescue, or bandits had hijacked him after his prize sausage, all manner of things could have befallen the poor Stable Sprite. Should we phone the Police, what would we tell them, that we suspected someone had been secretly coveting his sausage and he was in extreme peril. Anxiously we waited.
A text. Finally the answer to our enforced vegetarianism.

Sorry, I forgot to get your sausages.

Tea for two

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The kettles on" I showed him to a chair

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

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

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

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

Saving space

Heres a clip of the very happy pigs at Rock HQ stuffing in all the apples and plums they can.

Another busy night here at Rock HQ after last nights partying. I fetched 50 bales of hay from another smallholder who has something we are short of, namely fields. She managed to make 200 bales excess to requirements as her motley crew of ponies and sheep have lush grass to eat all year. Our equally motley crew have short mountain grass or mud to choose from so we are always supplimenting their menu with dried feed and hay.

Storage space is at a premium here, the old barn is not really a good place to put the hay on account its flooded. So I was going to put the bales in the one half of the stables because our boys are turned out at the moment. But I cant do that as the chickens and chicks are currently being kept safe in there from the ravages of the foxes and wont be moved until the chicken run is built. But that job is way down the list as the felled trees need chainsawing up with the chainsaw we have been lent. Mind you, equally pressing is the need to get the concreting done while we have the borrowed mixer, to be able to continue the new build a box has to be built to construct a concrete pad onto which the rest of the blocks can be placed, thus allowing the roof to be put on.

Theres no way I can build a good enough box so the carpentry skills of the Stable Sprite has been requested. But he cant build the box as I have to clear the way by taking the rest of the old roof off which I cant do right now as I have just filled the new build with the hay which will go into the stable once the chicken run is built.........

On Parade!

Here's our three boys lining up looking very handsome, they have spotted the newest resident at Rock HQ, Misty a very petite Shetland mare who is pregnant. Trevor when he saw her grew a foot in height and seemed to grow a fifth leg he was so excited. All three were very intrigued by Misty's sudden appearance which was all down to Tracey's hard work.

She is a good very good driver, unusual for girls I know but she was always one to buck a trend. Anyway despite never having towed a trailer before she borrowed Stable Sprites horse box, which is one more suitable to ferrying around two carthorses rather than a small 33 inch high miniature horse, (its massive) and drove sixty plus miles across country to fetch Misty, loaded her up and brought her back. I went along as morale support and can testify that it was a very pleasant trip once you got used to burning clutch smell or the fact that pressing the imaginary brake pedal the passenger side has no effect whatsoever. Only joking, it was a very nice few hours away from Rock HQ.

While we were out Pritch finished off the block work and he has done a marvelous job of it. The bunker is nearly finished.

Tracey also ignored my advice of pulling into the lay by a mile from HQ to allow Misty to walk up the lane to the house thus saving Rene dragging the trailer up the bonsai mountain and saving Tracey from having to reverse and turn the trailer round. Rene managed the hill without a murmur and Tracey executed a perfect 3 point turn with trailer first go. I bowed down to her prowess and took her for a pint of cider at our new local as a reward.

In all its been an action packed weekend, the jobs list has been attacked, and as ever each job completed has created two more, but we are happy with the progress we are making. Things seem to be falling into place at last. We were pondering on this as we got back to the start of our lane. Even seeing Murphy failed to spoil our feel good factor. He smiled and opened the gate for us, as we slowed down to negotiate the opening he pounced and started a conversation. I don't remember much of what was said, but he was surprised that he had got no apples on his tree. Or plums. Must've been a special sort of frost he supposed, that killed all his blossom, not one apple, not one solitary apple. I nodded and agreed. We drove on. No plums or apples Tracey mused. I don't suppose its got anything to do with your Berkshires getting fat! she enquired. I said nothing. Never underestimate the power of denial.

Express Delivery!!

I was wondering who had dug up part of the drive when we got back from work. The answer came grunting from the lane, running towards us from The Cauldron were Bronwyn and Gwendolyn, two very happy Berkshires who had managed to escape from the pen again. This is despite beefed up defences and new toys to play with. The boys were still happily contained within the perimeter fence, not this pair, they have the exploring gene.

For a while the Berners, pigs and goats mooched around the yard/building site until with a squeal of terror Gwen sprinted up the lane closely followed by the Stable Sprite's van towing a trailer with the next months feed.

Extreme smallholding!

The Stable Sprite dropped off another bale of hay for the boys today and for some reason he declined the invitation to get the hay from the yard along the lane and up the hill to where the boys are currently accommodated.

This was going to be a challenge. While many people go to the gym for a workout, or take part in keep fit classes we hardy smallholders roll bales across swamps and up bonsai mountain sides for fun. It took some time but we persevered and pushed, pulled and cursed the bale to its final resting place.

The Stable Sprite was duly informed that the challenge had been met, we had achieved our goal, the horses would have feed for a month. He was surprised, in fact he was astounded, he wondered how I did it. Well two secret weapons. Firstly Rene who dragged it along the lane thus saving it being rolled through mud for the first seventy metres. The second was Tracey, without whom so much on the smallholding would not get done, but this time she put superhuman strength into the task. The Photo below shows the height we gained in our pushathon, thankfully this mission was achieved without comedy moments like the bale rolling back to the start. Tracey did mutter the compulsory and somewhat unfortunate remark "At least its not raining." It did, heavily.

Our reward, well achieving the impossible once again, the looks on the boys faces when confronted with a massive dinner and a pint of ice cold cider.

And the winner is.....

Today we left Rock HQ to attend a local show, a great opportunity to meet up with other farmers, smallholders and wannabes and compare notes. Firstly we met Champ's owners who started three years ago, same time as us, without previous experience and lucky enough to have sold a business to buy their smallholding outright. Champ here is a lovely Shire Horse who works their land in the traditional way. They also keep pigs and so we were able to discuss the rights and wrongs of modern farming and how tasty home grown bacon is. We didn't get her name but, please believe me, he was another Steve, really he was, and the guy who refurbished Champ's cart was also called Steve.

These two lovely dogs were taken straight from their farmyard and entered into the dog show. We thought it would be useful social experience, a small local show where no-one was taking it too seriously. What we discovered was that there is no such thing as a non serious dog show and some of the entrants had travelled from afar to bag rosettes and dog food samples. The first indication that its all a bit serious was as we parked alongside a couple from Birmingham who were in the process of putting up a tent to accommodate their five Cocker Spaniels, cages and mobile grooming parlour.

Dotty who had never been on a lead until today, seen children or hundreds of adults before coped very well with being prodded and poked by the Judge but steadfastly refused to walk the ring. She came a very creditable fourth and got her first rosette. The Judge told me after that I had a lovely Bernese, for Gods sake get her ring trained. OK.

Next to enter the arena was Rocky, her dad and pictured above psyching himself up for the competition hes on the left). Thankfully the Judge missed him slipping his lead and running away, when Tracey finally cornered the brute and dragged him back he did his circuit of the ring and came first, then fourth in the all comers arena. So we are very happy with them both and Rocky had a reward of a bowl of ice cream. Their rosettes are proudly pinned to the Bernese tapestry in our lounge.

On the way home we called in at the Stable Sprites smallholding. It looks a bit different to the last time we were there, basically he has been let loose with a small digger and cleared a vast area of trees, rocks and anything he hasn't liked the look of. The desolated site will be seeded with root crops for his pigs. Another of his sows had dropped a litter overnight. Here you can see one of the Berkshire sows having a snooze with her piglets at her tail. The larger piglet in one that is from the other sow and only three weeks old. They grow so fast!

Just good friends

These two might look like they are biting chunks out of each other but its their way of showing what good friends they are. Trevor would like to get in on the act but lacks the reach. Not quite sure what he thinks he will achieve that end.

Stable Sprite came round today and surveyed the demolition site. He thinks he can rebuild it, he has the technology, and when he does Rock HQ will be better than it was before, better, stronger, faster, Rock HQ will be the first bionic smallholding.

Not quite.

But it will have a new entrance, two deluxe kennel rooms, a boot room/locker room and another store room. It will also feature something very unusual in these parts, a level floor. Stable Sprite likes level floors. The floor I laid for the stable wasn't level which vexed him mightily. So to keep him sane I have agreed a level floor. Work starts next week. Coincidentally when I go back to work. I think he was trying to tell me something!

Rain stops play

A frustrating day to say the least, the weather put paid to outside work for most of the day so we went and did some admin. First off we called in of the Stable Sprite as his pig Jess had died thus leaving him very busy feeding 10 very small piglets every two hours. We had a lamb feeder which might come in useful when they are older but until then its hard work and perseverance with a syringe full of milk.

We called in on a local feed mill and had a very nice chat with an extraordinarily nice man who I promise you is called Steve (so many are round here!) about organic pig feed. They don't actually make pig feed but as we knew the Stable Sprite Steve promised he could make a 100% organic generic feed milled from a variety of beans, grains and other wholesome goodies. We saw a sample and it looked good enough to pour milk on and eat so the pigs will love it. As will the goats, poultry, sheep and ponies. How to get it back was the problem, the smallest quantity sold was 600kg, a big bag full, too big to lift and definitely too big for Fifi focus. They quite liked my suggestion of Rene, lined with a builders bag with the sunroof open they could fill him from a hopper, but alas Rene the Rx4 would not fit under the chute. Deal was done, we would buy 600kgs of his finest feed, not because its so good but on close inspection I discovered that I would be able to drive in with a horsebox trailer and turn around without having to embarrass myself with a demonstration of reversing. Hopefully Stable Sprite will loan the trailer.

Then on to Presteigne Gates, a wondrous place we had always meant to call in on, but never having the time etc. Seeing as it only sells gates its hardly a priority. However they sell much more, oh yes, loads of shiny galvanised goodies littered the landscape, then a whole building full of tools and stuff, manly things like fence bashers, wire tighteners and bolt croppers. There was also a timber yard. Excellent. Room for a trailer to be turned round without reversing, I mean this place has everything!

Promise nice man we will return to buy bale holder, troughs and water tanks when we get a trailer. He sells those as well!

Back to the ranch before credit card overtakes good sense.


Meanwhile progress is painfully slow on the build, literally. I spend a while shifting boulders in the rain, one barrow load was ominously heavy, warning signs like tyre bursting was ignored and I pushed it uphill, along the lane to a dropping off spot opposite a hole in the fence. Boulders dropped I repeated the process many times, the photo shows hardly any soil or rocks have been moved but the photo lies.

Then under the careful supervision of the goats I attempt to cut down the holly tree. This is far thicker than I remembered and too much for the new chainsaw chain. I did sense that I was not going to succeed in getting rid of it today when the biggest branch defied gravity, bounced off the stable roof and fell upwards hitting me on the left forearm. Knowing that a sense of humour failure was imminent I gave up and had a sandwich and wondered at what point had any of this seemed like a good idea.

The rain finally stopped so I ventured back outside, Geisha was admiring my handiwork stood in what will be the new entrance passageway. The pigs needed feeding and so I set off to run the gauntlet of their snapping chops as I attempt to place their feed anywhere where there is not one foot deep mud. Upping their feed has not improved their temper, and as I crossed their domain in the style of a riverdancer to avoid bitten calf muscles I suffered extreme chest pains. Hypochondria took over and as I clutched my chest thinking I was too young to be having a heart attack, one arm wrapped around the sycamore tree trunk for support the other valiantly defending the bucket I promised everything Holy to be good and lead a healthy life helping orphans as long as I didn't die face down in the pigs wallow. I dropped the bucket which eased the pressure from the pigs but the pain got worse and now fear overtook hypochondria as I saw a new fate, I would be eaten by the pigs before anyone found me, like in the film Snatch. Gathering my thoughts and realising I wasn't dieing but merely suffering the consequences of torn chest muscles from the wheelbarrow man test boulder routine I rallied and climbed to safety over the fence. The pigs squealed their delight at getting another bucket to play with, they now have 9 and I left them too it.





Back in the yard the demolition site failed to improve my mood, it all seemed like such a good idea 48 hours ago. The sun came out. I climbed Oak Bank to see the boys, they are always pleased to have company. Trevor looked great in the evening sun. The view across the valley and into the Cauldron lifted my spirits and I resolved not to be so impatient, after all life's good. Even with chest pains.

In through the out door

Pigs are very intelligent creatures, for instance they learned not to bite me again after my reaction when they took a test bite. The daily barricade is more than a bit of a nuisance and so I have taken to climbing the fence and going in through the out door, their exit from the sty to the pen. This opening has got considerably smaller since the pigs arrival, and no dear reader its not another case of me gaining pounds and blaming shrinking clothes, the "doorway" is genuinely smaller as they have moved so much of the hill downhill, piling dirt and rocks against the frail structure we laughingly refer to as "the barn" which, as I recall, the estate agent referred to as a "useful space in need of some renovation".

Somehow this useful space has survived my DIY and three previous sets of piglets who have all made their own personal alterations as well as having shifted tons of dirt and piled it up against the sides of the "barn" reducing the opening from a four foot high two foot six wide portal to a minute opening fit for one pig. This is a very handy shack, it stored 100 bales of last years hay and it also served as a temporary stable for William until the Stable Sprite weaved his magic and produced the des rez he now occupies. It needs preserving, TLC even.

I think the piglets may have grand designs of their own on future housing having seen the results of their snout work today. Piling up the dirt has allowed them access to the back of the chicken shack, an equally robust building held together by years and years of paint. The temptation to remove parts of the roof served too much and this allowed access to the old dry stone wall that forms part of the old farm sty. This is currently being dismantled, just because they can. Once through that they will be able to catch a bus, go to the shops and do whatever piggies on the run do. Meanwhile I, being marginally more intelligent than a piglet, am copying the tactics of the medieval siege engineers and piling up stones the other side of the attempted breach. Whether this tactic works and will hold until November when the piggies get a one way ticket to the local abattoir remains to be seen.

Pig Club newsletter is ready for distribution once the gremlin in charge of pasting the pictures to the paper has been tamed. Meanwhile enjoy the video and the prospect of some very tasty pork and bacon.

As long as the defences hold!