Go West

Vic and I headed off to the western edge of the Red Kite Empire today, another return trip of 220 miles and as its almost the end of the financial year the spend fest on road works, seven separate sets on one section of 24 miles, has reached fever pitch with councils having to empty the coffers or face reduced income next financial year. The constant stop go routine added 45 minutes to an already long trek but the company and lunch at the other end was worth the effort. My colleagues obviously feel I need feeding, or I time my visits to mealtimes, either way I have been lucky enough to be given vast quantities of home made breads, soups and cakes over the last week and the best thing about this is that as its out of county it totally calorie free! Win win or what?

Fed up I was back behind the wheel and heading home when a hand scrawled road sign interrupted progress.

Quails eggs, £1.25 a dozen.

Ever keen for a bargain and having enough for two dozen in lose change I approached an old man holding a bowl of water. He identified himself as a purveyor of quails eggs and was keen to show me what was in his garage. Forgetting all warnings from Charlie ( the ginger cat from days of yore, as in meow meow meaoww! "Charlie said...") who strongly advised following strange old men into confined spaces like vans, cars or in this case concrete garages on the pretext of "come and see my puppies/kittens/quails" (delete where needed) I eagerly followed. Once my eyes adjusted to the light the oldster showed me what was in his hand, a tiny chick (what else? this is a wholesome story!) that had just hatched. He had got 45 eggs in the incubator, 10 had hatched so far, he wasn't expecting many more, still 1 on 4 was ok.

Were the eggs he was selling me fertile, well yes, no, maybe, it was worth a go he said. I looked at the eggs. Huge. Almost bantam sized. 3 times the size of our quails eggs. I peered at the chicks in the box resting under the heat lamp, I made what I thought was a very intelligent comment demonstrating my vast knowledge of quail, "so these are what, three days old?" he shook his head, no, fresh out of the egg this morning" But they were massive. Would I like to see what he had in the shed, confident it was nothing sordid I followed.

In the shadows birds the size of small ostrich were lurking, "They are massive!" I said out loud (now at this point there is lots of scope for double entendre, but as I said, this is a wholesome tale with intellectual undertones of natural selection) The old man beamed, what he was showing me was not exactly his life's work, but certainly an obsession.

He was breeding giant quails, for the last seven years he had selected the largest birds and bred from them. Quail experts had scoffed when he told of his plan, the birds would lose their fertility, they wouldn't get much bigger, he was wasting his time and money. Yet here in his aviary were some very large quail, some lay two eggs a day so he scoffed back at the nay sayers. Hence the cheap quails eggs as he was somewhat egg bound.

He told me about his breeding programme, how any bird that doesn't make the weight at six weeks they are for the pot, those that grow the best are kept and so every year the flock grows in numbers and stature. Suitably impressed I left him to it feeding his hens, forgoing an invite to stroke his giant cock I headed home with a clutch of eggs which are now safe in the incubator.

Day 6 30 30 lvl 12 hill 12.2 km (Skull and Bones disc 2 Cypress Hill)

Here we go again

I got back late tonight, as I turned Vic to home I was thinking about foxes, and one that I had helped to the celestial chicken coop when I chanced upon it in our lane. Vic crawled along our dirt track, his suspension cant take the deep potholes at anything other than walking pace and the sheep refuse to give up their sleeping spaces until gently nudged by the muddy Volvo so we were looking out for dozy Ryelands. There sitting in almost exactly the same spot where I had dispatched the fox were two more, sniffing the air and watching our slow progress. A late patrol of the perimeter ensued, all poultry was accounted for but its clear we are still under siege.

Do you want ice with that?

The forecast was grim but the snow failed to arrive. Instead we had freezing rain which coated everything in 5mm of ice with hilarious results. Vic and I had to leave HQ and head off across several valleys as Red Kite continues its bid for global domination. A cattle lorry using our side of the road raised my pulse rate but Vic calmly managed to avoid disaster. On our trip we saw four large holes in four different hedges/fences marked with Police line do not cross tape where others had come a cropper on the treacherous road surface. Two telegraph poles also lay broken at odd angles showing signs of impacts. A road we would have taken had we gone anti clockwise around the mountains was closed after a fatal accident. I listened to the traffic news and thanked the small god of car journeys that it was not us that hit the lorry and spoiled the day.

Time is precious so Vic and I adopted the better late than never approach to ice driving, much to the annoyance of a teenager in a red VW(obviously, red ones go faster) who clearly had much better brakes and knowledge of the road plus an amazing ability to see though the fog than Vic or I. After following us closly down a twisty section of mountain (sudden death to your left) his sixth sense told him the way was clear so the last Vic and I saw of him was his exhaust and two fingers. I hope he got to where he wanted to be safely, and that he did not hurt himself or anyone else in his haste. I also sincerely hope that the fifth hole in the hedge on the way home wasn't made by a red VW. Honest.

Different world

It was one of those days where I had to say goodbye to Rock HQ and join the real world for the day visiting lovely people in far away places. This also meant that the usual routine had to be completed double quick time, mostly in the dark, tripping over sleeping animals and other hazards lurking in the lane. Kayleigh needed milking, Kurry needed feeding ( I now bottle feed two hungry infants in the morning) the dogs exercised and feeding, horses fed and watered, cow checked to make sure she is still in one piece and so on.

Vic delivered me safely to all four of my visits and suddenly I was in a land of cream carpets and no mud. Except the mud I brought with me. Vic is coated in the stuff and trail experts will be able to identify at least 4, probably 5 different paw prints across the body work, roof included. At my third meeting Vic got a real inferiority complex parked next to two gleaming black Volvo's, one the saloon version of him and the other the super duper 4x4. I left them bickering on the drive. Halfway through this meeting I noticed glances being exchanged by the clean Volvo drivers and all eyes were on my footwear. Thankfully I wasn't in my farm boots as has happened before but as I was in a land of concrete and road sweepers the coating on my shoes was as alien in this building as E.T.

"I'm sorry I live on a farm" I offered as way of explanation, my host had seen one once and reassured that what was on my shoe hadn't fell out of a dogs bottom and that I wasn't some dirty shoe fetishist we carried on with the business of the day.

We shook hands as I left and my very understanding host pointed at my left foot and said "The er...the.."

"Goat probably" I said. He nodded and closed the door.

Non returnable bottles

Kid Kurry is a lovely boy and even though it takes three times as long to feed him as it does to milk his mother its time well spent, having said that I wont be sorry when he is on solids.

Not that I begrudge him the three pints a day he's guzzling.

There was one of those only here moments yesterday, yours truly putting a freshly milked pint in his feed bottle got distracted and whatever the distraction was (take your pic, charging pigs, rampaging Ryelands, Shitlands, Bernese, and many more) caused me to put the full bottle of milk on Vic the Volvo's roof. Much much later when I had spent some time looking for said bottle while trying to convince myself that if I hadnt taken it off the roof then surley someone else would have. Eventually I gave up hope and found myself confessing to beautiful and oh so patient wife that I may have let her drive to the shop to buy emergency food supply for humans as Rayburn has died (again, but its a mercy killing, all will be revealed, pity its a Rayburn as it could have been an Aga Saga) with goats food supply balanced on top.

On hearing this the patient one did remember a strange sound like something rolling off the roof at around the two mile marker, I could if I wished go and look for it as she could remember exactly where it was but she thought best not stop as no idiot would have let his wife drive off with anything perched on the roof of his car, especially as he had watched her turn round in the yard and waved her off.

As the idiot she was talking to was the same one who drove from Rock HQ all the way to RAF Brize Norton (140 miles or so) with a set of sheer shears on the roof of Rene and only rescued expensive sheep shears when friendly lorry driver at traffic lights shouted that "You got summat on yer roof mate!" then she was sadly mistaken in this assumption and Kid Kurry was doomed to starvation until the milk bottle shop opened.

Thankfully the apprentice smallholder donated one of his bottles and all will be well, provided I don't get his and the goats feed and/or bottles mixed up. As if.

Microclimates

We have always known Rock HQ was the wrong side of the mountain, anyone wishing to build today would choose a place that was flatter and had more daylight, and as a consequence has its own micro climate. As I type this drinking a very alcoholic ginger concoction (not at all home made honest guv!) there is no truth in the rumour that anyone living here turns to alcohol due to lack of vitamin D.

There have been times when we are a 2 degree variance in temp over the valley average. Not that I am a geek and meticulously record the temp and rainfall daily. Of course I don't, meticulous and record are not traits I possess. I just notice these things.

Anyway the point of this is that today Vic and I set out from HQ on a mission. As we travelled a few miles from our front door the backside of Vic made an impertinent attempt to overtake his front. I would like to say that my ever so switched on driving skills averted disaster, but that would be a lie, it happened so fast that by the time the rear of the car settled to where it should be, ie. following me, I had just thought of steering in to the skid . Instead I thought aaaarrrggh ice!!! but as the now blackbird proof brain of Vic (see previous) was telling me we were a balmy 8 degrees in the red, ice was not the cause of the strange handling, no, more likely the tyre pressures which I had sort of addressed before leaving.

Sort of as in that tyre looks flat I must sort it.

It was at that point in my cognitive ruminations that I saw a silver Ford Fiesta sail past backwards on my side of the road, and as Vic's magnificent ABS juddered us to a halt the driver of the now crumpled Fiesta was climbing out of the passenger door and thanking his lucky stars that Vic the Volvo was more sure footed and steerable than his Ford.

Over the I'm sorrys I've just passed my test and Dads going to kill me I established that he wasn't hurt and that indeed despite the air temp the road was a sheet of ice, for several miles, which was why he had carried straight on backwards instead of following the curve of the road. I left him after we phoned Dad who set out to rescue his first born and I made it to my destination without further ado.

Not for the first time I was grateful for the robust constitution of Vic.

Cheers Vic.

Kamikaze Sparrows

Theres been a bit of a saga here at Rock HQ the last 10 days.Vic the Volvo began to display some disturbing symptoms which made him interesting to drive to say the least, especially on a downhill right turn when he, to all intents and purposes, died. The sudden loss of engine meant the power steering failed, interesting bordering on exciting, while the lack of brakes due to no servo assistance added to the ambiance and created a certain amount of hysteria amongst my passengers and the elderly couple who's Yorkshire Terrier was in the kill zone as we headed straight for the patch of pavement the tiny pooch occupied. Thankfully collision with all soft squishy and hard objects was avoided by yours truly having the presence of mind to turn Vic off and on again, the engine roared, passengers screamed, power restored, steering functional we swerved past frozen to spot dog and continued on our way. But the hint had been taken, Vic needed medical help.

So we took him to the Docs where he was plugged into a life support system. Apparently Vic had one of thirteen faults, fourteen if you included the bonnet opening cable breaking when that function was requested. Several spanners and swearwords later the greasy medic got his grubby mitts on Vic internals and began an operation to restore him to full health. I waited anxiously as they did what they needed to do. A reassuring cuppa was offered, don't worry I was told, hes in safe hands now. Hours later the grease covered medic came to break the news. Vic needed intensive care, mere first aid was not going to resurrect Vic, the question every car owner doesn't want to hear was asked, is he worth saving?

Vic worth saving,?

Vic who's stout constitution has saved me from a rear end crash, Vic who's sure footedness saved mine and a ponies life on a dark wet mountain road (he still bears the scars from that encounter the drivers door mirror is still on the to do list, the replacement in safely on top of the fridge) (the pony probably bears the scars too but a smacked bottom is better than the inside of a dog food can) of course Vic is worth saving!

I tried not to feint when told how much I would not be saving by saving Vic and left them too it. Days passed.

Several days past the we will rebuild him we have the technology day. I phoned the hospital, the chief surgeon wanted a word, this was serious.

Vic was not responding to treatment, several remedies had been tried and as a last resort they put him up on the ramp and found something very interesting. Somehow, and still no one knows how, a bird of some description, they know it was a bird as within the mushy mess there were brownish feathers,somehow this ex bird had flown through the front of the car and hit the god box.

The god box is the armour plated computergizmoid that governs all the cars motions and sensors, approximately 13 of them. The last thing to pass through the mind of this hapless bird was not, I guarantee, the realisation tht it was severing the data from the god box which meant that Vic had no idea which way up was, yet alone what fuel it should use, how to apply brakes and so on.

The god box arrived at the hospital yesterday and Vic was discharged this morning (costing three times the estimated repair bill, thanks birdy)

Man and machine reunited set out to right wrongs several counties away.

Vic was back.

All is well.

For now.

Until the next Kamikaze Sparrow decides to have a go.

Street cred

I struggled to get in to work today, not through tiredness, no I slept soundly last night, it being the first night in weeks we were not anticipating the birth of new animals. No I was struggling as I was loaded like a pack animal with my paperwork, diary, phone, glasses, 10 dozen eggs and thirty pounds of frozen sausage, the edible items for colleagues. I fumbled with the code to the keypad and entered the inner sanctuary without dropping anything and without creating sausage omelette's on the floor.

Work was its usual hectic pace, court work is strange, you are in a building with solicitors, barristers and other ner do wells all trying to win wars of words refereed by the clerk who rules with an iron fist. So there I was rubbing shoulders with a mixture of societies least favourite people (not all were legally qualified, some were criminal) drug users, dealers, abusers, burglars, fine dodgers and car thieves. Its not uncommon for the little TWOC'ers (take without the owners consent) to nick a car to get to court, or nick one to get away. Or both.

So all day I was indoors, and obviously Vic the Volvo was outside. Now it is said that Volvos lack a certain something, street cred is one, not your head turning road racer that is a must have for petrol heads. More a cardigan of the automobile world. And as its gas powered Vic is shunned by the mainstream driver who having seen Pathe news reels of the Hindenburg disaster think that driving gas powered cars must be akin to sitting on a landmine and hitting it with a hammer, the gas tank is a bomb just waiting to go off. The inevitable question when people discover Vics source of motivation is "Oh, aren't you scared?" Usually, but not of Vic.

Cases heard, and home time so I collected my stuff together, final check before negotiating the security guards and body scanner at the exit. A strange feeling that something was missing. I put my files down, checked my pockets, definitely missing. Car keys missing. I took the long walk through the building to the exit where Steve the security guard waved cheerily as my arm set off his metal detector again, "Go on sir" he chortled in a "Run along now sonny" way.

I walked around the building hoping. Hoping that Vic was where I had left him, and that if he was the keys were as well. Our friends recently had their car taken off their drive. Twice. What chance did Vic have given the clientele of the day?

He stood alone in the car park. I could see the door locks were off, hanging in the ignition the keys. All day ripe for the taking. Heaving the hugest sigh of relief I got in and started the journey home. How did he manage to survive the day, perhaps Volvos lack street cred for scrotey car thieves, even Volvos with big neon signs over saying steal me now its going to be so easy!

The voices on the radio crossed from the sub conscious and I listened carefully as the discussion concluded that the increase in car security meant the majority of cars are now stolen with the car keys.