A lesson in scrumping

Nowhere in the beginners guide to scrumping apples does it say take a seven month old Alsatian pup with you, neither does it say take a wheelbarrow for the fruit, the most usual container is the front of your upturned t shirt or woolly pulley held in one hand while you select choice fruit with the other. But the pigs can eat more than the contents of the upturned item of clothing, so the builders barrow was receptacle of choice, and Acer needs building up so another walk around the hill would do him good.
He tried to help, chasing the "windfall" apples (it was windy and they fell, the fact that they were aided by a big stick is a separate semantic issue) down the hill which was entertaining. There was a worrying moment when out of the corner of my eye I was certain the curtains in the Ghost House (don't look back!) were moving, and being uncertain of the protocol for avoiding summoning witches I thought it best not to stand and stare on the just in case principle. Sensing the need for speed Acer ably helped by taking the largest apples out of the barrow as they were placed in and dropping them by my feet. Crispen and Daffodil, two Ryelands who can always be counted on to turn any drama into a bigger crisis then tried to lay claim to the contents of the barrow in preference to foraging amongst the nettles. I uttered the age old shepherds four letter volley of abuse at naughty sheep and eventually they got the hint to move on. Geisha could be seen moving in for the the kill so Acer, me and the now very heavy wheelbarrow headed for home.

We did have a few apples to spare for these Gypsy Cobs that are currently resident on the Bonsai Mountain. The foal is a real cute one and very interested in strangers bearing gifts of apples.

Off the leash!

Despite having a hectic day where the jobs list was attacked with gusto, jobs ticked off included cleaning out the stables, kennels, changing the fish's water, feeding everything, visiting Stable Sprite to see what one man and a digger had done, baked cake for Stable Sprite as had promised cake when visiting, on the way called in and paid for the hayledge, then went mad an bought a new feed ring and a second hand water tank of the militia man who sells us the hayledge, then found Stable Sprite could have got them cheaper/better/bigger/ delivered yesterday with go faster stripes, bells and a free whistle, anyway despite all that time was taken to take Acer up to Five Ways to let him have a run around.

He was supposed to go to his new owners today but they had a life crisis and cancelled his appointment, so to make up for this disappointment he had a trip out into the wilderness with Rocky. Acer was a star, I took a lead just in case but the whole time he walked with his head on my thigh, he had to be persuaded to get this far away from me for a photo.

The poor lad has never walked so far so we took a few stops so he could get his breath back. Since we got back at two pm he has been curled up in his basket sound asleep. Tomorrow all being well he is going to join me on a forage to get apples "donated" for the pigs. In all he was a top dog, hopefully he will go to his new owners next weekend, he better go soon as he is fitting in a bit to well here!

Chops to die for

The number of the flock has been reduced, finally, Sandy and Leviathan were sent to celestial pastures yesterday. Originally it was planned that they would go with Bonny and Maude, but somehow these two achieved pet status on the way to meet their maker and were given a reprieve at the last minute, much to the amusement of those tasked with their demise.
Sandy and Leviathan had nice lives, and their attempts to avoid becoming chops meant that they lived three times as long as those lambs belonging to the militia. The Ryeland has many attributes, its docility, size, ability to get fat on green concrete, its wool, most especially its flavour, but the one thing it does not do is go from lamb to plate very quickly. The militias sheep give birth to lambs that are Lewis Hamilton's, racing to the finish line, our Ryelands are geriatric slugs in comparison. Sandy is hardly classed as a lamb as he was born when Ben was at that military academy that has the word sand in it and a word that sound like thirst at the end. He gets a bit cross if he is mentioned on here so say no more. That was over two years ago! And he was still the size of a rabbit!
So Sandy and Levi were chopped up and placed with care in Mr Whirlpool today, and my reward for all my labour was a plate of chops to die for. Bless them.

GSD's move on

Crystal went to her new family last Thursday, she was spayed before she went and is now in a lovely home in the mid Wales region with another dog in the family to keep her company. This handsome lad, Acer, is due to join his new parents tomorrow, they also have another dog for him to play with. It might seem cruel to split them up but it was for the best. By themselves they will pay attention to their new owners, together they only look out for each other. In the few days Acer was by himself here he was a different dog, totally attentive to what we were doing and our commands. He will be missed but the new home he goes to will devote their lives to this lovely dog.

Eight left!

Whilst on my travels today I spyed this strange creature lurking in the undergrowth. Tempted by the smokey bacon aroma the cat stuck its head inside the crisp packet and got stuck, fast. The poor little tabby had got itself in a right state and blundered into a wire fence by the time I got to him. One quick tug and he was free. There is no picture of the happy cat as he took off at light speed. I disposed of the packet with a bit more thought than its original owner.

So far so good

I have to pinch myself sometimes, I cannot believe the life I lead. The contrasts are so extreme day to day, and I would never have imagined I would be lucky enough to live somewhere like Rock HQ.
Take yesterdays contrasts. After an uneventful, almost routine assessment visit on a particularly rough part of my patch I was absent mindedly ambling along to my car, hoping several things, mainly that the wheels would still be on it, or the tyres still up, preferably all the windows intact and the paintwork as I left it, not with some interesting artwork added by way of a sharp piece of metal or key. Mostly I was hoping that a fridge wasn't on the bonnet, the door would open, the engine would start and I would get out alive. This is a place where dogs go round in packs, postmen arrive at random times in unmarked cars and run every where and Police cruise round in armoured vans donated by the now defunct RUC. The car was intact, so far so good. As I opened my car door a tall man was, and there is no other word to describe his behaviour, loitering in the adjoining alley. I carried on getting in my car, no need to antagonise the locals by staring at them, but something in his hand held my attention as I started the engine and reversed turning to face the alley. He was holding a pistol, the 9mm black shooty type. Very casually he examined the thing before tucking it in the back of his jeans, covering it with his jacket as he walked away. I drove a short distance mentally checking all mobile phone types for ones that resembled guns. None matched. I had seen a gun. Being British I don't like to make a fuss but I phoned the police anyway, the emergency operator was very reassuring as I babbled my location and description of the suspect. She asked me where he had gone, me not knowing the area at all did not help so I decided to get out of the car and have a look down the alley to get a better location. I was feeling brave now, right up to the point I came out of the alley at the far end and almost walked into him and his friend poking around in a bush. Bravery evaporated and suitabley motivated to run I got back to Vic the Volvo without an accompanying volley of shots and sat to wait further instructions from the Police. After ten minutes they called back, already I noticed an absence of sirens, no masked uniformed men abseiling from helicopters, just me sat on the car park watching the alley. I could go home they said, we are on our way they said, thanks they said.
I left for tea and reassurance at the office.
Back at Rock HQ my heart rate had returned to normal and I was faced with a problem about as far removed from facing lone gunmen as you can get. The fish were in crisis and several were dead, so the quiet evening I planned went out of the window while three hundred gallons of water was bucketed out of one tank, pipes laid and water replaced some 150 fish were then caught by torchlight and put in the new tank. This saved the fish and was quite therapeutic.
I was asked today if I was surprised as the Police had not got back to me. Perhaps. But after checking with colleagues who have worked the estate longer than I it would seem that if the Police responded to every report of a gun sighting there they would not have time to eat donuts and harass motorists.

Get stuck in!

Geisha making sure she gets a share of someone elses dinner.

Dont drink the water!

Drought conditions continue on the Bonsai Mountain, leading to a bit of dispute amongst part time inhabitants. Our well is still dry which is only a tad inconvenient as it is the source of water animals. The stream is running dry, as pictured below with this years hatching of ducks and geese, but its still running, and once I clear the muck out of the reservoir the water will start flowing back into the storage tanks and all will be well. Our house water comes from a bore hole some 20 metres below ground just up from the stable and that's supplying everything and everyone. Which is a good thing.
The owner of The Ghost House has discovered a bad thing. His water is missing. Many years ago 1976, the year of the proper drought, he dug a 400 metre trench and laid a pipe in it from a collecting tank on the hill to his house. This has served him well for many years. Never let him down until this week. He turned his tap on and got the faintest trickle of reddish sludge from the tap. On tracing the pipe back he found it had been cut and now led to a water tank supplying horses belonging to someone else, the nice traveller man we meet every now and then. This is not cricket. Second only to putting a fence up in the wrong place, taking water from someone elses pipe is a crime that used to lead to deportation. A feud is in the offing, we wait and wonder who does what to whom next. This is better than TV.