Circle of Life.

I'm not as prolific a writer as I used to be. Sometimes this is because I'm mad busy and life gets in the way of talking about life, other times I overthink it and the moments are lost. Occasionally I know I have something momentous to impart, but by the time I've treated a lamb, fed the alpaca or checked a fence, I have forgotten I ever had a point to make. I also try to make a point of not blogging, posting or tweeting when I'm in poor spirits. Over the past few weeks this has been my excuse, I have been a little low. I'm not depressed, I know friends with depression and I'm aware that this is not me, I've just been a little low.

The weather in August was quite inconsistent and we almost lost our hay, (the positive being that we did not.) Our lambs thrived. We birthed three gorgeous cria, with more due in April, and I was determined not to be disappointed that they were all boys. We've had a bit of a spate of boys in recent years and I longed for some girls. The alpaca babies took a longer time to arrive than expected, also a consequence of the weather and I was restricted to the site, awaiting babies. It makes you a little stir-crazy. But they were happy and healthy when they arrived. Then suddenly one was not; happy or healthy. I worked hard with our vet, but the baby developed an infection, pneumonia set in and he passed away. It hit me hard.

Rest in peace little Diablo.

It's taken three weeks but I'm back on track. The farmers say 'livestock, deadstock,' it's a bit harsh but it means that if you breed livestock, you'll have times when issues occur and you won't be able to save that animal. It's life. I realise I haven't quite come to terms with that. Born in St John's Wood, I'm definitely a smallholder rather than a farmer.

My family, friends and my garden have kept my spirits high. It's hard to be down when you have special people in your life. Nature's bounty is always uplifting and it's hard to be down when the kitchen garden groans with fruit, veg and flowers for the house, dahlias scream hello in their showy way, grapes are ripening, sweet pea are filling the air with heavy scent and fat hedgehogs waddle gown the path at dusk. Life is good and I'm grateful.

Selling our range of natural fertilisers at Chelsea Flower Show and Hampton Court was fabulous this year again, thanks to Todd's Botanics and their wonderful team, of which I now count myself as a virtual member. Don't forget to order Lou's Poo Beans if you are planting spring flowering bulbs and our limited edition Christmas bags are on sale now. www.TheArchersAtTheLarches.com.

R.I.P. Happy, our disabled hen.

Summer 2012

Long ago in early 2010 we acquired Happy, our disabled hen, from a lovely farmer who owned a battery hen farm. She cost us just £1, a tiny amount for a girl so full of personality.

Happy was approximately 2 years old when she came to us, supposedly at the close of her battery, commercial life. The farm has long since been renovated and modernised and we Archers were privileged to visit the amazing state of the art barn that the farmer has since invested in, housing 13,000 very happy egg laying girls. His chickens are now free to move within their barn, (a structure from Thunderbirds methinks) and to roam a vast paddock during daylight hours.

For the past 4 years Happy has been a loved member of the Archer Clan. Many of our guests have marvelled at her resilience, hobbling along behind the others or pecking a young bird in order to teach some manners. She was tough and funny. If you were gardening she was your shadow, determined to find the biggest and best worm or grub in whatever hole you had decided to dig!

Happy passed away last night. She was elderly but I'm sure the heat hastened her departure.

Close to the end we sat her in the extension to the coop, (the bungalow,) shaded from the sun, with a dish of cool water for company. With the door wide open she watched and listened to the sounds and seemed peaceful.

As I locked up the animals late last night she looked very tired, her eyes closing and as I latched her door I whispered to her to go to heaven.

I don't think she'll be disabled in heaven. I'm sure that's how it works.

If you want to read about Happy's arrival at The Larches click here and here.

What a difference a day makes....

I awoke last night and for a split second I was in that dream land where all is well with the world; there was sure to be a sunny, warm day ahead with no sign or rain and Queenie, the baby lamb was still alive.

Yesterday was not a good day.

It started well enough, as soon as hubby left for work I got up and let out the chickens, I moved the three hefty lambs, Snowy, Moon and Pink to the bottom field to graze and went to collect the baby, Queenie, from the stables.

Queenie was delighted to see me or maybe she was just delighted to see her bottle of milk! I fed her before she and I strolled down to the bottom paddock together, her padding along beside me like a dog. She was to join the big girls for the day.

I closed the gate to the field and gave Queenie and Pink a last scratch of the nose through the fence before heading back toward the house. Queenie and Pink see me as their mum and as Queenie is still quite tiny in comparison to her tubby adopted sisters, she managed to squeeze herself through the gap in the gate and, bleating with joy, followed me back up Home Field!

If I had been gardening for the day I would have happily let her follow me for an hour or so but lambs are notoriously bad at painting and decorating and this was my imposed chosen activity for the day, so instead I lifted her up and over the nearest fence, trapping her in the little paddock that is Queenie proof.

Unusually the weather was mild and back indoors, armed with coffee, I began to prep the walls and ceiling of daughter's empty bedroom.

Within an hour the 9yo, (temporarily housed in the attic room,) and the 7yo awoke and daughter and I mused over the colour she wanted for the chimney breast and opposite wall, (a vivid purple is high on her agenda which is why I've deemed that the rest of the room is white.) Boy, relishing the lack of my attention, was soon lost to Wii-World.

With the childen dispatched to breakfast and play, I began to paint the room. Periodically I gazed at the view across our fields, ocasionally I waved to a child as they ran by on the track below, on their way to the den, the swing or to pick some flowers. While they played, I used a compass and pencil to draw perfect, protective circles on the walls. These circles encompassing bees, bugs, birds and butterflies, exquisitely painted, are part of an inherited mural in the room. Although I will paint out the foliage, I couldn't bear to eradicate these creatures from the new scheme.

I heard the screams first then the 7yo came hurtling into the house yelling.

'Mum! Queenie can't stand up, Queenie can't stand up!'

I reached the 9yo in the tiny paddock in record time and there was my Queenie, this sweet six week old baby, thrashing about on the grass, her head twisted back at a hideous angle her legs cycling wildly. As her eyes flickered back in her head all I could think of was epilepsy or meningitis.

We tried our local farmer first to see if he knew what ailed her but he couldn't be sure, so we got back into the Discovery and raced to the vet, the children supporting the lamb on the floor of the truck. All told, from the start of her fit, which the 9yo witnessed, to our arrival at the vet, just 30 or 40 minutes had elapsed.

I made the children sit in the waiting room, concerned that they wouldn't cope with what might happen, as I went through to an examining room with the vet. I held her legs as he injected this and that into her tiny shaved neck but there came a point where her body was so hot, her panting so wild and her eyes so black, that I knew she wasn't Queenie any more.

The vet ran her out to a shed and I held her while he gently hosed her with cool water, desperately trying to cool her temperature, but I knew it was futile.

I cried when she left me.

The vet couldn't give a difinitive cause for her death but he thought it was cerebral, maybe bacterial meningitis or possibly grass tetany due to the levels of magnesium in the pasture, although he said he'd be suprised at this with such a young lamb.

The children were devastated.

We took her little body, towelled dry by the vet, and drove home. The children's chests heaved silently, boy was turned away from me in the passenger seat, his forehead resting on the cool glass window. The girl was sat the back, closest to the lamb's body.

They chose a peaceful spot in the garden under a magnificent Acer, a secret spot along a grassy trail hidden by six foot high shrubs. They dug with me and then we placed her, wrapped in a soft shroud, deep in her resting place and said our goodbyes.

While I planted Feverfew and Penstemon they found an unused wooden garden bench and placed it facing the grave.

Unprompted they said a prayer, the 'Our Father' and, for once, I joined in.

It's melting, it's melting

I really think the worst is over. The sun is out and I can actually hear the thaw! Flooding next, said the bitter and twisted 44 year old!

'Happy Birthday Mummy,' said the five year old. 'You're fourteen today.' Daughter had set out a beautiful breakfast. In the centre of the table sat a tiny hand-made marzipan cake with a candle. I did enjoy my breakfast although I feel guilty confessing that all through the meal I was trying to think of a plan to avoid eating the cake. I'd overheard husband saying to daughter 'Don't let the cats lick your fingers while your making mummy's cake!' Still, if I get ill I may lose weight. There's always a silver lining.

Tesco couldn't reach the house today. We followed the delivery driver back up our drive, down our lane which is actually a bridlepath and out along the little road. We were very resourceful, pulling sledges along behind us to collect our order from the van. The child labour came in handy, bearing in mind they're still not at school.

I must have been slightly depressed when I ordered our provisions, forgetting milk was a bit daft. All the other major food groups were covered in sensible proportions; Chocolate 35% of order, Alcohol 35%, Protein, Carb, Veg and household supplies 30%.

Laura-Hen's looking a bit cold and bedraggled today. She's shivering too. I took the seven year old aside: 'She may be ill, she might die.' She looked into my eyes. 'Can we bury her?' I suggested we might wait till she was actually dead! I made a mental note not shiver or to lie still in the vicinity of daughter.