The joys of living rurally.

Part of the joy of living in the countryside, is the thrill of having a septic tank. It delights me that our family outpourings are located in a field and that every two years a man in overalls, and presumably no sense of smell, comes with a lorry and a strange looking vacuum to suck it up and take it all away. Today is that day.

I have a sickly 14yo home at the moment. She is full of flu. I was loath to leave her in the house while I fed the livestock, in case the 'sludge-gobbler' came and she was forced off her death bed to answer the door, so I phoned the company first thing; I was told he was on his way and to expect him by 10am. He arrived at 12.30pm. Hungry livestock.

A small, unsmiley man, (but then, who can blame him,) he moaned as soon as I opened the door. It was a long way to our house, (correct, though to be fair it depends where you start,) he had a bigger rig than he was used to, he wasn't sure the access to our drive was big enough, the field was grassier than he'd expected and he didn't have a shovel..... Lordy. I suggested he start by driving onto site, I'd get him a shovel and I'd make him a cup of coffee. 'Weak,' he said, 'Very weak.' I retreated indoors to let him sort himself out. Not sure I trust those that drink weak coffee.

I made the insipid, watery beverage and even wrapped a home-made, mini victoria sponge in some tin foil: Us Poo professionals ought to stick together, (though not literally.)

On our driveway I was greeted by the unsmiley one, even more unsmiley than he'd been before. He'd managed to badly misjudge our overhead electricity cable to the barn. The very barn I need to lamb in shortly. The wire was draped over his lorry like a poor attempt at bunting. 'Is it live?' he asked. 'Yesss!' said I, with more force than I'd planned. 'Oh,' he said, 'I thought I could make it.'

Annoying.

Anyhoo, three hours later and our stinky tank is empty, the smell is slowly drifting away. Electricians from the company have been to see the damage and will return tomorrow to fix us. I am less fraught and I even had some kind words for the unsmiley one: I valiantly held back from telling him that I think he's in the wrong job.

The 14yo is feeling marginally better and I've baked some lovely granary bread. I'm expecting indigestion any minute now, not from the antics of the day, but rather from the slab of hot bread and equal slab of salted butter I've just sampled!

Posh Pasta Purloined....

Benny the panther

I'm reading Wild by Cheryl Strayed. It is fan-bloody-tastic. (Now my second favourite book after The Shipping News by E. Annie Proulx.) The honesty of Wild smacks you right on the nose and while I have few tales to match such a cathartic adventure, I have decided to bear my soul today and hang the consequences: (Probably no guests to the house ever again....)

This morning, after seeing to all the outdoor creatures, trudging through the snow with feed and water, my hat pulled down against the icy wind, I was very happy to be back in my kitchen. The log burner took the edge off the sharp day and a steaming cup of coffee soon had me toasty inside.

Unusually I listened to silence, no Radio 4, no podcast in my ears. That's why I heard the cracking sound.

At first I thought the broken window [daughter's football antics last summer!] in the dairy (the walk-in larder), 'mended' by Hubby, had become 'unmended;' the plastic sheeting crackling in the gale, but no. This noise was intermittent: teeth cracking on something hard?

I rushed to find a cat.

Back at the dairy door with a sleepy Benny, I waited to see if the noise was still a feature. Two seconds later and Benny was out of my arms, pushing the dairy door ajar. He was at once transformed into a panther. I slipped into the room behind him and closed the door.

We worked as a team, he searched an area, looking at me to move a shelf, box or tin. I noticed that a brand new packet of posh pasta, purchased in France and saved for a special occasion, was now open, a hole gnawed in its shiny wrapper. This was war. I slowly pulled out each drawer of the tall, wooden apple store and Benny and I were rewarded with the sight of a long, slender tail disappearing behind a small shelf.

By emptying the shelf of foods and then slowly tipping it towards me, I created a gap. Benny leapt into the void and after a second or two of invisible scrabbling, appeared holding a fat house mouse, its head engulfed within Benny's dark mouth. Jumping to the floor Benny stood by the dairy door. My task as doorman complete, the panther exited into the kitchen proudly, disappearing with his catch through the cat-flap.

Poor mouse but hey-ho, nobody but me gets to open the posh pasta!

To those invited to stay over/to dinner etc any time soon....

1. I understand if you cancel 
2. I can promise that we're not having the remains of that pasta for dinner..... mind you, with lots of salted, boiling water..... snigger... 

So, though not as Wild as Cheryl, I feel like a slovenly housewife and that's all I'm revealing for now... 

Saved by a cat. Yay!

Another catch brought in by Benny (from outside this time) in 2010.... ughhh!

Wild - Movie 

A Gentle Autumn....

The 11yo and Fudge, one of the baby alpaca, really do love each other. While I'm busy with hay or food troughs or poo picking, they frolic, snuggle, chill. Occasionally, Sproglet1 will bring her iPod into a paddock, sit on the bank and play, keeping me company. Fudge, who is not too keen on Minecraft, is content to sit beside the girl resting a Thompson Twins hair-styled head on Sproglet's lap. They are an item.

See? Almost no difference.....

Thompson Twins

Last night was a particularly lovely evening, though overcast, it was warm and dry and, having harvested the last of the pumpkins..... and a black cat for luck! [Honest, the 11yo and I are not witches!] we set off to see to the alpaca. Sproglet2 couldn't help as he was detained by Anthony Horowitz!

The alpaca girls were in a particularly social mood so we chatted about what was on telly last night....

Discussed the latest fashions (in welly boots)

..... and then had a snog..

and something to eat. Ouch!

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Shearing.... never again..

For several years now I have been convinced that I have the talent to make a marvelous sheep shearer. This belief is without basis and indeed without one jot of practical experience. Last year, our first year of shearing, my back decided to ruin my chances of learning, (too much extreme gardening with Lou's Poo Alpaca Poo!) and so I was forced to outsource the stripping of my girls to our kind neighbour.

This year I was fighting fit. I enlisted the help of our long-suffering neighbour again and he, in turn, brought his apprentice; his son. The paraphernalia they brought with them was amazing.

As I tried to construct a pathetic holding pen out of knackered hurdles in a tiny paddock outside the American barn, they suggested simply herding the sheep into one of the huge empty birthing stables. Hmmm, didn't think of that. Then they stood about a bit and looked at the metal joists high above our heads, before rooting about in their paraphernalia kit and hoisting a walloping chain up and over the bar. Next they attached a motor that weighed A LOT, followed by a pipe attached to the motor, and finally the shear.

Then they looked at me.

The hubby, deliberately dressed in his office clothes! the boy, the girl and her pal from school, all stood about looking at me. Oh poo.

I vaguely remember being asked if I was ready to go but clearly I looked so ashen that our neighbour suggested he do the first one, then I could go from then on. Right. Easy.

The first sheep, Cocoa, chosen for her monumental fleece, was naked in no time. There was no blood or histrionics. My turn.

I simply couldn't even remember where to start... was it the bum or the neck? Not. A. Clue.

Apparently it was the tummy followed by the nether regions and one lower side. Then the neck (which is terrifying) up the tummy and over the back as far the spine, plus a bit...... [are you lost yet?..... I was]

So, my victim was Pink. I raised her on the bottle in 2012 and helped her lamb her twins in 2014. Here I was clearly going to kill her.....

In truth, I didn't actually kill her, though I do confess to having nicked her several times. Having almost completed the job (though not well) I had to defer to farmer's son as I suddenly came over all Victorian and faint #pathetic and had to sit down. I was 75% there but couldn't yet claim to have sheared a whole sheep. I strongly suspected that I'd found an activity that I wasn't equipped for.The 11yo sprayed Pink's cuts with purple antiseptic while looking at me with regret. Pink was ushered from the barn, bleating and looking like mobile graffiti.

In my defence I was born in St John's Wood. The issue is trying to juggle a wriggly sheep, a life threatening weapon and a non compliant 48 year old body. So annoying.

The next sheep was thrust into my willing arms. I was determined to complete my quest. This time, bearing in mind that it was 24 degrees outside, I discarded my thick sweater. Now, added to the wriggly sheep, a life threatening weapon and a non compliant 48 year old body was the realization that my bosoms might fall out of my vest. Unfortunately half way through this shear my sheep companion decided to have a hissy fit and, in my desperate attempt to gently restrain it and my lady parts, I accidentally sheared the farmer.

I have now retired from shearing. Thank you for sharing this mortificado experience with me.

[Please note, my apologies for the orientation of the video - clearly video uploads are a mystery to me too.... If you can't see the video, click on the title of the blog post and you should see me butchering shearing a sheep but only if you tilt your head to the side and you're not on an Apple product.... and there isn't a full moon. #offtobedifIdidn'thavethealpacashearerarrivinginanhoursob!]

Car Washer Fluid: Filling of [Helpful Guide!]

http://www.robinsonsdrinks.com/

The gritter lorries have been gritting for most of the winter, fortunately we have seen little snow, though there was a contained blizzard on the highest point on our way to school last week.

The resulting haze on one's windscreen is, I presume, a mix of grit and salt, mud and rain. Yesterday my washer fluid ran out as Hubby and I made our way to the Year 4 play. [A magnificent effort we later agreed, the play not the fluid.]

Hubby was driving and though he pressed and pressed the appropriate button, no obliging cleaning agent appeared and we were forced to drive as if in fog.

Later, at home, thanks in part to the play, dinner, sheep, chicks a'hatching and other duller tasks like laying fires, filling/emptying dishwasher, I forgot to top up the washer fluid and so was again visually impaired on the way to school this morning.

Having dropped off the boy, I automatically started out on my journey home. A mile or so up the road I kicked myself for not getting some top-up water at school. Instead I glanced about the car for a means of temporarily cleaning the screen. I wish I hadn't looked really, as I cannot believe how much crud there is in my car courtesy of the sproglets: I pick them up each evening and generally I have a drink, sandwich or small treat, sometimes an apple. I specifically mention the following when handing over such bounty:

'When we get home, take your rubbish out to the bin.' Clearly they hear;

'When you've finished munching, dump the remains anywhere you like!'

There will be words tonight!

Anyhoo, my eyes first lit upon a packet of wet-wipes; pretty good idea, a contender. Next I spied a bottle of Robinson's Barley Water that I had brought to the girl's netball match several weeks ago. Sheesh! I happen to know that this was more water than barley, as I'd made it up from the dregs of the squash and tap water.

Excellent, though I, Perfect.

I stopped in the next village, opposite a bus stop filled with secondary school children and, keeping the engine running, I leaned back to swoop up the bottle from the back seat. In order to facilitate a clean screen, I put the wiper blades on full speed.

I couldn't really be bothered to extract myself fully from the car, as it was slightly spitting this morning, instead I half leaned out into the triangular space made by my open door and the windscreen and poured the diluted squash onto the glass.

Within seconds I was covered in a sticky, stagnant, sweet smelling lemon juice; the manic wiper blades having lashed the Barley water from screen to face and hair. I was so shocked, I hadn't stopped pouring.

To be fair, as I hurriedly drove away, mopping at my face with my best Pashmina, the school children hadn't actually started laughing until I was back in the car.

Mort-i-ficado!

Show Jumping at The Larches

Thanks to our naughtiest lamb, Cocoa, [owner: the 10yo] Bracken, one of our alpacas, leapt the fence to her paddock and ended up in our neighbour's field. Grrrr. Chops for tea anyone? It is typical that the Hubby is away this week in Italy. Poor him!

The 10yo, 8yo and I were calling the lambs for bed time in the stables this evening, (- yes we are soft,) and they were being typical youngsters; refusing to comply and hiding behind the field shelter. After tons of coaxing I semi gave up and stood still, half way up the paddock, dreaming of wine. The 10yo, who had insisted the lambs come in because of the bitter wind, collapsed in the grass. Cocoa, Bambina and Oreo, sensing our defeat, leapt about a bit kicking their lambsy legs to this side and that and then stood defiant, 'king-of-the-castle-style,' on gigantic conifer stumps.

The alpacas were intrigued by all the madness and finally ventured towards the lambs. Cocoa delighted as Anabelle, the palomino alpaca, sniffed her and in joy she gave a great lambsy leap into the air, frightening the beejeesus out of the chocolate camelid, Bracken.

Bracken took off and leapt over a decent sized fence, off our property and onto our neighbour's land.

To cut a long story very short, it took almost two hours to return her to our paddock. We took our time partly because of her pregnancy and partly because it's bloody tricky to catch an alpaca, even trickier to move them once they refuse and sit down. 'Nuff said.

Our neighbours need medals for services beyond the call of duty. I must say that since moving to the middle of nowhere I have never been more reliant on the kindness of neighbours (oh and the spooky 'alpaca-whisperer' talent of the 10yo.)

After a big glass of wine I feel much calmer and, bearing in mind that it is almost 9pm, I would very much like to go to bed now with more wine and the TV remote to watch Chelsea Flaar Show, unfortunately I still need to lock up the chooks. Sob.

Onward and upward.

P.S. Dear God, please turn off the wind machine and could you move the Gulf Stream back northwards please?

Love Lou.

Pond Dipping....

I have been increasingly determined to clean our wildlife pond, the weed has taken over and several of our pond plants are now Amazonian, plus grass from the bank and several years of leaf fall has begun to clog the water. There is nothing better than looking into a pond to watch the wildlife but lately we've seen diddly-squat!

Though I'm feeling a bit low with a cold, the weather is fantastic and so I decided today was the day. Hubbie was more interested in lighting a fire in the garden to burn away last spring's apple tree's prunings to help me so I duly donned the thigh length waders, snapped on some yellow marigolds and my zippy mac and walked, [John Wayne like,] towards the water. One sexy lady! Not!

The sproglets weren't that interested in me, preferring dad's adventure with fire and incendiary liquids rather than my slippy, smelly task.

I stood on the edge noting that the rain had filled the pond to the brim and eyed the dark water suspiciously.

'Are you sure you've been right into the middle of the pond with these waders on?' I shouted to Hubbie.

'Yes, in the summer remember?'

I couldn't really.

I started in the shallow pond, the place where the frogs and toads choose to lay their spawn. Gathering great handfuls of grass, leaf and weed I placed my harvest on the bank, hoping that disturbed creatures would crawl back into the water later. The pond gained a bit more depth and I, satisfied with my progress, moved on to the abyss, the bigger kidney shaped pond.

I first toured the edge again tearing away lengths of grass and armfuls of weed.

'Don't forget to pick up the waterlily so we can re-pot it,' called Hubbie.

'Will do' I said. This was going well. I felt very Monty-Donish.

It was tricky to see the lily, its rotting foliage was a couple of feet down towards the centre of the pond but I made my way gingerly towards it.

Ponds are slippy. [Not something of a surprise to you Dear Reader I'm sure.] I let out a sad, girly shriek as I realised my legs weren't as long as I'd like them to be.

The feeling of waders filling with sulphurous pond water is not one I'm going to forget any time soon and I was so heartened to see my delightful family on the bank as they charged over to laugh, check if I was drowning support me from the bank.

I carried on regardless, as I am a hero, though my movements were much slower as my legs felt like they'd each eaten a traditional British 3kg Christmas cake. With help from the sproglets on the bank (after they'd finally stopped giggling,) I manoeuvred a metre square island of reed grass to the side of the pond however, even with the help of Hubbie, we couldn't pull it out. In spring when the grass is less mushy to drive on, we'll put a tow rope around it and use the Discovery to yank it out.

All-in-all the job was completed well. The worst part of the task was trying to get back out of the pond and then having to lie on my back on the grass with my legs straight up, draining the fluids from my boots into my pants. At this exact moment a delivery van came to a halt on the drive; an online shopping delivery. The driver looked frightened, we didn't explain and he left very quickly. I'm glad he did leave, as the family insisted I strip on the doorstep before sending me for a shower. Apparently I didn't smell very nice. Fussy, fussy, fussy.

What's next? Bring it onnnnnnnn!

SOME DAYS LATER: Shush!! [whisper].......... I've just confessed to the Hubby that I've killed yet another mobile phone. This one was in my jeans pocket (i.e close to my pants) during the wader waterfall experience..... Dead mobile phone now resides in a jar filled with rice. Knickers! I'm banned from phone-owning.... will never get my hands on a bloody iPhone now! Bum!

Olympic Sport at The Larches

Like many mums and dads up and down the land, we too were gutted to learn that first the 9yo's sports day was to be cancelled due to hideous weather and then, a week or so later, the 7yo's was cancelled for the same reason. Naughty weather.

In the briefest of respite from the biblical chastisement (all brought about thanks to Shades of Grey ... if you know what I mean! *Looks prim and buttons up cardigan*) we have designed our own sports events; there's Mud Walking in Sledge Field, there's Digging Out The Stream, there's Tossing The Caber (aka filling up the log basket.. IN JULY!!) but by far the most popular event is the Lamb-Dash 100m sprint.

[Please note, if you can't see the video in the email, click the blue title of the post and watch the show in your browser. Thanks, enjoy!]

Electrocution at The Larches

There can be nothing more stimulating than a bit of electrocution first thing in the morning.

As many of you long-suffering readers of the blog will know, I’m not that good at electric fences. See here I forget their strength and hold on to the wire to pull on a wellington or else I forget to turn the darn thing off before moving it. It’s sad really.

Seems I take after my dad:

Mum and Dad came to stay last week. Mum’s the under-gardener, no weed is left undisturbed and the walled garden is now looking stunning. Dad’s is Vice President of Tea Making.

One morning, with the sproglets at school, the under-gardener, the tea maker and I, (recently promoted from both these positions to Chief Painter and Decorator,) decided to take a stroll down Home Field to peruse my allotment and dig up a few leeks.

Dad had a bad foot and was a tadge wobbly. He decided, rather than struggle down the uneven part of the field, he’d step over the electric fence erected by our neighbour whose ewes and lambs are kindly lawn mowing. He wanted to stroll down the middle section of the field.

I wasn’t worried; Dad knew what he was doing. However, half an hour later returning to the house and Pa looked a little wearier. He went for the old electric wire step-over move but misjudged it and, while laughing, (which didn’t help,) did one of those backwards kicks the snazzy footballers do... Very impressive.

He was determined to be down only briefly and almost as soon as his body touched the grass, he was getting up again. Not bad for a man of.... mumble, mumble.... and all was going smoothly till he used the wire as leverage. Bless. Mind you, he stood up quick.

Divine Justice has had her revenge of course, I shouldn’t have giggled so:

This morning, I escorted our three lambs from their overnight accommodation at the stables to their electrified paddock. Being an inexperienced farmer I can’t seem to work out how to convince my lambs, (getting heavier by the day,) to go over or under the ‘lekky fence even when it’s turned off. Instead I take them down on their harnesses and lift them up and over the wire... This really doesn’t feel like a long term plan, especially as Snowy must weigh a good 2.5 stone now. Hey-ho!

Anyhoo, this morning while doing this manoeuvre I managed to touch a knee off the wire and 'WOW! I still feel zingy now. Like father, like daughter I s'pose.

‘No, no coffee for me today thanks, I’m wired!’

Gullible Lou

I do love our builders, really I do, and they are tireless workers, skilled and kind. If I was to be slightly picky it would be that the fact that they listen to Radio 1, loudly, is slightly challenging. It's not the music I object to, actually I'm loving the music, it's the DJs... they witter about trashy subjects. [OMG I'm old!] ... Now if they played Radio 4 on full blast I’d be happy,.... Hey ho.

They are full of fun. The plumber likes nothing better than to appear at a window suddenly, only happy when I shriek in terror. I’m going to get him back but I haven’t quite worked my master plan yet. All of them are wind-up merchants! Today the long awaited shower tray arrived. I whooped and cheered as the boss contractor and his second in command carried the large slab of stone upstairs. They called out good-naturedly to the plumber working in the tiny family bathroom,

‘No, no, don’t worry mate, we’ll carry it up for you, don’t worry about our backs, least we could do!’

The plumber was grinning, used to the abuse. As they set the tray against the wall I felt sick. The tray was a key ingredient in the bathroom and nothing could progress till this was in, with the pipes set beneath it. It was already two days late and now here it was, a massive piece of stone resin.... in aquamarine.

‘White. White. It’s supposed to be white.’ I stammered.

‘They don’t come in white,’ offered the contractor.

‘Just aquamarine,’ added the plumber.

‘Like a swimming pool,’ said the second in command.

‘But it said white on the Internet,’ I wailed.

We four stood and stared at the bonkers coloured tray.

I realised that a key decision needed to be made. Either I could send it back and hold up the project for the next two weeks or I could learn to live with a Hockney inspired shower tray. Thank God we’d opted for white wall tiles and light marble floor tiles. My husband was going to go mad.

The contractor handed me the delivery note. ‘Ah bless.’ He said. ‘Don’t worry Lou, the aquamarine protection stuff peels off. It'll be white underneath.’

‘Phaaar!' Exhaled the plumber from a crawl space. 'What you tell her so quick for? I wanted to wait till she phoned her old man!’

So that’s how it’s going to be eh? ..... Be very afraid boys, be very afraid......remember, I’m the one who makes the coffee and supplies the cake and cake can be flavoured in so many ways... Hmmmm, where's that chilli powder?

***

Don't forget, if you haven't voted for me to win a Blogging Literary Prize yet, pleeeeease do so. Section 8 of the Lit! Section. Click here. Thanks. xx

I saw something wicked in the strawberry patch....

7yo and Snowy

It is verging on bonkers here.

Thirty months ago we four, Hubby, the two sprogs and me, arrived to The Larches, catless, sheepless, chickenless, penniless.... (oh hang on, the last one has happened since we've been here.)

Yesterday I had a few pals and their children over for coffee. The Easter holidays have commenced and the sun was belting. According to Postie, as she sat sorting my mail, (bills and junk mostly) it was registering 26° in the van, in March!

‘We’ll pay for this,’ she predicted. An ominous statement. Bearing in mind that several parts of the country are already on hose pipe ban, I think the monthly instalments have already begun....

In the walled garden the mothers’ meeting was called to order over a slice of my coffee and several hunks of home-made Madeira cake... Yes you did read that right, I never really know how much ground coffee to put in the cafetiere. Still, it keeps you on your toes.

Although there were six, variously sized children in the vicinity, they seemed to prefer the privacy of the den, (a straw filled animal shelter in the field near the stables,) rather than the designed order of my raised beds. Now and again they popped back to display a wound, pilfer a cake or down a glass of juice.  Mothers took this opportunity to apply coconut smelling sun cream, heedless of yelps. 

‘There’s a chicken in the house,’ the smallest girl child pointed out as she waited in line to be basted.

She was right. The young white bantam is fearless, determined to seek out food where she isn’t welcome. Chickens are banned from the walled garden and, of course, the house. We temporarily evicted her but out of the corner of my eye I noticed Archie Archer, a black hen with attitude, had flown up and over the wall at the far end of the garden. While we fussed over the small bantam, she was checking out all the edible bits in the delphinium and lupin nursery bed.

Archie

Meanwhile the two lambs bombed up and down the pathways between the raised beds, checking out everything with their soft nibbly mouths. I was bemused to note that the children paid little heed to them while the lambs felt sure they were included in some huge chasing game. The two cats watched the madness from the top of the Shropshire stone wall, bathing in the sun.

Naughty Nibblers

Having just finished Cold Comfort Farm by Stella Gibbons, I found it all highly amusing.

*

The building work is progressing well. The old porch is being replaced by another within the same footprint, though with marginally less woodworm and damp. Finally we will have a front door and a door bell! No longer will guests wander round and round the property, unsure of how to penetrate the gothic fortress, powerless to alert us to their presence, (as most mobile phones don’t work within 2 miles of the place.)

Old Porch

New Entrance

Coat and Welly Land...Yipeee!

The mums were fairly pleased with the vista, (of the builders I fear.) The smallest girl child was less keen and came to tell tales on the three men working on the house.

‘Those builders have taken their shirts off.’ She said looking stern.

We were restrained. We didn’t rush to look.

‘Come back and tell us if they take their trousers off,’ I advised. She nodded and toddled off.

S.A.S. (Special Assignment Sheep) and a Jam Giveaway

The three fields immediately visible from the house were looking a bit shaggy. One of our neighbours has a lot of sheep. It was only a matter of time before I figured out that this was a marriage made in heaven and so they arrived.

It's very relaxing to look out over the fields to see dozens of contented girls munching or standing or lying about the grass, great woolly eating machines. These sheep had one red dot on their backs, indicating they had just one lamb growing in their rapidly expanding tummies.

It is my belief that some animals have more personality than others, most of the creatures that live at The Larches have been overly blessed with personality! To prove this rule, one of the sheep, that had been bottle reared last year, was determined to choose her own grazing. No matter the height of the fence or electrical tape, she jumped it. I did suggest to the farmer that she might try out for the Olympics, but with so many sheep to lamb, I think he's rather too busy to undertake the training required as coach. She wasn't a bother really, she just preferred the grass on the other side of the fence - I'm sure we've all felt like that at some time. At bed time she hopped back over to the rest of the girls and settled down for the night.

All was peaceful.

Then, over a weekend, the tegs arrived.

The tegs [new word for me] are the yearling sheep that will be put to the tup, the ram, at the end of this year. They are the sheep equivalent of hoodies. No fence, gate or bolt of electricity can keep them from exploring their environment. It was like fat camp for me.

As I continued with my chores around the house between bouts of writing; I'm Head of Relocations for Chez Archer don't you know and my duties include returning an endless amount of c.r.a.p. back to the sproglets' bedrooms as well as piles of laundry from the utility room to bedrooms, usually via an unlimited stay in a blue Ikea bag etc, etc... I spied the escapees from the long Gothic window on the stairs.

This was my 95th journey upstairs that day, a teetering stack of neatly folded fresh clothes in my arms, I glanced out across our rural view, usually a pleasurable moment. It took me a couple of seconds to realise that these new commando-girls weren't munching the grass in Home Field but rather had surrounded my fenced-off allotment in the bottom left of the field. They were salivating over my cabbages, kale, leeks and celeriac. My eyes narrowed as I observed one determined girl rise up on her back legs and headbutt the corner post. Three more crack shots and the post began to teeter.

'Noooo,' screamed I, chucking the laundry to the floor.

I was too late, by the time I'd got down there they had pruned the cabbages. Everything else was fine. For the rest of the day I was on guard, they ran off whenever I chased them, returning to the far paddocks, but as soon as I turned my back to go to the house they formed an orderly queue and trotted back towards the restaurant allotment. In the end I bribed enlisted the children to continue to repel the siege of the cotton balls, till my neighbour came to secure them with more electical torture wire.

Sheep. Who'd have thought they could be so naughty?

I was thinking of getting two orphan lambs this year but, bearing in mind the fact that our fences are clearly less than sheep-proof and that every farmer and his dog round here has warned me not to do it AND the fact that I can't get the sproglets out of bed in the mornings, (so how the heck will they get up to clean and feed lambs?) - I was just coming down on the side of saying 'No, I'm not doing lambs this year.' It was really rather unfortunate therefore that a friend should turn up to the house last night with a cardboard box in the boot of her car..... Inside was a day old lamb, a triplet. She had been given him by another farmer and was going to try to latch him onto one of her sheep, a sheep that had lost a lamb. It had died not long after being born.

The sproglets had just returned from school and begged to hold him.

He was gorgeous and all my delay tactics flew out of the window. So, if there are any cades going, we'll probably have two. I'll let you know.

Next Tuesday I'm off to be a slave for a day, lambing on a friend's farm. I can't wait and yes, I'm fully aware that there will be poo, blood and my toes may get stamped.. or worse. Still can't wait.

* 

It's definitely Spring here, the pond is full of frog and toad spawn and in the greenhouse sown seeds are sprouting without the need for the propogator, calundula, sunflowers and cosmos to name but a few. I've re-potted the tomatoes already, planting their leggy stems deep into larger pots. I may do that several more times yet.

I feel my novel, The Perrys at The Berries, is progressing well and I'm well on my way to finishing. In fact, if you would be so kind I'd be grateful for your opinion of the first three chapters, I'm a little nervous to upload any more of my book at this time but you can read this excerpt in Authonomy. I'd be so grateful for any opinion from you, the readers of The Archers at The Larches, as it's a fictionalised account of a family, like us, trying out the rural life for the first time. Try it, see what you think.

Lastly, I'm offering the chance to win 2 pots of home made Larches jam. This draw is open to all followers.

To be eligible for the draw on Sunday 11th March. The first name pulled from a hat by hubby will get 1 pot of yummy, scrummy Blackberry and Plum Jam and 1 pot of delicious Damson Jam.

• register yourself as a Follower before Saturday 10th March with Google Friend Connect (add your little picture or logo to my Global Friends gallery,)
• AND add a comment to this post
• Existing followers need only add a comment to this blog post to be eligible for the giveaway

Good luck!

Free Range Egg Collecting... the proper way

Take a suitable receptacle, (bucket basket shape,) pull on your wellies, [Lou checks that this tricky little word hasn't been spell checked by the computer. Computer is obsessed by sex and keeps changing wellies to willies, really annoying.]

Where was I? ...Oh yes.. wear appropriate clothing. Currently my appropriate clothing comprises two pairs of sox, one pair of saggy crotch thermal long johns, one pair of tight jeans, (to keep the thermals up,) several jumpers, a light windproof coat, a wool scarf, gardening gloves and my sturdy fake fur. I will, of course, put other layers on when I actually venture outdoors to collect the eggs.

Now, it's best to try to look innocent when egg collecting. We don't need to alert the girls to the fact that you're stealing their children, so practise sauntering. Imagine it is late spring and you are admiring the flowers. Walk in a zig-zag towards the coop so as not to be too obvious.

When you arrive at the coop exclaim loudly,

'Gosh, I'll just lift up this nest box flap and peer in, purely for the purpose of checking if the coop needs cleaning.' [Remember to smile in a nice way.]

To be honest, none of this am dram stuff really works. The girls are wise to the fact that chickens only lay eggs in the nest box when they have no where else to go. When they have access to acres and acres, it's much more fun to play hidey-seeky with the fat girl, [I'm not actually that fat, it's my coat, it makes me look poofy.]

In reality the nest box is usually the last place I check.

Ideally you need to 1.find bucket, 2. dress appropriately 3. make a coffee. All this to be done before you open the hen coop in the morning. Dressed correctly and clutching coffee and basket, pop outdoors and let the girls out. Spread a little food about and make sure they have fresh clean water, rather than a block of ice!

Then sit/stand back and sip coffee. Sure they'll all start eating, drinking and rooster will be doing his thang to the ladies, (urgh!) but sooner or later one of those girls will crave a bit of egg laying.

This is the time to employ your 'innocent look' and ideally you should appear lethargic.

She'll look surreptitiously around, probably give you a stare before picking her skirts up and running like a 6yo who needs the toilet. Here at The Larches the favoured spot for off-piste laying seems to be up behind the compost heap, so said hen, (usually Archie,) darts from the coop area, towards the house, past the front door and up the drive.

As soon as she passes me I launch into commando mode, lethargy forgotten. By tip-toe running up the drive after her, I soon reach the cover of one of the cars before she turns around to check if anyone is following her.

She stops. Checks.

By this time I am slammed against Dizzy Discovery, hardly breathing for fear of being exposed and therefore evade her beady eyes.

Off she goes again and this time I am forced to run for the cover of the Monkey Puzzle tree. Bloody spiky that tree! Again, I am undetected.

Off she goes again but this time it is clear that she has reached her destination; the hollow of the tree in the hedge behind the compost. Ah ha! I will return there later to collect that egg.

All in all, very successful, except I have 20 hens and there are approximately ten nests that are used on a rota basis. I don't need to join a gym really. Clearly the girls confer during the night in order to test my resolve. Last week they lay eggs behind the huge mountain of logs in the woodshed and the saying 'I saw something nasty in the woodshed!' has never been truer. I made it to the top of the unsteady pile and spotted 6 eggs but then the pile moved and I ended up on my derriere. Apparently country folk are taught from an early age not to climb bales or wood stacks, this wasn't mentioned in St John's Wood, London.

Anyhoo, I hope this egg collecting malarkey is now as clear as day. I shall look for an equally challenging subject shortly, possibly regarding hand-rearing lambs as I understand that the sproglets have finally worn their father down.

Till next time. Over, And. Owt! 
 

Far from the madding crowd.....

The Farmer has a fab field opposite ours. It's perfect for sledging as you will see in the video. It takes a bit of effort to walk up it, but coming down is just fine.


You know I love you to read my blog, really I do, but I also like you to experience the pictures and the daft videos I post too. Sometimes Blogger, computers or iphones block perfectly safe video or picure content, which can be annoying. If you don't see the video above, PLEASE click on the blue title of the post and you will be transported to the internet to watch the sproglets sledge.

That was Sunday and now it's Wednesday and the snow has almost gone. The sun is shining this afternoon and having spent the morning writing, I'm now off to open up the green house and check on the girls' egg production before setting off for school to watch the netball.

Catch you soon. Next blog post will be an in-depth analysis of how to collect eggs..... dead serious... not!

Ruining Lives....

Have you ever ruined someone's life? Apparently I have. Fact is I'm doing it right now. Though I'd like to join the witness protection programme and rat on various friends and relatives who are equally responsible....

We're sitting in the kitchen, the 9yo, the 7yo and I. While the 9yo is resigned to her fate, embraces it really, the 7yo is huffing and puffing like the Hogwarts Express...

He is pained and beyond consolation. There is groaning, moaning and he repeatedly drops his head into his hands. Soon there will be tears.... Yes, you've guessed it; it's thank you letter writing time.

So distraught is he that he has strongly suggested that EVERYONE should desist from buying him gifts next year, so as to spare him this torture.

Dear Santa.... I soooo hope you subscribe to The Archers at The Larches....

Must off, got to get a box of tissues.... and maybe a lovely leftover pre-dinner Christmas Snowball (with double snow!).........

Damp Tassels...

I was wearing an oft' admired grey poncho this morning. It wasn't exactly like Clint's, for starters I wash mine! Clint's, I understand, was never washed, urghhh! Anyhoo mine has tassels. Get me, fashion goddess!

I was feeling rather swish for 7:30am, poncho, boots with a heel rather than my trademark wellingtons, AND I had lipstick on, albeit that it was on my lips and my cheeks [face] as I couldn't find a blusher. I was lookin' good. I even managed to carry a porcelain teacup (it's my favourite,) filled with thick black sugary coffee, to the car. Coffee in one hand, bright orange Halloween bucket of mixed corn in the other hand [WHAT?....OK, OK, image ruined!]

I loaded the sprogs into the car for school and placed the gorgeous steaming cup of coffee on the roof of said vehicle while I went to open up and feed the chooks.

I know what you're thinking....... and you're wrong, I did not sashay back to the car forgetting that the coffee was on the roof, thus smashing my lovely tea cup to smithereens when I drove off, .... No, that was last week.... and the week before! No, I remembered it was there and placed the precious vessel in the cup holder that tolerates my cup but that would prefer a diet coke shaped drink.

There is a certain amount of off-roading to be done after we leave the comfort of our drive. There is a short strip of concrete from the front door to the stables and this is where our equine guests get washed, but out on the bridle path, the track that leads to the cross country tarmac road, we have to navigate Michigan lake-like potholes. I'm always nervous in case one turns out to be Vicar of Dibley size and the car is swallowed whole!

Along this stretch the trick is to pick the cup up out of the holder and balance it in your hand, trying to absorb the worst of the seismic activity. There must be some scientific explanation to this shock absorption but I read Art at Uni with a side order of 'dying one's hair,' so I couldn't hope to impart anything serious regarding this phenomenon.

All was well, we made it to the road; I wasn't wearing my coffee and the sprogs, unpeturbed by the usual gait of the car, were busy learning spellings and French vocab. I took a welcome gulp of nectar and placed the cup back in its holder.

Who'd have thought that poncho tassels made of a wool mix could be so thirsty. By the time I went for another slurp, the coffee had been filched by my cape. A damp patch on the material looked like Australia, plus I smelled like Starbucks! Sucking the coffee out doesn't work, all the wool bits get stuck in your teeth.

Poncho wash day here I come... Oh if anyone has Clint's number tell him I'm putting a wash on, he might want me to do his too.....







..

A Poem Salvador Dali would be proud of...

The 9yo wrote me a Love Poem...

We can be thankful for a few things in life; one's health, the love of a daughter and spellcheck...

Love Poems!

Lovers! are very kind

But lovers are pipel hou

love you

Oranges! are very sweet like

pipel. I lov oranges

Vioulet! is a coular. I love

vioulet it is very light

Eleffhunts! are fany, they have very 

long noses

Low in Iron.... high on life..



Although I'm FULL of cold and my head feels like a brick, we went trick or treating last night. This is no mean feat when you live a fair way from your neighbours and there's no street lighting. The owls helped tremendously with the atmosphere as the sproglets, (one small witch and one small rat in a vampire cape!) and I (Mummy witch; complete with geisha-white face and mean red painted-on lips,) trudged along the bridle path holding our begging-bucket. With very little breeze and a balmy temperature of 12°, our pointy hats were undisturbed, cape unruffled.

We scored some good sweeties, a ton of hand-me-down books and a barely used box of Cluedo. Being that my two are just that bit older now, they were most impressed by the Cluedo and the thought of solving a murder.

We thought our tree-farm neighbours were out for the evening so we didn't call on them, fearing their guard dog might eat us. It turns out they were in, waiting for us with goody bags.... so, I'm delighted to announce that we will be continuing the dress-up and make up adventure again tonight.... sheeesh -it appears we're trapped in groundhog day with e-numbers. 

Walking back home we came across our cow farmer friend, his pickup parked outside our nearest neighbour.

'What you up to now?' He said chuckling. I thought it was obvious but sadly, having checked his cab, he was bereft of sweeties. I'm pretty sure he thinks I'm bonkers, last week I asked if he could deliver me a load of big cardboard tubes, the type the polythene wrapping comes on for hay bales.

'What you want those for?' He asked, incredulous that I wanted his rubbish.

'I'm going to grow long show-carrots in them,' said I.

His eyebrows have a personality of their own, they weren't convinced by this gardening technique but a few hours later my tubes arrived.  

***

This morning the boy turned 7. Henceforth my sproglets are to be named the 9yo and the 7yo rather than the 8yo and the 6yo..... obviously, Doh! Struggling with the complexity of Ninjago Lego at 6am Hubby tried valiantly to put together an ice dragon.... eventually he made a weak excuse about having to be at work on time..... a likely story.

I had forgotten to bake wee cupcakes for the boy to distribute at school, instead I sent him to school with 20 mini Haribo packets. (NB. Now I need to replenish Hubby's secret stash!)

With children delivered to school I was happy to meet my vitamin dealer in the school car park: My dealer is another school mummy, a woman convinced that I'm low in iron. (I agree with her.) She delivered me a packet of big bulk iron tablets and I obediently took one. This was the first random act of kindness today. I felt pretty good, in control and it was a lovely sunny day. I was just on my way home, ready to accept my shopping delivery, bake my Birthday boy a cake and generally clean the house, when I felt the car judder.

Parking in a little supermarket car park in Ludlow my fears were confirmed - a flat tyre. Grrrr. 

To cut a long story short I was saved by TNT in Ludlow. They came to me immediately, blew up my tyre and took me to the workshop. I managed to postpone my home shopping order - thanks to a lovely chap in Tesco Kidderminster. I contemplated cancelling the order completely when I was informed that two other tyres needed replacing too. To make matters worse this was 9:30am and the new tyres weren't due to arrive at the garage till 1:30pm. Arghhhhh! I had so much to do. I felt myself welling up, my bottom lip quivered and that lump appeared in my throat.....

Random Acts of kindness shouldn't be allowed, they usually occur when your at your most vulnerable and can leave you breathless with awe that nice people and good customer service still does exist. The boss of the garage, a huge older man, concerned I might flood the garage with my tears, gave me his car. The second random act of kindness for the day.

'We'll call you when everything's done.' He said as I left the premises in a massive Mitsubishi.

Finally home, the Tesco driver - alerted to my plight, had waited on the driveway for me. Surely this was the third random act of kindness..... So brilliant. I couldn't stop thanking him.

***

Utterly fleeced of money...... seriously...... I was forced back down the mountain to collect my car and return boss's car at 2:00pm...... 3 hours and 10 minutes before I could pick the sprogs up. Sigh. Thank god for libraries. I'm behind on my reading and had omitted to pack my book into my bag before leaving the house, so I enquired of the librarian,

'Do you have Mr Chartwell by Rebecca Hunt?'

She checked. 'No sorry, it was missing at the last shelf check.'

'OK.'

I said OK in that sort of resigned-to-my-life sort of way. It was then that I remembered the book in my bag: The book the 9yo had been reading, a library book I was unable to renew recently because the library system didn't know I had checked out the book.....The 9yo had finished with it now so I was honest and returned it. The librarian was very grateful.

In the library I drifted around.... I read a few pages of a couple of new novels... didn't like them... perused the cooking and gardening section...but found nothing of interest. Then I drifted to adult fiction and thought I'd look for something to take my interest. Can you believe it? I found it; Mr Chartwell was there on the shelf, exactly where it was supposed to be! 

Seriously, do a good deed - get a goodness in return. It's Pay it Forward... I love it. Silver lining and all that shit.

Those iron tablets are definitely working.     

Rabbitting on and on and an overdue eye test...

I don't like the taste of rabbit. It's no good sending me your best recipes, I've tried loads of them. I just don't like the taste of the meat, it always tastes a little off to me. Which is why I felt really cross with myself tonight when I found I'd defrosted, not a generous turkey leg but rather, a horrid rabbit. Bugger.

Once again I searched my cook books for something to make the dish edible - nothing. Then I surfed the net, I still couldn't find a recipe.

'Knickers,' thought I.

I decided to roast the sodding thing and if it was still revolting I'd give it to the cats.

Salt, pepper, rough chopped carrots to sit the carcass on and a glass of red wine. (One for me, one for 'im.) Then, because rabbit can be very dry.... [hideous, stinky, nasty, putrid......... Getta grip Lou!...] I wrapped the roasting dish in a foil duvet and stuffed it in the oven for 40 minutes.

I pretended to be eating with the sproglets and passed them over the two roasted legs which they attacked like cavemen. Hubby was to be home later. Then I sliced moist...... moist? moist?!! ....... breast for them too. There was a comforting silence. I was amazed. I decided to brave it.

'Flipping Henry, that's gorgeous!' I said, a taste-sensation in my mouth.

'What kind of meat is this Mummy?' asked the gourmand 8yo.

'Have a guess.'

'It's pheasant.'

'No.'

'Pig, goat, lamb, chicken?'

'No.'

'I think it's pheasant.'

'No, I already said no to pheasant.'

Then the 8yo had a little light-bulb moment; 'Rabbit?'

'Yes. Good girl.'

'Funny that,' she said. 'It looks like a pheasant.'

Clever Mummy, I made yucky rabbit taste like pheasant.

*

Hubby came home when the babies were in bed.

'I now like the taste of rabbit,' I announced.

'Excellent,' he said. ''Bout time.'

'You're having rabbit for dinner too.'

'Even more excellent.' [He's game for anything hubby ..... God I'm funny.]

I brought the remains of the roast to the table with a pile of hot, crisp french fries.....

'That's not rabbit you silly moo,' he said laughing. 'That's the bloody pheasant I shot the other day!...'

'Oh!'

*

....... Clearly I still don't like rabbit!

Christmas Planning...... not!

.... Christmas was very good: It was snowy and crispy so it actually looked like Christmas. Our new log burners were beyond hot and no one fought........... although, ........ will I fess-up?????? It would be fair to say that I was universally loathed on Christmas Day.

Santa was very quiet arriving on Christmas Eve, none of us heard him. Both babies had been instructed to wait for us before they lashed downstairs but the 6yo came in about 5am anyway for a snuggle, with no mention of Santa. At 7:30 the 8yo appeared and got into bed too. She was very keen to go downstairs but we cruelly shushed her, as the 6yo was still fast asleep. She huffed and puffed... it was very entertaining.

'This is the worst day of my life,' she informed us. [Blimey, if Christmas Day as an 8yo is the worst day of her life so far, she's got some shocks coming......]

Eventually 'curly' opened his eyes,

'Hello Mamma,' he said.... still no mention of the man in red.....! I thought the 8yo would explode.

'Hello baby,' I said. 'Do you think Santa's been?' Whoaaaa there tiger!!! He was AWAKE and out of bed in one sweet movement. We stampeded downstairs, waking Grandma on the way.

Santa had ignored every single note the children had written to him and let me tell you there were plenty. Snow trapped kids are very resourceful when holed-up with three 2-kilo catalogues.... They wrote letter after letter amending the previous list over and over.

'........ actually Santa I'd rather have cat. number 556/1276: The Sweet Factory and 5 kilo of sweeties....'

Yeah, like Santa takes any notice of pleas from small children! In any event he brought bikes, big ones, or as I like to call them respite for parents. Since the snow melted we've hardly seen the sproglets; they jump over Daddy-constructed jumps on the track and power over the lawn, through the million, or so, mole hills..... grrrrrrr.

Prior to Christmas I'd extracted a promise from Hubby that we'd go to church on Christmas Day. I'm very Dorothy in that respect 'I do believe, I do believe, I do, I do, I do....' I just dislike most of the rules associated with religion and generally I cannot reconcile the role of women in religion..... Deep breath... but I was brought up Catholic and that stuff sticks. It is baby Jesus birthday y'know and I want my babies to remember that, not just the toys and feasting. The nuns would be so proud.

Unfortunately for all my grandiose insisting that we go to church, I hadn't actually checked out the times of services.... hmmmmmmm, Freudian do you think? So at 10am we wrapped Grandma in a faux fur rug in front of a stacked fire and set off on snowy roads to find a church service. [The children were extatic to be going to church; leaving light sabres and ice-cream makers for Grandma to run amok with!!!!! There were some choice phrases aimed at me let me tell you. Hubby did that look that said; I think you are Genghis Khan..........]

The roads leading to the local church seemed impassable, plus there was a sign stating that there was a 1:6 descent to get to the church and being in a tizz I'd forgotten that the church lay on the flat before the hill! We turned around and headed off across the Clee Hills to another little outcrop with a big Victorian church. That church was cold and closed so we set off again [the kids were REALLY happy by now.....] this time to a village overlooking the valley. There were humans walking up the steep, lethal, stone steps up to the church. Hurrah, we'd found our Christmas service.

We smiled at all......... one, two, three parishioners. It turned out that these three were actually the organist, the church warden and the bell puller....sorry, I can't think of a punchline. WE were the parishioners. It was 10:30am and the church was the coldest place on earth, even colder than outside, I kid you not! Hubby suggested it was probably -12°. Our breath froze as we spoke and fell to the floor, shattering into a thousand tiny pieces. Several of these pieces lodged in my heart along with the icy daggers that my family shot at me from their wild eyes.

'What time does the service start?' I enquired.

'11am,' the kindly warden-lady informed me. I didn't dare look at Hubby.

By 11am the 6yo was very near tears. I read to the children from a children's bible. They weren't interested, it's not Harry Potter is it? Fortunately the priest and one more parishioner turned up and at 11:10am the service started. It was a High Church of England service, I may as well have been back with the Catholics. It was a lovely service and we nine holy-people sang like our lives depended upon it, if only to keep warm. An hour later we were offered our freedom.

'Next year, check the bloody times please,' pleaded Hubby on the way back home in Dizzy. He's so nice, he could have said so much more. He's Santaish.... I'm more the Ice Queen but with a more limited wardrobe.