Monthly Archives: July 2012

Lupin heist!

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Last night as I slept (probably, full details of timings etc are yet to emerge) a hideous crime was perpetrated.  Somebody crept into our garden and nicked a lupin.

I didn’t notice initially, as I went to feed the hens this morning.  Then on my way back I glanced over to my flower bed (the only flower bed that I have managed to salvage from the combined attentions of the hens/dogs/cat) and there was a bit missing.  Where there used to be a tasteful mass of blue/purple/pink/white flowers linked by rampant bindweed (also pink, white and very harmonious) there was now a large hole in the very middle.

At first I thought it had been Scarab getting a bit overenthusiastic in his love-affair with the rampant catmint that I welcome because it is purple and within my colour swatch.  But it wasn’t.  And nor was it the dogs, digging a careful hole in which to hide a treasure (step forward Darcy, and a dead mouse he was deeply attached to).  And nor was it the hens, creating an extra special dustbath.

As you can see from the list of suspects, my flower bed has an uphill struggle to survive as it is, without the additional attentions of a genuine human lupin thief.

When I got beyond my dismay at the trampled path into the middle of the bed, and realised that a large crater had been purposefully dug to get out the roots, I raced back indoors and consulted some photos I took after a passer-by said that my flowers were looking ‘very pretty’, the nicest thing anybody had ever said about the garden.  ‘Characterful’, and ‘fun’, I’ve had, but ‘very pretty’ was a first.  So I had recent photographic evidence that the bit that was missing was a large lupin.  Pink, it was, and burgeoning.

I contemplated ringing the police, but the ensuing conversation could have been a bit feeble:  “I have to report the theft of a lupin.”  “A wot?”  “A lupin.”  “Sorry to hear that, can you give me a description?”  “Well, it’s a lupin.  And it’s pink …”

Nah, I rang the Neighbourhood Watch coordinator to tell him of the Terror that is Stalking our Streets, and I’m afraid to say that he giggled and asked me for an Identikit of the missing plant.  But I’m taking it seriously.  Somebody came into the garden, trampled into the middle of my only decent flowerbed, and collared a pink lupin.  So now my family, the dogs, cat (very fierce when roused) and chickens are on full alert.  Let him visit again, after a delphinium or similar, and we are armed and ready for him.  Or of course her.  I’ll be looking carefully at Audrey’s garden, for instance, next time I ride past it …

Hay!

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We live in an intensely rural community, and nothing brings this home more than the present spell of fine weather.  As week followed week of drenching, cold rain everybody was beginning to worry about hay.  You’ve got to have hay if you’ve got horses and sheep.  Those with cows can give them silage, and some horses do well with haylage, but for the smallholder there is nothing to replace the comfort of having a hay barn packed with old fashioned small bales of meadow hay, as a preparation for the winter.  And nobody could make hay with the weather that lasted from April through to a week ago.  There was lots of lush grass, certainly, but our pastures were lakes, and there was no sunshine to make hay with.

Then the sun came out and it’s been manic ever since.  The fields dried within a day, and then every tractor in the parish was revved up and took to the roads.  Frank drives a very old vintage tractor, and takes things steadily.  Occasionally he has to go onto the bigger roads to reach an outlying field, and then he picks up an instant tail of steaming mad commuters who find his habit of driving in the middle of the road at 10mph while wearing a tweed cap almost impossible to bear.

At the other end of the scale, Maurice has a stable of vast, gleaming tractors that roar about the place at warp speed dragging mighty implements behind them.  Commuters find him much easier to be stuck behind, but it’s not so great if you are riding a sensitive horse and hear one of Maurice’s monsters approaching.  All you can do is pray you’ll reach a gateway that you can dive into before it comes bellowing around the corner and frightens your horse (Slip) into spasms.  Even the geese don’t chase Maurice’s tractors, and that’s saying something.

But now our hay barn is full of beautiful bales of meadow hay – baled sunshine to keep the stock happy in the depths of the winter.  It’s a fab feeling, and makes arms like chewed spaghetti and legs covered in stubble rash after heaving around bales seem well worth while.

By the way, whippet puppy is now conceived.  Getting more exciting all the time.  And Dolly the frizzle chick has come down from the ark and is now making full use of the hen run’s amenities.  I must just now find a way of stopping Wenceslas showing a more than paternal interest in her.  She is a very pretty hen, but she is not for him.

More new kids on the block

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I’ve just spent a happy half hour in the hen run, introducing this year’s fresh young chicks to the old lags who live there.  It’s a peerless day, unclouded blue sky with promise of real heat later in the day, and the smell of the neighbouring hay field makes every breath a pleasure.  So I didn’t exactly rush away as the chicks made their way down the gang plank, all wobbly knees and big eyes, to discover what the rest of their lives is going to be like.

I put them in the hen house last night, so that they would become part of the flock in the dark of the night without really realising it had happened.  This morning the home team came bouncing down the ramp all fluffy and bright eyed and made a bee line for breakfast.  Then came a pause as the chicks all shuffled around the hole in the floor of the ark, gazing down at the hen run below and saying ‘after you’ to each other (the little ark they started out in doesn’t have a gang plank).

Then Frillz, the bravest, started inching slowly down the plank, all claws and feathers.  She started to speed up despite herself, then gravity took over and she finished her descent at warp speed, hitting the ground below with a startled squawk.  She’ll learn how to do the plank, it just takes practice.  Encouraged by her example, the rest of the chicks came out to join her except for Dolly (there’s always one).  Dolly yelled through the hole in the floor that she is having nothing to do with that there plank, and is going to live as a hermit in the hen house.  For ever.

The other chicks all headed out into the run.  It’s bigger, and lusher, and greener and more interesting than anything they have ever seen before.  They explored as a pack (safety in numbers), and when I came in to write this they had:

  • Tried out the drinker (big success)
  • Stuffed themselves with breakfast once the older hens had finished
  • Watched Wenceslas having a dust bath (awesome sight)
  • Been chased by Fluffy (most unfair, as she was once Frillz’ mum)
  • Found and eaten a small and bewildered spider which they discovered with shrieks of excitement under a leaf

Now they have the rest of the day free to explore and amaze themselves.  I’ve got a busy day ahead myself, but I’ll just nip out now and see if I can encourage Dolly to walk the plank and join her mates …

Sun! Yes, really!

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It’s happened!  The sun is shining and (you can’t always take this for granted) it’s warm with it.  Not hot yet, that would be too much to hope for, but the forecasters are quietly confident that we may yet ‘bask’.  And basking would be nice after so much shivering and sheltering.

The village has burst into colourful life after months of hibernating under grey skies swollen with rain.  Over the weekend my neighbours split into traditional roles, easily and naturally and without discussion.  Mars dug out the lawnmower/strimmer/any other power tool that he could seize and make noise with, and roared about the garden cutting things down.  Venus either made a trip to the farm shop if she could be bothered and bought steaks/burgers/BBQ chicken portions or disinterred frozen sausages from the very bottom of the freezer and in both cases gave them to Mars to burn on the barbecue.

Sun umbrellas were erected.  People tried to remember how to mix a Pimms, and some of the loudest jollity came from the gardens where people had forgotten and got the proportions wrong.  And Mr Addington appeared in a pair of empire-building shorts that were belted just beneath his armpits and reached nearly down to his ankles.  For months now he has been telling anybody who would listen that a second ice age is on its way and we are doomed.  Yesterday he was flagging down passers-by and telling them that global warming has now arrived and we are doomed.

Meanwhile every farmer in the vicinity has leaped aboard their biggest tractor and taken to the lanes and fields.  Most cut their hay yesterday, though some waited another 24 hours for the unprecedented sun/ breeze combo to transform lakes back into meadows.  I’m just back from walking the dogs, and the air is full of the unforgettable, primal, glorious smell of drying grass.

As for my animals, we have mixed reviews on the change in the weather.  The hens are thrilled, and are lying about in attitudes with their wings fanned out, sunbathing.  The sheep say it’s Too Hot and have withdrawn to the back of the field shelter.  The horses, though swaddled in fly rugs and face masks, are the centre of a buzzing mass of flies and have joined the sheep in the field shelter.  The dogs are two black lumps in the shadow of a crab apple tree, and Scarab the cat is sun-worshipping from the depths of a cat mint bed.

In fact it’s fab here right now.  Looks good, smells great, and helps me remember all over again why, despite everything, North Wiltshire can be a sort of earthly paradise.  Once the mud has dried up.

How many dogs is enough?

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My whippet Thistle died a couple of years ago.  He was a rescue whippet, who had an awful start in life, but we loved each other on sight, and he was seldom apart from me for the rest of his long life.  He was my little grey shadow – when I drove somewhere he was curled up on the passenger seat; when I gardened he was sniffing flowers next to me; when I camped he was down the bottom of my sleeping bag, keeping my toes warm.

His loyalty to me was a constant joy, but the flip side was that he didn’t think much about anybody else.  In particular he didn’t think much about my husband, who came back from a business trip to find Thistle comfortably ensconced in an armchair, looking down his long nose at him.

If Thistle had been a human being, he would have been a Regency Buck, all close fitting silks and impeccable Mechelin lace.  And he would have challenged my husband to a duel, with foils.  As he was just a recently rescued whippet he did the most creative thing he could think of in the circumstances, and deposited a finely-sculpted meringue-shaped mess in my husband’s place at the breakfast table the next morning.  As you can imagine, it didn’t improve the relationship and they finally reached a sort of stand-off which continued for the next 14 years.

When Thistle died in my arms at a fine old age I mourned him deeply.  He left behind him our two jolly Labradors, who are classic slap-you-on-the-back-and-buy-you-a-drink types.  We agreed that two dogs was probably enough, and that was the end of my whippet keeping.  Or so I thought.

Then last winter I was ambling past the village post office and I saw a car parked outside with an elegant whippet smiling at me out of the window.  I tracked down her owner who was buying stamps in the post office.  And yes, the whippet was adorable.  And they would be breeding from her when she was old enough.  I pressed my phone number on her owner and awaited events.

Last week I received a text saying the whippet is about to pay a call on a gentleman whippet, with great hopes from all sides.  Of course she may not take to the whole courtship and maternity thing.  But if she does, I just know I won’t be able to resist putting my name down for a puppy.  I’ll keep you posted!

 

 

Positive thinking from Oz

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We’ve got Australian visitors staying at the moment, much loved friends from the time when we lived in Oz for a couple of years.  Their arrival was a lesson in positivity (is there such a word?  Computer thinks there is).

To set the scene, as they stepped out of the car there was a strong wind blowing curtains of rain over the garden.  The flowers were bent in two before the gale, the roses were scattering petals over a large area.  In the distance some weird looking chickens were sheltering damply beneath a hen ark.  Geese were dabbling happily in puddles on what used to be a lawn.  In the very far distance some wet and furious sheep could be glimpsed, asking for their fleeces back.  The horses were just two disapproving noses sticking out from the field shelter.

“How lush, how green!” said our friends, “what lovely flowers!” (catching some  petals as they blew past).  Then they took photos of each other wearing wellies (“great boots!”) and sliding around in mud when I took them on a dog walk (“hey, this is fun!”)  Then they said it was nice not to be too hot for once.  I love ‘em.

And, chatting about it later, England does have its points.  Ours is a benevolent, if damp, little country.  Yes we have rain, but we don’t have mighty bush fires (hah!)  The worst thing our spiders will do is make faces at you from the bath: they will not put you in hospital or worse (unless, of course you leap back in horror at their hairy legs and trip on the bath mat, but that would not really be their fault).  We have the odd snake, but not slant eyed killers like the Oz set.  I once saw a grass snake taking a dip in our pond and it was a most delightful sight.

But still, but still … I woke with my mind full of mighty gum trees, and sun, and cockatoos coming to the bird feeder rather than the small brown jobs that gorge on the one I have here.  I’ll take an Australian lesson and think positively.  The small brown jobs sing beautifully and I can well remember what the cockatoos say.  It’s “SQUARK!”

We’re off to Castle Combe now, such a pretty village.  That’s another thing England can do well – pretty stone villages.  That don’t get blown away in cyclones.  Think positive … think positive … think positive.  And ignore the rain.

Weekend round-up #1

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Book:  I’ve now sent the corrected proofs back to the publishers (very few typos – respect!)  Publishing date is now set for 15 September – yay!!  I think it’s going to feature at Country Living’s Autumn Fair, which will be fun.

Weather:  more rain than you would believe could fall out of a single sky.  I was about to do my evening rounds with the dogs last night and opened the back door.  Outside it looked as if somebody was sitting on the roof tipping buckets of water down right in front of me.  Just masses of water falling straight down.  The dogs and me decided to go right back indoors and light the woodburner instead.  The stream is roaring along, normally it doesn’t flow at all in summer.  On the plus side, it looks very pretty if the rain stops for long enough for me to go and look at it.

Horses:  I took Slip out around the lanes this morning, between showers, and all the water dragons were out.  Water dragons live in puddles, and they wait … and wait … and then they LEAP OUT AT YOU!!  That is, it hasn’t happened yet, but when it does Slip will be ready for them.  Harry isn’t interested in water dragons, but he says the grass is excellent this year, very lush.  And Harry is a connoisseur of grass and currently shaped like a beer barrel.

Cat:  Scarab says thank you for the kind concern, and his paw is feeling much better.  He highly recommends wicker cat baskets, because then the human can go through all the fun of thinking they are taking a cat to the vet while the cat can stay at home and wish them well.  Wicker baskets have escape routes (see previous blog).  Plastic baskets don’t, and are not to be trusted.

Sheep:  Because of current weather conditions, the ewes spend most of their time gossiping in the field shelter while the lambs climb on a straw bale that I put out for them.  The lambs think they are semi-aquatic, bless them, and know no different.

Hens:  I know I’m biased, but the frizzle chicks (Wenceslas’ little princesses) are ridiculously cute.  I’ll see if Mikey can put a photo of one on the blog at the weekend, so you can see what I mean.

HAVE A GREAT WEEKEND, AND IF YOU LIVE IN THE UK REMEMBER TO TAKE A BROLLY!

 

 

Stress testing cat baskets

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Had an emotional morning taking Scarab the cat to the vet.  The emotion wasn’t provided by Scarab, who remained dignified throughout, or the vet who is a ministering angel:  all emotion came from the cat basket.

Some time ago I bought a beautiful wicker cat basket just in case Scarab needed to go mobile.  Scarab is a special cat, he has an enormous purr and beautiful manners.  He likes taking things gently and emphatically does not like rushing about or fighting, and as a result he doesn’t often visit the vet.  But if he did I thought the wicker basket would suit him a treat, being beautifully made and tasteful.  Rather like Scarab himself.

So when Scarab developed the sort of limp that needs professional help, I produced the wicker cat basket with pride, lined it with a jumper and put Scarab carefully inside.  There was a brief pause, then a long stripey arm appeared under the grille and levered it open, followed by Scarab’s face (ears in aerodynamic mode) then the rest of him.  The basket still looked gorgeous – just completely empty.  This was not going to work.

I fetched a solid cardboard box, put Scarab in that and tied the box firmly shut.  I put it in the car, left the door open for ventilation and went to lock the house.  I came back to the car and started the engine.  And then I spotted Scarab sitting far up the garden, calmly washing his face.  How on earth??  Well, the cardboard box wasn’t going to work either.

I try not to do stress – animals hate it, and it doesn’t seem to achieve much.  But I was very aware that Scarab’s appointment with the vet was coming up rapidly and it was the only one available today.  So I rang Mrs Addington and asked if I could borrow Ming’s cat basket.  And she said that no, I couldn’t, because it was hygienically sterile and only Ming could use it.  I was about to bin the whole thing when Scarab limped theatrically past and reminded me that he had a throbbing paw that was giving him gip.  So I ran to Frank’s house, and Phyllis lent me a cheap plastic cat box that they had bought (but not used) for the ferrets.  And it was marvellous – none of the winsome charm of the wicker basket or rugged practicality of the cardboard box, but it was simply perfect for taking a cat to the vet.  I wish I’d bought one in the first place.

Baylis doesn’t make cakes

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I was walking the dogs around the village yesterday when I overheard an exchange that I have been simply burning to share with you.  So here it is:

As we ambled along, I spotted Julia the hedge fund manager jogging along in front of me.  You may remember that Julia has been jogging around the village for several months now, sometimes in company with her personal trainer who springs along lithely next to her, nearly running on the spot as Julia pounds grimly along.  Sometimes she takes her dog along for company, and often the dog walks even though Julia is running, a sight worth seeing.  One of these days she will actually participate in a charity run and I am quite sure she will make an enormous amount of money for the charity of her choice.  But in the short term I held back when I came up behind her, as no runner actually enjoys being overtaken by a dog walker.

Coming towards us in the other direction was a lovely old villager called Baylis.  I have no idea whether this is his Christian name or surname, I’ve never quite liked to ask.  But he is a real old countryman and I love talking to him because he remembers long ago very clearly.  I have listened enthralled when he told me that he remembered 30 plough horses coming to drink at the village pond, and when houses called ‘The Old Smithy’ and ‘The Old Laundry’ really were respectively a working smithy and a laundry.

Anyway, as I lurked unobtrusively in the hinterland, Julia paused as she came abreast of Baylis.  She is an organiser to her fingertips and is currently organising a village party to which she wants as many people as possible to bring a cake.  Although Baylis is unlikely to have cooked anything in his life, having been looked after first by his wife and now by his daughter, Julia just couldn’t resist a teasing little question:  “Well Baylis, are you going to cook a sponge cake for the village party?”  Baylis paused thoughtfully, rested on his stick, and raised his wonderful old wrinkled countryman’s face to hers.  “Oi would sooner clean out moi neighbour’s cess pit with moi bare ‘ands,” he said.  “Much sooner.”

So that would be a no, then.  Julia blushed and stammered and the dogs and me slipped quietly through a gap in the hedge and returned home another way.