But to my joy the phone rang at crack of dawn yesterday and a gravel voice said (and I quote):  “Oil’ll be over yurr place inna ar to do them ship o’yurn”.

Panic stations!  If Mr Gribble was arriving in an hour festooned with shearing kit, I needed the sheep in the stable.  And I could see them out of the window grazing in a distant field, as far from the stable as it was possible for them to be.  It is essential, with my sheep, not to exhibit the slightest sign of tension, or they are gone.  So despite myself I ambled out to the stable and pottered around there, pretending to be innocently enjoying the early morning sun.  The sheep were intrigued, and came nearer.  When they were close enough to see, I produced my trump card:  a small feed, and placed it casually inside the stable.  The sheep like feed.  So they swarmed into the stable, I swung the door and huzzah!  I had them and the day was going to be a success.

Sheep are funny things.  Mine are more intelligent than many, for instance Foxie can climb into a tractor and Teazle can shake hands.  But when they see feed, everything else goes out of their minds.  You could see the woolly thought lodging beneath the ears:  “FEED!  Feed feed feed feed feed!”  Then when they had finished it, they looked round and saw the shut stable door.  “Ah!”  Or I suppose more realistically, “Baa!”  And then they just switched off and waited on events.

Mr Gribble does a quick and efficient job.  He’s gentle with the girls and trims their toenails too, but I can’t say they enjoy the whole process.  Later on, when they were back out in the sun again looking svelte and gazelle like (big change from the battered old slappers who had gone into the stable), I wandered down to have a chat.  I thought they might see me, say “Eek, false turncoat!  Betrayer of sheep!” and run.  But they didn’t.  They said “Here comes nice food lady!” and came galloping to greet me in case I had another feed for them.  They even threw in a few dance steps because they were feeling light and airy.

All in all yesterday was one of the better shearing days.

You may already realise that I’m new to this game.  When I was growing up, an elegant grand piano lived in an unregarded corner of the drawing room, but the only time it ever gave tongue was when the cat walked up the octaves.  Fun but not cultural.

Anyway, my new piano arrived in a van yesterday, ushered in by a muscle bound bloke called Will and his mate, who needed a cup of tea afterwards and said they had never realised pianos were so heavy.  Will added that pianos made him come out all over because he used to have lessons from a bird who looked like a witch and shouted at him.  Note to self:  find a teacher who looks friendly and speaks quietly.

The only tiny detached bee’s leg in my honeypot of joy is that, although it looks delightful with its marquetry and brass pedals, my new piano sounds like nothing on earth.  When everybody had gone outside, I lifted the lid and reverently pressed a key.  It didn’t work.  I tried another and was rewarded by a strange echoing twang.  I tried a third time and the cat gave me a reproachful stare and stalked out of the kitchen door.

Ultimately I aim to fill the house with gentle music, and hold impromptu concerts for family and close friends.  In the short term something needs to be done about the honky tonk/wild west saloon vibe.   Second note to self:  find a piano tuner.

Next time I write I’ll tell you about the recent stirring events in the hen run (will they never settle?)  In the mean time I’m going to have another amateur bash at the piano, and hope that this time the geese don’t line up against the window and yell at me like they did this morning when I attempted a basic scale.

He did a couple of laps at racing speed, claws scrabbling on the polished oak floor as he cornered, acknowledging his red-faced owner with a careless sideswipe of an enormous flannel-like tongue as he went barrelling past.  Then, still exuding bonhomie and joie de vivre, he went to ground under the top table from where he could be heard busily ripping a napkin to shreds.

He was finally retrieved and ejected by the head waiter, leaving with great reluctance and with all four brakes on.  His mortified owner told us that he’d left Hawkins in the cloakroom with his supper, asking the staff to keep an eye on him, and thought he’d be fine for the evening.  But Hawkins managed to slip out, and being a gregarious chap, headed for the sound of voices with the end result that we witnessed (to our great joy).

‘There but for the grace of God go I’.  If I’d tried that with Indie (and thank goodness I didn’t) and if Indie had winkled out of the cloakroom in the same way (and thank goodness he hadn’t) I can hardly bear to think what an active pirate could achieve once he’d gained the dining room.  Well actually I can.  Knowing Indie as I do he’d have leaped onto the long dining table with one lithe spring and then would have slid down the polished mahogany with glasses shattering, flower arrangements spilling and massive silver epergnes crashing in all directions.  And no waiter could have caught him either, Indie has mastered the art of side stepping at great speed.

So we comforted Hawkins’ owner with the thought that it could have been much, much worse:  he could have owned a whippet rather than a Labrador.

This being the depth of rural Wiltshire, the ladies are mainly Labradors and terriers, and the concept of the Black Moth climbing into windows (he would!) and sharing his charms about whenever a lady said Yes (they would!) is all too frighteningly real.  So to avoid outraged neighbours and paternity suits, Indie visited the vet.

Most of the whole process went swimmingly well.  Indie thought the vet was wonderful, and the veterinary nurses formed a very pleasing chorus of admiration wherever he went (“What a handsome chap!” “Have you ever seen anything so shiny?” etc)   But oh dear!  When he was released back to his family, he was wearing a plastic Cone of Shame.  It was the worst thing that had ever happened to him.  I retreated to the car with an ex-pirate trailing miserably behind me, not making eye-contact.

On the way home, I removed the Cone and Indie was instantly transformed into a happy chap.  But before we left the surgery, the vet had impressed upon me how vital it was that he wear the Cone at all times to prevent him licking his stitches.  But it made him deeply sad.  Something had to be done, and I did it.

Reader, I had a lightbulb moment, and when we got home I fitted him up with a pair of cotton knickers, his tail went out of one of the leg holes.  I tied the loose bit at the sides (pirates have snake-hips) with elastic bands, so they stuck out prettily.  The knickers were white and pink spotted, very piratical (or so I told Indie).  And for the next two weeks he trotted merrily around the place in his knickers, sublimely unaware that the rough dogs of the village (and their owners) were rolling in the street with laughter as he passed.

The stitches are out now, and the whole thing went beautifully.  Indie’s happy because he’s made some lovely new friends at the vet surgery, and wore interesting new clothing.  I’m happy because I won’t have cardboard boxes of black and white pirate puppies dumped on the doorstep at night.  And he will never, ever see the photos of himself taken during the stitches period.  Heh heh heh.

This was mainly because Porous liked me.  It’s always heart-warming if an animal expresses an obvious preference, because there is no hidden agenda.  Porous would chase muscle-bound builders over the wall, but keep me company if I pegged out washing in his orchard, chatting with quiet intensity about the day’s events.  I miss him very much.

But the vacuum he left needed filling and as soon as we arrived back from our travels I looked for a new gander, which proved surprisingly difficult.  I was offered goslings, but the geese wanted a proper chap, tall and strong, not a fuzzy baby.  Then I heard of a man who knew a man who might be able to help, and when I rang his number he said that he had a gander which he’d sell to me if I drove over that evening.

It had been a busy day and I didn’t really want an hour’s drive (each way).  But the geese looked at me with enormous bereaved eyes, and so I heaved a sigh, packed the dogs into the car and set off.  When I arrived at the address I had been given (a motley collection of sheds) I was presented with a pig feed sack with a hole cut in it, out of which stuck the neck of the most battered gander I have ever seen.  He’d been in the sack a long time and (to put it delicately) the sack was awash.

I placed him carefully in the passenger footwell, which had the best rubber mat, and drove home as quickly as possible.  The gander stared at me, the dogs stared at the gander, and the car filled rapidly with strong eau de gander – by the time we reached home our eyes watered and the gander was christened Stinker Pinker.

It was lovely to cut Pinker out of his horrible feed sack and let him limp off into the soft green grass of the orchard.  He headed straight for the trough and had a long, long drink and bath.  He’s missing most of his feathers and has been sprayed with blue dye, but the geese think he’s wonderful which is what matters.  I haven’t got an idea of his character yet, but I’ll keep you informed.

We had a camp fire going, had cooked steak for supper and had just got to that lazy stage of gazing up at the sky and wondering why exactly a ha-ha is named a ha-ha.  Then we realised we were not alone.

Silently, out of a desert which I would have sworn was empty for countless miles, a man and a camel had arrived and were standing in the darkness beyond our chairs, listening to our talk.  The camel was tall, wearing a bridle made of plastic string, and the man was young.  Goodness knows how long they had been there, but as soon as we noticed them we offered the man a drink and the camel a respectful nod and included them in.

We conversed in faltering French.  No we didn’t, it wasn’t as smooth as that.  We tried out various French phrases, the man looked at us thoughtfully through the gloom while he drank his coke, and the camel stood tall and despised us openly.

When he had finished his drink, the man put the tin carefully on the ground, said “The camel is called Brown” (one of our many questions) (also coincidentally the camel’s colour), the camel said something gurgley and the two of them melted away into the darkness.  The whole thing only lasted a few minutes but the memory will remain.  Neither wanted anything from us – the camel certainly didn’t and I think the man only drank the coke to be polite.

I looked up ha-ha’s as soon as I got home.  ‘Ha-ha’ is the expression of delighted surprise you might make when you strolled from your formal garden and discovered a wall invisibly keeping stock at bay.  Or there again you might say ‘ha-ha’ when you and your camel came across a strange party of visitors with barbecue tools and roof tents where there was usually just heat and sand.  And you and your camel might hang out with them for a while to experience a different culture.  And then you would move on.

I left them when they were at the all-knees-and-elbows stage of teenagerhood.  Random patches of fluff, unexpected feather spikes, enormous beaks and scraggy necks.  In human terms, they were communicating in grunts, sleeping all day and dressing up in hoodies to do secretive things with mates all night.

So I went to collect them not expecting much, quite honestly.  But what a difference three weeks makes!  The chicks have divided themselves neatly into two sub-sets:  loo brushes and cuckoo-clones, and all of them are beautiful.  The loo brushes, all white, are divine.  They are frizzles and every feather curls wildly in the wrong direction, which shouldn’t work but does.  The cuckoo-clones are mottled, one of my favourite hen-colours, and all impeccably neat and organised.  None of the cuckoos are frizzles, funny how genetics work.

This brings me neatly on to the miraculous subject of eggs.  There they are: six eggs.  They could make an omelette, or a smallish quiche, or they could be inserted under a grumbling broody hen (all my broodies have attitude), or placed in an incubator as I did with this lot.  19 days later (not very long) hey presto! out pop six Easter chicks, all cute and fluffy.

It doesn’t always work that way of course.  Last year a friend borrowed my incubator for some incredibly special rare breed eggs she had obtained, and used one of my eggs from an infertile cockerel as a spacer.  Need I tell you the punchline?  The only egg to hatch was the one from my infertile cockerel (he was just a slow starter).  The expensive rare breed eggs would have done better in an omelette.

But this year all went well. I chose the eggs at random and every single one hatched out (well done the team) and now they are six mini-bantams, fat and stylish.  Huzzah!

In the Sahara, I treasure my food, washstand, camera.  Now I’m getting used to possessions such as a grandfather clock, a backgammon set, an inherited umbrella/horse measure combo.   It takes time.

In Morocco we were constantly among people who led a hard and unforgiving life in which their animals shared.  The animals have worked out coping stratagems, particularly the camels who just rise above the whole thing, but returning to my pampered brood is a relief.

The two horses are fat and feral.  They have been fed and checked but not handled for two weeks and now they are wild and free, spirit of the prairies.  I’m going to have fun when I saddle up Slip.  The sheep need shearing, no doubt about it.  And they’ve already mentioned the fact that they don’t fancy the idea.  More joy to come.

Indie is slim and shiny and has spent a useful fortnight persuading the housesitter that he is allowed to do things normally forbidden.  “I ALWAYS jump up on the breakfast table and walk about on it:   nobody has ever told me not to.  And I eat butter out of the butter dish.  Obviously.”

The Labradors are slightly fatter, and smug.  “Whippet’s been up on the breakfast table every day, and eaten all the butter.  We haven’t.  We’ve been in our baskets, because we are GOOD.  Not like Indie.  He’s bad.”

Scarab spent a peaceful couple of weeks licking all his winter fur off from the depths of our duvet, having hooked open a door that was meant to be closed.  He’s now sleek and svelte, and our duvet cover is indescribable.

Up in the henrun, Twinkle the incredibly old bantam shuffled off her mortal coil on the henhouse steps.  This freaked out her sisters who refused to go to bed over her cooling body, instead dispersing to far corners of the orchard and perching in trees.  They were not very good at this, fell out with dull thuds then sat on the grass as perfect fox food.  So the housesitter had to bury Twinkle with full military honours (which freaked out the housesitter) then find the rest of the gang by torchlight, before the fox.

Now I must go and fetch the chicks, who spent the fortnight with a friend in the village.  I hope you’ve all had a great early May, and I’ll write more when I’ve slept enough to be able to make sense.

Inspired, I rushed to put the chicks’ run out on the grass so they could feel the sun and eat fallen blossom (for some reason all poultry adores eating blossom, small chicks no exception).  I took Slip’s rug off so he could sunbathe and top up on Vitamin D and I set off on a long walk with Darcy and Indie.

When I was at the further end of the walk, a cold wind arose.  It whistled up some ominous clouds which rapidly blotted out the sun and I accelerated, because I knew what would happen next.  It did happen:  when I was nearly home the sky turned dark purple and it began to hail.  I shot home and moved the chicks back indoors under their infra red lamp.  They were surprised, but rapidly recovered.  Then I whizzed out to the field and put Slip’s rug back on.  He hates hail, so was galloping around the field scattering sheep and swearing under his breath.  I got his rug on as quickly as possible, but he was blaming me for everything throughout, and I can’t say he was cooperative.  Then I rushed home to dry Darcy and Indie who looked as if they had just emerged from a swimming pool.

Then the sun came out and everything steamed.  Steamiest of the lot was Slip, who was now too hot in his rug, and blaming me all over again.  So I took his rug off and, after a dither, put the chicks out again (which, I should mention here, takes 3 journeys every time – one for the run, one for the box of chicks and one for their food and water bowls).  Then I encouraged the dogs outside to dry off in the sun.

And that’s when it started to rain again.

Well, that’s Spring for you, and at least the grass is growing.  We’re off to the Sahara wild-camping next week which is guaranteed to produce a couple of weeks of gladsome warm weather back in the UK: it always does.

Somebody had released their dairy herd after a long winter indoors.  For months the cows had stood in squashy brown straw, deep in gloomy barns and today was the day they had been shown into an enormous green field and encouraged to let their sentiments rip.

How can I describe it?  It was a huge herd of black and white cows, and they surged galumphing down the field, bucking, kicking, waving their heels and their heads in the air with udders flying in every direction and any idea of dignity or decorum flown away into the sweet Spring air.

It’s not a great Spring yet; the trees are still bare and the grass is only just beginning to show, but it did it for these girls all right.  I’ve never seen a happier crew.  They could feel the breeze, and hear the birds, and taste the grass and they must have felt like a prisoners released into Paradise.

Any time I’m feeling slightly at odds with my surroundings: if it’s been raining non-stop, or so windy that Slip goes nuts, or the grey skies won’t let the sun through I’ll remember those cows.  The delight of being out in the open, in the rural Wiltshire countryside, is not a thing to be taken for granted.  It’s a thing to be appreciated daily, and treasured.