The metal man, the excavators, the ping!

Out in the front garden, taking advantage of the rainy weather to do some digging, and along comes a man in a van. He stops. The only word I can make out is 'metal'. Presume he wants some. Have old washing machine in gate porch. 'Machine a laver?' I say. Seems to do the trick. To the gate he drives.

Uploads machine. Hubs appears. Takes over. Man offers money for the caravan. Can't have it. We are still bedding down there. No sign of builders yet to come and remedy the situation by finishing off the Half Barn for us. No probs, though - they will come when it is time for them to do so. Meanwhile....

Man goes, saying something about 'cinq avril'. Question Hubs. Does he mean he is coming to pick up the caravan on the 5th April? 'Bit inconvenient', I think. Too cold for sleeping outside in a tent. Inside is not do-able. Rats, you see, are still floating around although most are now in heaven swinging about amongst the clouds as rat-angels, although not in the Half Barn which is rat-proof. We think.

Anyway: 5th April. 'No' says Hubs, 'He's coming to pick up two lambs'.

'Oh', is all I manage to say.

'The young male..... (oh.....the one I bottle fed, still comes and says hello, and is our first born lamb) ......and one of the young females'.

We look at each other. And go on with our day. Quietly. Pondering. Not saying much to each other. Just in thought.

Lunchtime. Reclining on settees for a few minutes, Hub say, 'I'm not going to let him take the lambs. It's not right......' With much relief I hear him echoing my own thoughts. Not that I am necessarily attached to the male lamb. I always knew he was going to head towards the freezer eventually. It's just that I wanted to be with him as he was sent heavenwards. Sort of honouring his life. Saying thankyou to him for the lessons he has taught me, which are many.

The metal man offered a fair price for the two lambs, which would have contributed to half the feed bill for all the animals for one month.  But he did not have the look of an animal person about him. He saw only profit. To buy and sell. That is what he does. Which is OK for inanimate objects, not for real live beings. In other words, he would not have respected them.

We are going to eat our lambs, and we will pass on our surplus to wherever it needs to go. Hopefully some of it will be sold to pay for the animal feed. But we will make sure those lambs will have a good life right up until the moment when they cease to breathe. That  mindset was reinforced for us after the visit from the metal man. So another step in the learning curve of How to Make a Small Farm out of nothing. Taking responsibility for what we eat, that is what we are trying to do here.

Ping! Oh what a mighty shock was had by our chief excavator. The trainee excavators are doing very well in the Sheep Paddock, and have dug up half their patch already. Hubs thinks he ought to get some electric fencing toute suite, as they seem to prefer the margins of their patch, just by the fence. He fears lest they make an escape sometime soon. Trying to catch the little ones in the confined space of the ex-office he found to be quite stressful. Slippery things, piglets are. And they squirm and go all wriggly when held. Having them out and about and galloping hither and thither? Absolutely not! Trying to catch them again, would, quite frankly, be a nightmare.

But the fences of Max and Tess's paddocks are strong, with poles securely cemented in, strong wire, and an inner fence of electric. The electric works a treat. Hubs has had a jolt. Max has had a jolt. Tess has had a jolt. And I have too, although only a small one which came up through the shears I was using to cut the grass which was busy using the electric wire as a support.

Feeding time. Out goes Hubs with the buckets of food. Both Tams were prancey, Max pushing and shoving Tess out of the way so he could stand by the fence and get first go at the food. Tess was in a mood, as could be seen by her lowered head. She can sulk big time, can our Tessy. It's surprising how miserable she can look sometimes, and I have come to the conclusion that female pigs are real drama queens. This was confirmed by the squeals of outrage which came from the littl'uns in their nursery paddock after Hubs let the sheep out but didn't then go on to feed them. They squealed and squealed at him as he walked away. He told them that he waiting for their feed to cool down, but they weren't listening. Drama queens of whatever pursuasion rarely do.

So: Hubs was fiddling about with something or other and was slow to give the Tams their food. This enabled Tessy to get in between the fence and Max, which is rare. Unfortunately Max then took it into his mind to shove Tess away, but pushed her into the fence. Electric on? Yep. Shock sent through? Yep.

The thing is, that when electricity is travelling through soft tissue it will keep going. This Maxy found out.

Now such is the way of a male pig, that he feels the need to have a regular sniff of the rear end of the female pig, just in case she happens to be having an unexpected season. So he doesn't miss the opportunity to make babies, that's why he does that.

And so, because he was in the right position to have a sniff, midway through the shove to get her out of the way of the imminent arrival of food, he took a quick moment to have that quicky sniff, which put his nose exactly at the other end of her body. Unfortunately his actions did not do well by him, because the shove pushed her onto the electric fence, which then catapaulted a charge of electricity through her which carried straight on into Max via his snout which was resting deliciously on her fanny. Ping!!!!

Apparently he sprang back, surveying the much longed for botty of Tess with surprise written all over him. Meanwhile, she got first munch of the food, was noticeably more cheerful, and I suspect that she was secretly pleased that Max had been given a 'reward' for his bullying behaviour! It remains to be seen whether or not he will now develop a phobia about her rear. Hopefully he will not regard that part of her as a no-go area and will get over his fright at what happened when he was giving her a friendly sniffing. We hope so too, although Hubs is investigating artificial insemination as a possible alternative in the future, if he does not manage to do his job. But he still will have the opportunity to father piglets with the two new girls next year. All that is in the future, though. For now, he is steering clear of the apparently high energy area of the rear end of Tess. Aw! Bless.

The Chicken Project: The White Cockerel now permamently resides in the ground by the Oak Tree, being interred there by Hubs last weekend. So what happened? Well, he was a small bird, but a mighty General nevertheless. He kept all the hens on their toes, and was a good leader of the band. But he was too small for the bigger hens, and we need those big hens to be the provider of the table birds, the bantams being too small to eat really.

Ummmmm......oooopppppssss....I have just realised that this blog is turning out to be a tad on the long side, so I will tell you what happened in the next blog!

Bye for now, and hope I have made you smile.

Hubs has a moment, and so does Max

And so it came to the evening. Much work had been done by Hubs / Head Everything, including the first 'Sawing of the Wood' which has been much anticipated by himself, longed for even. Several hours into the first Sawing Session, with arms and back aching, his enthusiasm for a log fire indoors remained undiminished, but his bodily self was not so keen to keep on with the task. A suggestion from moi, however, that might it be a good idea to use the electric chainsaw instead of the hand saw, enabled him to carry on. First Log Pile built, which is small but beautifully formed.

 

The Log Pile comprising little logs because we have a little fire. Bools is searching for mice. 

The storage depot for the Wood Pile? In the Pig / Chicken / Once Upon A Time Office hut. Will tell you more about the change of use another time.

The once upon a time Pig / Chicken Hut, then morphed into our office, now the Log Pile Home

Another activity for Hubs was the Gathering of the Acorns. Many bucketfuls have been gathered from the bounteous harvest which our Oak trees have given us this year, all of which have been donated to Max and Tess (our Tamworth pigs) for recycling. This they are doing very well as can be seen by the lovely pile of manure they are making for us. But they don't go to the loo randomly over their paddock like our sheep do, but use an area which they have especially designated for this purpose, which then gets trodden over by themselves into the ground to become ready-to use compost for veggies next year. Clever heh!

So the Gathering of the Acorns has been a task which has gone on for many weeks, and still the Oaks are shedding their harvest. But I am all acorned out, so Hubs took a turn at harvesting this provender, and very well he did too, and another few buckets were picked up.

And then he had a go at moving the hay bales, having been told by our farmer friend that they needed to be put onto pallets to keep their bottoms dry, and that they should be covered since they were not being stored in a barn. We would store them inside somewhere but only have our living accommodation as dry space, and hay bales and us would not get along too well co-habiting, mostly because of the hay bales tendency to moult, assisted by Bools who likes to rub his back on them, back scratching being one his most favoured occupations. I am already combating Saharian Dust in my house, so moulting hay bales are definitely out. Plus, the heavy aroma of wet hay drying is something which is most pleasurable and not so pleasurable. Nice to have the aroma of drying grass, but the aroma of wet grass which isn't drying is something else. Plus, I noticed the other day that some of the bales were steaming. On plunging my hand inside the bale I found the interior to be hot. Cooking. The grass was cooking itself. So better for them to be outside. Fire inside a log burner is one thing, cooking hay bales is not. Therefore loads of reasons not to share the hay inside our living space.

So, anyway, Hubs up on tractor, lifiting bales, turning them, putting them on pallets. Only he took the topper off the back of the tractor so he could manoevour better. Not a good idea. Because the balance between the weight of the bales of hay and the tractor, minus the weight of the topper (the grass cutter), made the tractor almost topple over on its side. So Hubs had a 'moment' and got a fright. Thought he might be on his way to Heaven as the tractor did a sideways lurch.

 

Some of the hay bales wearing their Tarp Bonnets.

But not to worry. His time is not up yet. The tractor righted itself, and the final project of the day was to try and  put the topper back on the tractor. This is a project which remains unfinished, however, because there were three metally things which had to line up and connect and he could only manage to get one of them in position. An Internet search is hopefully going to fill in the correct sequence for this task. Bless him, he is managing the tractor wonderfully well. It is another one of those steep learning curves, with the fundamentals being given to him by Angel Ron (our good friend, and the previous owner of the tractor) and Patrick (another good friend, a French farmer and the mender of the topper). His experience is growing. It is quite something to see him perched on his tractor, doing manly things. It is quite something seeing him build the Log Pile.

And so it came to the evening. Tired and happy. Dark fell. Late evening: a noise. Outside Hubs went, to do an investigation.

In the moonshine there was a large mound. A huge dark mound. Flickering his torch over the mound he fetched up a reflection of an eye.

yyyyyyiiiiiipppPPPPPPPPPPEEEEEEeeeeeeeee!!!!!! Maxy-boy! On board Tess! Really on board. As in almost lying full length on top of her.

And so, are there to be piglet babies, that is the question. But at least he is managing to get on board. We thought he wasn't managing the task. Thought that perhaps Tess wouldn't let him. He can be an irritating piggy-being when he wants to be. Perhaps she didn't want to make him a piggy-dad, that is what we had begun to think.

But:  Ta Da!!!! He was up, therefore they are, and maybe the patter of tiny piglet feet might happen sometime next year.

So Wahooo for Max and Tess for having a moment of mutual appreciation. And Wahoo for Hubs for doing his manly tasks. And Wahoo for me for carrying on with trying to get rid of the copious amounts of dust which overlay everything. I am winning. I keep telling myself I am winning.

And last night, we sat in front of our wood burning stove and enjoyed the delights of a living fire. It wasn't particularly cold and we didn't need the fire lit, but there is something about a fire which warms the heart and lifts the spirits, especially if one is not having to tend the fire. This is another manly task of Hubs / Head Keeper of the Fire.

Ah, chickens are having a squabble in their Chicken Hut, so need to go let them out.

Hope you have a good Sunday. Hope there is a warm fire burning in your heart.

Just a day....

It started off as usual. Everyone fed, including the dogs and us, chickens off out into the Veg Plot and anywhere else they took a fancy visiting, and the sheep off across the lane into the Side Field.

"That sheep can hardly walk" Hubs said, commenting on the heavily pregant ewe who seemed to have been pregnant for months. "You'll know when she is ready because her udders will drop", we were told. Well they 'dropped' a while ago, but still she has waddled on. Been a bit worrying. Maybe things have got stuck in the pipeline. That's what I had begun to think. Thoughts of calling the vet out had also been drifting through my mind. 

"She can't have it yet", said Sarah from La Maison de Chameaux down the lane, "because it will be a new moon baby and they don't do too well. She has to wait until the full moon, and that's in a couple of weeks time". Looking at the sheep, who looked like she was going to burst at any moment, I had my doubts she would hold on for two minutes let alone two weeks. Still.......maybe she would. After all, as I have said, she has been 'ready to go' for some weeks. 

Meanwhile: dodging the showers, actually it was more like monsoon-like downpours, Hubs / Head Harvest Person, continued to pick everything which needed picking. And then his job ended and mine began. To the left: figs to be jammed. To the right, a tray of tomatoes, onions, and garlic ready to roasted and pulped. 

Got tired of the harvesting, so off out into the Sheep Arbre to pick up the doings of the sheep, and turn their bedding over to air it. Into the wheel barrow the soiled bedding went. Into the wheelbarrow also went the brown hens who espied a chance to make mischief. 

 The tree which Hubs has been harvesting the figs is in the background. It has grown mightily over this summer and is threatening to engulf the Bedroom Caravan sometime soon. Meanwhile I continued out and about, picking up acorns which the oak trees are now shedding in abundance, storing them to give to the piggies during the winter. The piggies, by the way, have been having a splendid time now we have had loads of rain delivered unto us via numerous thunder storms of late. They have been joyously ploughing up their paddock, which now has loads of water filled pot holes in it, proof positive that they have been doing what comes naturally to piggies, which is doing a 'search and find' in the soft, moist, ground.  And joy of joys for them as well, is to have acorns tossed all over the ground so they can do a 'search and find' above ground. Which is good for them when the soil is rock hard, which it has been for weeks. Trying to put one's snout into the cement-like ground is not something one is likely to do too much. 

Meanwhile: another heavy shower, and watching the rain thunder down from the doorway of the house. Me and Hubs, standing together in the front doorway, watching the rain. It was a grand moment. Better than being squashed up in a caravan, or standing in a dripping awning. Me and Hubs, standing together in the doorway of our house. 

Meanwhile, the day made its progression: Hubs in the office, me everywhere else. Doing jobs. This and that. Lunchtime comes and goes. No afternoon kip for me today: too busy. Hubs dives off to the Bedroom Caravan though for a quickie. Onwards the day plods. Off out for a quick dog walk late afternoon. But no, no dogwalk today for this is what I saw:

By the gate: one mum plus two babies. Just born they were, and still tottery on their little legs. I yelled full voice for Hubs. He rushed out, thinking that something dire had befallen me. But no: just our first born. And so we stood, me with tears in my eyes, watching this new life. It is late in the year for babies, who will have to get through the winter ahead, but we are in our first year of being shepherds and are novice at flock management. 

Panic stations: couldn't leave this little group out in the field, only the crows were flapping about over their heads. Had visions of one little lamb being hoisted up by one dark black crow off up into into the air. So Hubs took the dogs for a walk instead of me, and I sat in the field and watched over the mum and her babes with the rest of the flock standing watching me from across the field, wondering, I think, what the hell I thought I was doing, puzzlement etched on their faces as they stood and observed me. 

Hubs back. "Can't leave them here" I said. He looked at me. Looked at them. Then each of us picked up a lamb and carried them back to the Paddock with mum trotting along beside us, relieved, I think, to be got out of the field."She'll have to stay here for a couple of days" said Hubs. But: a problem. After the rainless summer the grazing in the Paddock is minimal and not good enough to feed a feeding mum. 

Nothing for it: time to tackle the tractor and its lifting arm. 

....which he did. Lifting mechanism shifted and shunted into place, after a bit of cussing and swearing and carrying-on, and off across the Front Field he trundled, pleased that he was in the saddle again.

And hoopla! The minor problem of where to insert the lifting arm was solved after a couple of mis-aims, as was the problem of getting hay bale to stay on once insertion was done. This required me to lean into the hay bale to offset its tendency to want to topple over as it was being lifted. Bools and Gus stood by in attendance, just in case their help was needed. 

And off we all went. Back to the Paddock, there to bed down the new mum and feed her some of our very own hay. Another job done. 

By now it was getting dark. So no more could we do, apart from bed down the chickens. And raise a glass in celebration for the two new arrivals, blessing the mum as well, and blessing ourselves for having kept on with learning how to be super duper efficient smallholders. Actually we are nowhere near being 'super duper efficient' but there are times in all our lives when, for the moment, one must be self indulgent!

Cheers!

Stickiness, rompings, & bangings

And with super endeavour, here is the end product of the first jamming session. Approached with nervousness at first because I didn't want to ruin the fruit Hubs had recently picked, soon this was overcome as the pot began to bubble. 

Meanwhile Hubs was banging away outside, making the pig arbre to replace the one which Tess had seen fit to try and use as an armoured tank. 

 Not that she intended to make a break through the fence, and I am sure it was an accident that when she was wearing the ex-pig hut that the fence got rammed. You can see the remainder of this hut behind Hubs, who is at this very moment making a brand new  arbre for them. Much banging, digging, marching about with vigourous intent, and 'Do you know where ...... is' as he tries to find various tools which are generally scattered about the property. But I think he is learning that if he doesn't put things away after he has used them, then he will have to spend hours trying to locate them again when next he needs them.

Meanwhile: the jamming continued. Oh why do I end up with such a sticky mess? Is it part of the jam making experience? 

Last year I was jamming in the kitchen caravan, which produced a really awful amount of stickiness, so in comparison this is not too bad. I thought the towel underneath my working area was a good idea as it stopped some of the stickiness migrating. Must remember to put it in the dirty washing basket and not inadvertently put it back onto the towel rail where it normally resides, ready to assist in drying Hubs off when he has his occasional shower. 

Meanwhile: Tess and Max were rumbling about in their pen as Hubs was working beside them, making their new house. They didn't seem to be put off by the bangings and sawings that was going alongside them. Perhaps because Max was intent in having his way with Tess, and she was being sometimes coy sometimes keen sometimes bored. But he did  eventually get a home run. Several times, Hubs said. They spent the afternoon snuggled up in the wallow together. And quietness reigned. Since she came here there has been squeals, snorts, growls, grumbles, and grunts going on for much of the time. But it is quieter today. Perhaps because the job of procreation has been done. A bit quick, actually. Piglets next year, was more our intent. Ah well. 

And the male ram has been airing his undercarriage as well. Bless. 

Returning to the subject of stickiness: it was suggested to me by my French neighbour last year, that I turn the jam pots upside down after putting their cover on them. Obviously my first attempt to do this was unsuccessful! Not to worry, contents were not wasted, just scooped up and put into another jar. Notice to self: make sure the jam pot covers and lids are firmly in place before following through with this suggestion again.

So off out into the Side Field to do some more dock week cutting. Good for my back, good for the fresh air of the early summer morning,  good for my ongoing lesson of learning patience.

And homemade jam is a glorious thing to have when the year closes down. Sort of makes one feel connected to the summer sun. It is also good to know where it has come from, and that it has not been mass produced. Taking responsibility for what we eat, that is what smallholding is all about. 

Message to self (1): Do try not to keep sampling spoonfuls of the new jam. 

Message to self (2): Keep putting that one foot forward each day. 

Message to self (3): Smile when you see that very large field still mostly full of dried up seed heads of dock.

 

On alarm clocks, etc.

When in the UK, during the working week, our getting-up time was governed by the alarm clock which would ring insistently until we answered its call. (I used to put it on the other side of the room so I had to get out of bed to switch it off)

Then we came to France, and for a magical two years we have been minus the alarm clock regime,  using it only if there was need to get to the airport, which is not often. So the only form of awakening has been the dogs getting restless, or a loo-trip, or the arrival of the builders. 

Since Hubs doesn't have to be on his PC until 10, France being one hour ahead of the UK,  most times we have been waking up by natural means, and if we linger then it doesn't matter as he has no commute along the M25 to do anymore so can fall out of bed and fall onto his PC, cup of tea in hand, without any effort. 

However: now, at about 8 every day, and never later, one sheep will us that we should be up. It is said insistently. She is not to be ignored. And her voice seems to penetrate whatever sleepy state we are in, although most times I am up and about but doing other things not relevant to sheep-care. It is as if she is telling us that the day has started, so why haven't we.  But she won't keep on speaking. No, she will quieten down. But her voice would have become implanted in our heads, such that we know we must move, get into action. And if we don't? If we don't act? Well, like the best of repeat alarm clocks, she will speak again after a while. She will not be switched off, and neither will she run out of battery power.

Sometimes we make an immediate response, and catch them out. The flock will be half asleep themselves, and take a moment or two to get themselves going, having to be shoo-ed across the road before a car comes along, whereupon they will trundle across Station Field with shoulders hunched down, and 'We don't want to do this today' look about them. Just like Hubs used to look when I waived him off to work in the UK. 

But if we are late, then they will be queued up at the gate, giving us 'Oh doooo come on' looks.' Across the road they romp, quickly trotting out into the field along their own M25-type road, both the Paddock and Station Field now starting to get sheep-tracks where they regularly walk. Normally the boy-lambs will be pushing ahead. They are a naughty bunch and are often evicted from the Sheep House by the others who are still asleep, although always they will be accompanied by one ewe, plus the ram. If she can't control the hooligans, then he will step in to keep control. He keeps a tight ship, does the ram, and will stand no nonsense. But mostly the little ones, who are now nearly the size of their mums, will just aggravate each other by practicing the movements necessary to make the future generation, or headbutting, and generally being boisterous.  Like all young males really, just being thoroughly annoying to all!

SHEEP WOOL PROJECT: Well it isn't happening at the moment. I keep looking at the pile of fleece, which is starting to look grubbier by the day, thinking I ought to start and not knowing how to. I have searched on the Internet for help, and all I am told is 'sort the wool, disregard the dirty' and that the wool fibres must be 'at least two inches long' for spinning. But when I pull out some wool and separate the fibres I can't suss out the length of them because they stick together. 

So: am going to risk the other fleeces rotting, and put them in plastic bags to stop them from getting dirtier, and work on the tattiest of the fleeces, which came off Mr. Sheep. Despite being the biggest of them all, he produced the least impressive fleece, his energies, I guess, going into keeping his testerone levels up which I suppose he needs to keep his girls in order. Anyway, this is my learning-curve fleece:

I think 'bon courage' is what I am needing, don't  you think! It is as mucky as the photo says it is. Not to worry, though. I will give it a go. 

RABBIT PROJECT: Mum is doing well, and the babies, despite what they think, are now not babies but little rabbits. Hubs is yearning to handle them, and has decided to give the Rabbit House a clean up, an excuse, I think, to pick them up. However, this is yet another occasion when Gussy especially, and Bools, will have to be shut in the house. They are already moaning about being shut in for all of five minutes twice a day when we cross the sheep to and fro their Paddock. All they want to do is be involved, but their endeavour to help only ever produces more chaos. We are not, as yet, wanting to have the rabbits scampering about all over the place, so the boys will have to stay un-involved. No doubt they will fiercely voice there opinion about this. 

HOUSE PROJECT: Jean-Pierre is now pulling down the side wall of the Tall Barn. It was found to have four major cracks in it so was mortally wounded. It hurts me in my heart to lose yet more of the original dwelling, but it will pull down the Gate House and the Office if it were to fall. 

Before:

 Now: 

 Ah well. Has to be done. But, as I say, it hurts me to see any of the more of the original be knocked down. 

And now I am woken up. Hubs has also gotten woken up. So the Lady Sheep has done her job. By the way, one of them has an odd shape - she has a swollen stomach to one side, but is eating well, and still looking chirpy, so no vet at the moment. Another is looking elderly so is probably on her way to Sheep Heaven. Now being devoid of their fleeces, we are more aware of their shapes, which has drawn our awareness towards these two. Bless. 

Off to clean up the Sheep House and Paddock now. Good news here: I am getting one whole barrowload of poo and wet straw each day from the flock. Which is good news for Veg Plot One, Veg Plot Two being supposedly worked on by Max, our Tamworth Boar,  which he does in between long patches of sleeping. Awww Bless. 

Things I have learnt: That sometimes one has to teach oneself that which is not known, and ultimately it is the struggle for the learning that the greatest pleasure is gained.