She has, she isn't, and the awning?

January 2010

BEFORE: This, then, is the old 'kitchen' caravan. With awning still pristine, everything intactus.

November 2010

Oooohhhhdeearrr! And so the now redundant kitchen caravan has a new hat to wear: the awning. Taken up into the air and repositioned by one of the huge blasts of wind which came visiting during the night.

And so we have a mucky mess: mostly loads of assorted gardening paraphanalia, the old camping twin tub washing machine with which I had many a merry moment until the advent of the new washing machine, the old washing machine kindly donated by friends but which konked out after a couple of months, and the chicken.

And she has! Up off the nest she came a couple of days ago, to have a feed. And I had a look at her nest in the dustbin. A broken egg shell. And  a baby chick. So she has / had one hatchling. I say 'had' because I have not seen it since, and don't like to get her off the nest to have a look, because this hen has, with remarkable stoicism, sat tightly upon her nest, despite the awning flapping and blowing about around her. 

She ought to be moved. Not sure where we can put her though. We have minimal barn space here. Could have done with having the roof of the Tall Barn finished, but no sign of that being done any time soon. So she will have to keep camping out in her dustbin.


As for these two:

They continue to lay seige to the front door, waiting for the appearance of Dad Hubs so he can feed them. They are the lowest of the pecking order here, being the littlest and youngest, but are doing well nonetheless. Just wrecking my plants round the door, that's their fav pastime. But I suppose their thinking is, that while they wait for grain, that they may as well have a munch on what else is available. They are sleeping in Bool's old puppy kennel at night. Seems to suit them.

On the piggy front: Tess. Is she or isn't she? She isn't. Upon frequent examination of her posterior, we have noted an increasing pinkiness. So, no, no babies were made last time. Which is just as well really, as we are still in the process of building another paddock. And Max has quietened down as well, which is a relief. Although he still lays his ears back and dribbles and snorts when Hubs is anywhere near him. I keep telling Max that Hubs is not interested in Tess as a possible mate, but he doesn't listen. Like all males,  he seems to switch his hearing off when it suits!

Copious amounts of rain have fallen over the last day or two, but the temperature remains quite mild so we haven't had fires on during the day. But we have had our newly purchased electric blanket switched on all night. OoooohhH! Getting into that bed, out in the caravan, which is toasty warm, is like getting into a deep bath of lovely warm water. I slide into those sheets, and submerge myself into the welcoming warmth. It is quite, quite delightful! And I firmly push to the back of my mind any stray thoughts about being electrocuted and should I wear PJ's just in case.

Thinks we have learnt: That it takes team effort to get a smallholding up and running, and that patience is a 'must have' requirement in regards to the animals one has on one's smallholding. They all have individual needs, and will not hesitate to speak if they are upset or in need. Not only are we having to learn French, we are also having to learn the body language and vocal language of thirty six other beings. Patience, as I say, is a 'must have'.  

And so: what are we going to do about the seeds to be sown next year now the awning has become a hat, having been recycled from its previous role as our potting shed. Don't know. So will await inspiration on that one.

Meanwhile: Have a good day!

With legs a-trembling

I am all of a wobble. My heart is pitter-pattering, and from the waist down my muscles feel as weak as if I have run a marathon. And what have I been doing? Spinning, that's what. And I have spun for an hour, having spent a couple of days trying to get the yarn to stay put on the spindle. Endless Internet viewing, and the solution was to tighten the tension. Which makes it harder to paddle those paddles, which drive the wheel which turns the whorls which rotates the spindle which makes the yarn. And all driven by my two feet powered by  my calf muscles attached to my creaky knees powered by thighs which have seen better days, which fetch up hung from my botty. From my toes to my waist, that is the area needed to power that wheel. Oh and then there is the air bellows system of my lungs, which are needed to pump that air into those various muscles to drive those various parts of the spinning wheel.

Crikey!  What effort! But I did it! I have made yarn.

The Tamworth Project:

On the piggy front, is she or is she not? That is the question we keep asking ourselves as we view Tess's rear end to see if it is looking fetchingly pink signalling that she is getting ready to receive the attention of Max who, if you recall, was seen completely on board under the moonlight three weeks ago. Twenty one days. That is the interval between her coming into season. It is the twenty first day today.

And doesn't Max know it! Strewth  but he is being a pain in the proverbial butt. Keeps on trying to tangle with Hubs. Not sure why he is doing that. Worried in case we have a mad piggy on our hands. And Internet search fetched up the info that male pigs apparently go through a temperamental and difficult patch about eighteen months to two years old. Like teenagers I suppose. Or he could be getting a whiff of Tess's imminent season if she is going to have one and doesn't want Hubs to take his place on board his lady love, so is protecting his patch. Or he might be getting frustrated because he is having to wait for his moment of trying to procreate. Or he could be sensing she is with piglet and gone all protective. Or he might be just being an ***e.

To give the Tams more room to stretch their legs, Hubs and moi organised a new paddock for day use:

God bless electric fencing! Although the ground looks just bare earth, it is actually covered in acorns, which the Tams love.



They love it. Race through the passageway with great enthusiasm. Or rather, they did. Now Max grumbles and growls his way along, with ears back, and all foamy mouthed. Something is going on with him. And they keep cuddling up with each other, all lovey-dovey. As if they want the world to go away and leave them in peace. Will let you know how they get on over the next few days.

The Sheep Project:

Ah, the lambs!

Fed by hand, they are big boys, now minus their male accoutrements thanks to Ron of Team Val and Ron, friends of ours who came and helped us out a few weeks ago. And they brought with them these two:

Not the two in front! They are the lambs. Its the young sheep to the right and the spotty one lying down, which is our new ram. Team V & R collected him for us, and donated one of her own lambs as well. He is  a Jacob. Lovely little chappie.

But uno problemo possiblement. He is quite a short boy. Our sheep have long legs, and are therefore quite tall. Wondering how he is going to manage the making of the babies. But have been reassured that sheep will be quite obliging and crouch down if the male is having difficulties reaching. 

Both are settling down, and he has been having a sniff around the hind quarters of a couple of our girls, so he looks as if he will be keen to do his job when the time comes.

One of our ewes is looking like a tank at the moment, being as wide as she is tall. Obviously going to have a lamb soon. As are a couple of others. Not a good time of year to be having lambs but flock management went out the window this year, but then they must have come to us pregnant anyway so it was out of our hands really. Hope she manages to get that lamb born while the weather is relatively mild. 

Otherwise, the flock is doing well. All very tubby  through eating the Autumn grass, but looking good. 

The Chicken Project:

These little ones:

Who were looked after by Hubs when the mum-hen chucked them out the nest, are also doing well:

Bools sees it as his mission in life to clean up the botties of all the young animals, so has licked the bums clean of the sheep, and now is intent on doing the same for the chicks. Gus remains aloof. Even today, when one of the hens had a go at him, he remained aloof. But Bools wants to get involved.

Unfortunately we are now down to two chicks because one of them got deceased by a piece of wood falling down on it. But the other two are getting along fine. They are always to be found hanging around the front door, as are all the rest of the flock of late. Might be something to do with the daylight hours shortening, but they are definitely not as energetic as they have been. Still getting eggs, although having to do a search for them every day. One of their favourite places is under the rabbit cages. I have to almost lie down to reach the day's offerings. And one of the hens has taken it upon herself to take those eggs as her own clutch. But no! Off I take her. We already have one hen sitting on eggs in the dustbin-nestbox, and that is enough:



She is only allowed to have six eggs to sit on, all numbered. Sometimes one of the other hens squeezes in beside her and lays another one. But six is enough, so I take the other one away. And will any of those eggs hatch? Three weeks is supposed to be the incubation time, and three weeks is now up.

Ah, feel the need for another work-out. Think I will go pedal my treadle and make me some yarn. Bye for now.....

Things I have learnt: That there is a lot of making babies with this smallholding lark! And that animals have off days as well.

Another house on the plot

And this is Tess coming to say hi, having had a glorious soak in the wallow, but not much mud adhering to her today as she has been busy in and out of her mud bath. Max, meanwhile, has pole position in the wallow, which he will not give up unless Tess jams herself down beside him with such force that he has to shift over to make room for her. Since she is bigger than him, she will win the day. However, he is likely to try and maintain his position, which will give rise to squeals of outrage from her at his selfishness. I kid you not, when that squeal erupts from her you would think all hell has been let lose.

As I say, not much mud on her today, nor on Max. Normally they are so plastered that they can hardly see from out of their eyes and Hubs /Head Pig Carer, has to clean them up a bit so they can see properly. But they have to do this because of the flies and other insects which frequently bother them. And it has been a tough couple of weeks for the two of them after Tess had her hissy fit with the original pig house. Oh I know that it was not quite big enough to fit the pair of them in it, but Max could have been less protective of his space and let her go in it occasionally. Which he might have done if she had not decided to use the pig arc as a tank to ram the fence on her first full day here. 

 So they have been camping out under the stars. Fortunately the weather has been kind, giving Hubs / Chief Builder, time to get their new house sorted out. 

Bless him, this is first proper build, done without any help from anyone else except Moi / General Go-For.

Max also likes to help. At this particular moment we are trying to get the electric fencing sorted out again, after having to resite elements of it to accomodate the new house. 

Tess also was unable to remain aloof to the electric fence work, by which time Hubs had his own hissy fit at the pair of them. Sometimes, just sometimes, they can be like naughty children.  And the electric wire did get into a hell of a tangle with their efforts at helping us. 

Time to make the bed, with Max helping again.  In goes a bale of straw, nicely fluffed up. 

And in the pair of them go to have an investigation. The first thing they did was to shift the straw so they could have a rummage in the ground below which was bit alarming for Hubs / Chief Site Engineer, because he thought that they were trying to dismantle the fabric of their house. But no. It was just a quick look to see if there were any tasty roots in the ground to nibble on. 

And here is the new house on the plot. Built entirely by Hubs, and looking, quite rightly, proud of himself. By the way, the long bars seeming to sit on top of the the hut are the road bridge railings. And those Tams have so fallen in love with their new house that they are ever hardly out of it. Which is good, since the window of good weather was just sufficient to get the house done. It has been cold and wet ever since, and it would have played on our nerves to think about the two of them without any shelter. 

And do you know that Tams snore? Well they do. They zizz away the same as the rest of us. I often tiptoe over to their place to have a look-see through the air openings, and there they are, having made nests in the straw, snug as anything and snoring away, with their noses in the straw so the flies can't bother them. Aw. 

And here are the two homes, the Tams and ours. Eventually there will be a farmyard effect on this field, with a housing estate of other little homes of various shapes and sizes to house other animals. In the back of our house will be a door leading into the 'Kitchen '/ Builder's Storage Depote so that we can commute more easily to and fro our animals. We have a long way to go. But as the saying goes: A journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step!

Things I have learnt: That when trying to re wire an electric fence, it is best to keep the wire the other side of the fence as this is being done. Especially if one has two Tamworths. Who will be only to willing to interfere. And make a tangle. Which will therefore test one's patience no end. 

That other animals snore as well. And need a bed to rest in. 

And a quick note: My blessings to Barry, a fellow blogger, who recently passed away with cancer. May God be with you, my friend, and thankyou for sharing your life travels right up to the very end. x

Dribbles down the chin

With a grin a mile wide, Hubs proudly handed me a peach. Fresh off the tree only moments before. Still warm from the sun. I bit into it. The flesh was soft and squelchy. So squelchy that the juices overwhelmed my mouth and dribbled down my chin. Plop. Onto my t-shirt. And my hands became sticky with the juice as other tiny dribbles ran  over them. And my arms grew tiny rivulets of stickiness as well, as tiny juice rivers ran over my skin. It was a joyous moment. The first peaches of the year. The start of the harvest. 

And Hubs and I relished those peaches, for they were hard earned after all the hard work Hubs had put into planting, watering and tending those young trees. 

Then: a decision. To pick or not to pick. We dawdled with the decision. But the birds took the decision away from us by munching the rest of the peaches themselves.  Hubs got into quite a rage over this, and quite rightly too. So, next crop to come in: the apricots. Still rock hard, could be left for a few days. Ah, but those birds! And what about that great big black cloud signalling a thunder storm on the way. So no dawdling this time. 

 

Still rock hard, could be left for a few days. Ah, but those birds! And what about that great big black cloud signalling a thunder storm on the way. So no dawdling this time. 

With a determination not to enhance the food table of the feathered population, Hubs poughed on with the apricot harvest.

Et voila! Proudly he shows you his first crop of apricots. And then he went and dug up the onions and garlic:

And then he clambered about in the fig tree and gathered the first harvest of figs:

Not a lot, but enough to make several pots of fig jam. So that's what I am going to do now: jamming. Apricots jam, and fig jam. Oh we could eat the fruit, but then in the middle of winter we wouldn't have the jam to remind us of the summer days. On a cold wintry day there is nothing like opening a pot of homemade jam made in the heat of the summer. 

And then there are the runner beans I have started harvesting, and freezing. and we are still at the start of the harvest season! Loads of work. Which is very rewarding. It is as if one is storing up a the sunshine, jamming and freezing our produce.

Meanwhile: In the pig pen there is a power struggle for the wallow. Prime position is with the back against the wall of the wallow. Max seems to be able to grab this position first, leaving Tess standing up, and trying to get him to shift by prodding him with her snout. He ignores her. After a while she either gives up and sinks down in whatever bit of the wallow she can manage to get into, or she gets out and goes stand in the shade of the oak tree. Either way, she is not entirely happy but nor is she seething like she was the other day. But somehow both of them manage time in the wallow because both are caked with mud, which dries to form a thick crust over their skin, thus protecting them from the hungry blood sucking insects.

Her rumble voice seems to have quietened down though, but Max seems to have raised his voice up a  notch especially when she is standing directly behind him. Then he does the lion-rumble deep down in his throat. Not sure what that is all about, but I think that Tess aggravates him deliberately by standing just close enough for Max's tale to not be able to do its normal twitching movement. When he is fed up with not being to do his swaggering twitch of the tail, he turns round and buts her in the lower stomach, at which movement she lets out a squeal so loud that one momentarily thinks the poor little girl has been done unto in a dreadful manner. 

Things I have learnt: that smallholding is terrifically hard work, such that I tend to lurch towards my bed at night because I am so exhausted, but when working with one's harvest, there is nothing to beat the pleasure that comes from laying up that harvest for the dark days of winter.

Tess's Hissy Fit

A loud thud boded ill. From the direction of Max and Tess it came. Out I rushed to see what had happened. Could see Max. No Tess. But then the pig arc did a spin and leap, and out she came from inside it, in one hell of a mood as was obvious by her hunched shoulders and generally cross demeanour. Not to worry, though, because the arc was still in the centre of the pen, well away from the fences. 

Back to the washing up I went, wondering how long Hubs would be, him having gone to the local sawmill to purchase wood for a new pig house. Another crash sounded, more ominous than the first. Out again I rushed. The arc was now jammed against the fences. To the electic box I went to switch off the current to the electric fencing. Didn't know if the arc was 'live' it now resting against one of the electric posts, so best to switch it off in case one of the pigs got fried. Raced back to the house. Grabbed some pig food. And camera. Rushed back to pen. Tess's rear was protruding from the arc. Looked like she was getting ready for another lift and heave. I yelled, trying to get her attention. She paused. Then pushed further inside. I grabbed a long piece of wood. Raced round to the arc. Banged on the roof, yelling all the while. Out she came. Man of man, but  she was one cross lady. Her shoulders were hunched and she emanated tension. She wanted the arc. Badly.

 

In she started to go again. With my stick I banged  frantically on the arc. With my voice I yelled. With my other hand I continued the camera-shoot. Max was busy elsewhere.

She changed her mind. Backed out again. And stood there psyching me out. You can see you tense she is. But then so would you be if you had had your babies taken away from you all in one go, then travelled in a campervan, then spent the night out under the stars in a strange place while the other pig had the safety of his pig arc. Nevertheless, I stood and psyched her back. We stood eyeballing each other for several minutes. I threw down some food to coax her into good humour. She turned her nose up at it.

But Max didn't. In he came, pushing Tess to one side with a thump in her abdomen to show he was still The Man. Infront of the arc he stood, as I drip fed him morsels of food, hoping to keep him in situ thus preventing Tess from getting inside the arc and bull dozing her way through the fence like an armoured tank. 

And then I looked over my shoulder at the road and the bridge behind me. And a badger was walking over the bridge, in the road, and then turned down our lane. A badger, crikey, a badger of all things. Not a cat. Or dog. Nor any other small creature of similar size. It was a badger. 'We don't have badgers around here' one bit of my mind said. And the other bit answered back 'Then what is a badger doing walking down the lane', then another bit of my mind said 'What the hell is it doing walking down the middle of a main road in the middle of the morning', these conversations coming to a halt as I yelled at Gus not to go investigate, me not wanting to have to untangle Gus from a situation, meanwhile leaving Tess to keep on with her assault on the arc.

And I had a moment of fazed-ness. Of the world being a very odd place sometimes. 

And then Hubs returned. Came out. Climbed in.

Tess, meanwhile, pretended indifference, as if the mischief caused was not done by her. But she was still cross. Nothing for it, but to get the arc out of the pen. Only way to do that was by doing this:

....upending the arc, not helped by the jostling of Max and Tess. At this point, Hubs said would I mind stopping photo-shooting as he thought I ought to help him get it sorted. Which I did. 

And lots of bangs and whacks and expletives later, this is the 'to be recycled' ex pig arc. 

And a strange thing: As the arc was dismantled, the tension seemed to ebb away from Tess. As if she had concenctrated all her angst in life on the arc, and now it was no more, then so too was her angst, such that a few hours later:

Please enlarge this photo, because it is one of joyful wallowing. Of two very content pigs having a soak in the water. There is nothing like seeing two pigs in the wallow. They ooze such contentment that one wishes one could get in there with them if one were of their animal type. 

And she has been a good girl ever since. 


However: She has this alarming tendency to sound like a lion. Not a roaring with open mouth lion, but one that rumbles away deep in its throat. That's what she does, a deep throated rumble that is quite alarming to hear at first. One half expects her to turn into some gigantic monster, but no, all she does is do this rumble. Nor does she charge at the fence in a manic attempt to escape. As I have said, since the arc is no more, so too is her ill humour. So I don't know what that rumble-speak is all about, but I am getting used to it, although at first I quite thought we actually did have a lion type animal around, especially since the acoustics of the courtyard tend to amplify any sounds coming in from the surrounding land.


Things I have learnt: That lady pigs can have 'bad hair' days as well, especially if they have recently been rehomed, and then suffered the idignity of having to spend a night outside while The Man spends his night under cover, and then wants to do boy-girl stuff the next day. 

 

Not to worry. Hubs is making a new home for them. We had erroneously thought that the old arc was going to be big enough for both of them, assuming that since Tess was a female she would automatically be smaller than him. Not so. She is a big lady. So both of them are sleeping out under the stars now. Bless.

Tess

All is quiet. No movement around anywhere, including the campervan, sitting out back under the oak tree:

Ah, someone wakes up:

Tess. Foggy with sleep. Not best pleased with still being in her travelling vehicule. But here. Time to get her sorted:

Hubs is here too, after having driven her back from the Charente, six hours away, making a twelve hour round trip. And here he is undoing the electric fence wire which I had to clamber over last night to feed Max, who is at this moment eating his breakfast over the other side of the pen. 

Operation 'Get Tess Out Of The Van' begins. She is reluctant, still fazed from her recent road trip, but a pot of food under her nose is leading her forward.....

And down the make-shift wooden ramp, gingerly she shovels her way into her new life.

But Hubs rattles the pot of food, cooing and chatting to her, to encourage her forward. She comes.

And here she is. The bare patches along her back are from the scratching post in her pervious home. Tams like to rub themselves with a vigour which is quite alarming to behold. When  Max arrived and promptly took advantage of his hut by using that as his scratching post, we thought he would end up with no skin, such was his enthusiasm to have a scratch. But now he does this hardly at all. It might be because his wallow is quite deep so he is most times smothered in mud, dried or otherwise. Quite frankly this makes him look a mess, but he is living his life as he needs to live it, and if needs to have the pleasure of mud to cool his skin down, then so be it.  The sheep have their 'down between the thighs of my neighbour' habit, and also their coats of wool.  Max has his coat of mud, which, I think, also deters some of the biting insects, the dried mud acting as a barrier to the probe of the would be taker of the blood.

And Max is met. He is on the left. She is on the right. And she is big. So big, in fact, that she can go inside Max's hut and reposition it by lifting it on her back and re-siting it. Twice she has done this. The hut is very heavy. She is one strong girl. 

And the battle begins. Well, not 'battle' really, just Max showing Tess that he is The Man and this is His Patch. Round and round he chases her. But no malice, just the need for Max The Man to show her that he is the boss. 

And I fear that the campervan will never be quite the same again. But then we can't get it registered here anyway, so it may as well finish out its days as a workhorse. Who would have thought, when we first bought it ten years ago, back in the UK, that it would fetch up getting elderly on a small farm in France. Life is queer with its twists and turns, as no doubt the campervan said to itself as Tess looked out of its windows at the passing cars during her road trip.

Ou est Hubs?

Hubs is absent from his post of Head Gardener/ Chief Shepherd/ Keeper of the Livestock, etc.

Look:

What do you notice. A Helpful Hint for you: Where is the electric fence? It is BEHIND Max. What does that mean? That the person taking the photo is standing beside Max. With him. In his pen. And now who does all these photo-shoots. Moi. 

And here is a really grotty photo of 'Moi'. But look where my hand is resting. On the back of Max! 

So with Hubs away from his post, it fell to me to feed les animaux. Rabs easy. Dogs easy. Max....ooh my tum went all silly as I turned off the electric fence, undid the gate, cocked my leg ever so high to get it over the electic wires, cocked the other leg over to join the first, and then I was into Max's space. Down went his head, into the food I had just put out for him. There it remained while I did his water bucket, and then I decided to give him a bit of a hug, which he took in good grace. 

But.......I did it. Next the sheep. Of late they have had to be called in, but not tonight. As I was having another nervous tummy spell, wondering how I was going to get them across the lane single handed, I saw them all gathered around the gate waiting for me, bless them. They were soft with me as I opened the gate, and did a straight and true gallop right into their Arbre, leaving me with tears in my eyes at the site of their bouncing rears. 

So: where is Hubs? Somewhere in France. In the campervan. With a lady. 

He is at this very moment bringing home our first female Tamworth pig. Apparently she went into the campervan very well, but did not like the curtains closed, so she opened them so she could have a look-see at what was going on. As Hubs travels along the roads of France, what are the French going to think, when they see an English plated campervan, with a reddish coloured pig looking out of the windows!

Hubs was worried about being stopped by the Gendarmerie. I said "Just say that you taking your lady pig out for the evening".

'Character building'

I think it's called 'character-building'. You know, when things pile in and in and in, and you feel as if your smile is slipping a bit but you try and keep it pasted up anyway. And you and your partner are sort of having 'verbal dabs' at each other, and you have to keep reminding yourself that  your partner is really the bestest partner in the whole wide world and to be patience therefore. 

So this is all what was going through my head as I stood in the pouring rain. At midnight this was. In the dark. Looking at the white blobs which refused to move. Our sheep no less. Who were also standing in the pouring rain. Some even having decided to lay down for a snooze. And had not Hubs and myself spent the last couple of hours trying to get their house rain-proofed by hoisting up aluminuim roofing sheets purchased by Hubs with the help of Mr T earlier on that day. They were light, but bendy, and we put them up temporarily because the tarps were done unto death by the torrential rain we are presently experiencing. 

I, also, in my role as Under Trainee Shepherdess, had also thought that perhaps to recycle the tarp by putting it on the now muddy ground would help make the sheep feel cosier. Keep their feet dry. Make them feel warmer. Also, perhaps an old black tarp on the side wall, to stop the drafts. Little things. To make the flock feel happier. 

Soaking. We were absolutely soaking by the time we were done. It was dark. Into the house we trotted. Off we peeled our sodden clothes. Glad to be indoors and not in the caravan. In a degree of tidyness, even though it was cold. No fires in the house as yet. Good idea popped into my head: electric fire still in the now redundant kitchen caravan. Went and fetched it. Gave a tiny ring of warmth, sufficient to keep our toes warm. 

Heard the bleet of a lamb. Oh now what. Went out to investigate. All sheep in a row observing their newly refurbished home. Not inside though. Just outside moaning away. Expletives flew through the air at them. Left them to it. "Get wet if you want to", we said.

But we each have this dratted thing called a conscience, and on hearing a couple of more complaints we donned rain gear again, and out we went. Out came the ground tarp, off came the black side-wall tarp, in went some grain to tempt them to get in out of the wet, and off we went. 

 A while later: and they were still at the end of the Paddock. Getting soaked. At which point Hubs / Head Trainee Shepherd decided to go do something urgently on his PC. After first having tried to shoo them towards their house. They didn't move.

 And that is how I came to be standing in the pouring rain at midnight. With my large, half broken, black and white golfing umbrella, which I was waving up and down in an attempt to make them move down the Paddock. And all they did was stand and look at me in amazement. "What Do you think you are doing?" being written all over their faces. I get the same look when I am speaking soppily to Bools, our Spaniel. Now I was getting it from the flock. 

I tried making odd noises. I tried flapping the umbrella about like a sail. All they did was regard me with amusement. But I would not be thwarted. For ages I flapped and squeaked. Finally they turned round and ambled down the Paddock. They faded from sight. Not to upset them again, I turned down the lane, and crossed over to the gateway of Labartere across the front garden. Well, more like a front field really. With pot holes and furrows. But I remained in one piece nevertheless. I had already collapsed the umbrella over my head so it looked like a pointy hat and not like a kite. I didn't want to sheep to espy it and amble back up the Paddock again. Because now I could see that they had all decided to call it a day and had gone to bed. All in the Sheep House. Bless. Now all I had to do was unpeel myself from yet another load of soaked clothing and try and defrost. Which I had managed by morning. 

Our next arrival is Max. A male Tamworth pig. To be brought here at the weekend by lovely people down near Lannamazan. So: Tamworth Project. 

To stop Max from being lonely, we have decided to make him a new plot by the Veg Plot. Had plenty of time to do so. Only Hubs became attached to a nail on his foot, which slowed him down no end. Not to worry, still plenty of time to get the poles in. And then the rains fell. And the holes in which the poles were to be cemented became mini-ponds. So, no way can Max come this weekend. Not to worry. Next weekend then. 

 

And then the builders came to do some work. Only the rain was raining very hard, so no-way were they going to get up and down the ladders safely. Ah. Time to do the doorways in the house. Only I wasn't warned. So all is now covered with inches of dust, the main zone for the fall-out of this dust being the kitchen. 

Also: two of the doorways now have scaffolding poles holding the upper walls. On these upper walls lie the weight of the roof. Apparently the cement beams across the doorways will be done next week. Which leaves quite a few days in which to fret lest we fetch up with a collapsed roof. 

Hubs looked at the weather forecast. Apparently there is more rain on the way, and winds. Crikey, but somehow we have to get the roof of the Sheep House more secure, and hope that the wind does not shimmy and shake our house so much that the scaffolding poles can't maintain the weight of the roof. 

And this is all character building. That is what I keep saying to myself. And the River Adour has risen very high, but not much water has come onto our fields, just some in the woodland, so that is something to be glad about. The sheep are becoming more docile with us, although still regard Gus as a hooligan: they don't like the way he sits and 'psyches' them out. It puts them all in a lather. No noise does he make. Just sits and looks at them intently, which freaks them. We still have all the sheep, having thought that we could possibly have some mortality, what with the sudden change in living accomodation plus the sudden plunge into cold and wet weather. The female rabbit is pregnant. We still have a roof. The sheep still have a roof. Blessings indeed. And we haven't had to do one bit of watering. And the beam in the Sheep House which fell on Hubs's head only dented his head a bit and left a sizeable red patch. But he is still on his feet, damp though they might be because all of his boots, shoes and wellies are wet.

And we either have the makings of a swimming pool, or the makings of the fosse (which is the drainage for the loo, showers, and all liquid deposits in the house), depending on whether the water goes away or not.

And the sheep across the lane in Station Field, almost drowning in a sea of lush grass. And so life goes on here, down on the mini-farm in SW France. We are well, if damp and sneezy and our characters are continuing to be built. Not sure what into, though!