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.

Gussy's troubled day

Well it all started to go wrong for Gussy when he went on patrol with Hubs. Off they went. Over to Station Field to make sure the flock had not vanished, and no they hadn't because Gus did a 'psyching out' at them whereby he stands at the fence and stares at them which has the result of freaking them out so they run off in panic. Soooo satisfactory for him, and worth the telling-off he gets for his naughtiness. He would much prefer to have a bark at them instead which makes them really freaked out, but that is being big-time naughty as he has learnt to his cost. 

Then off to see the rabbits. Not much going on there for Gus, although he managed a nose to nose moment with the male rabbit in the lower run, but the female in the upper run was busy eating so was not annoyable. All a bit boring for him really.

Now Max. Good fun to be had there. Can do a bit of a bark and have a general naughty carry-on while the piggy is being fed, often without being told off as well, Max being a very laid-back piggy and non-fazed by anything. 

 But today Gussy was too bold. Thrusting his nose through the wire to show off to Max, hoping to spook him like he does the sheep, only his nose got zapped by the fence, said fence being one that carries a very low voltage electric current. Wow but you should have heard him. To the Heavens above he yowled his outrage. Full pelt he sped his way to where I was in the house, yelling his indignation all the while to whoever cared to be listening. Laying his head on my lap he whimpered his sorrow. Oh poor Gussy!

But then he was diverted from his sorrowfulness by the arrival of Mr T's two sons, who wanted to go off to our river bank 'To look for stones which have diamonds inside them. You break the stones open' they said, waving a hammer in the air. Oh so this was a possible adventure to which Gussy and Bools were eager participants, so off we all trundled, off to the river, to arrive at a tiny mound of pebble-bank. 

Gussy's previous woes having been forgotten, into the water he plunged, encouraged by the throwing of stones by the boys who by now had chipped open at a couple of stones in their keeness to find a diamond but not having found any had become quickly bored and had taken up with a new task and that was finding stones suitable for skimming across the fast flowing water.

Oh so Gussy was very enthused with this new project of theirs. Standing on the river bank, I watched Gussy jump into the water after the stones. Watched him as he 'deaf-headed' me as I tried to call him back to stop him from swiming out towards the now sunk stone. Watched him as he turned to head back and got carried sideways in the current. Away he went. Not to worry, though, because he fetched up  on a newly formed shingle bank away's out in the river. 

Wahoo. Into the river plunged Mr T's oldest son. Over his knees the river fast flowed. Then half way up his thighs. Across to Gussy he went.  But as he waded towards the bank, Gussy jumped into the water to return to me, passing Mr T's son en route. But halfway across, although he was trying to swim forwards, the current took hold of him and tugged him backwards, moving him in a long arc back to the pebble bank. He tried again. And again. Mr T's son tried to encourage him to keep having a go at getting across, meanwhile earnestly engaging himself with a resurrected diamond hunt in between times.

So I went into the water. Yes I did. With my boots on as well. Plus Bools  swimming along behind me, him fulfilling his self appointed task as my guardian. 'Well this is not good,' I thought, as the current took hold of him and threatened to send him off in the same direction as Gus. So I unceremoniously grabbed hold of his tail, and sort of swung him round in a watery arc to push him back towards the bank where he was grabbed hold of Mr T's other son. 


Back into the water I went. Only I didn't get very far because the current was too strong. But I had to try and encourage my other little doggy to get across the water. It didn't work. Gussy tried to get across the water several times but was circled back to the bank each time.

So I went in a little further. Up to my mid-thigh. 'Come on Gussy' I yelled, and yelled. And he did try. And try. But back to the bank he was carried.

But Mr T's son to the rescue. Still over at the bank, he went into the water with Gussy. And as the current pulled Gussy away, he picked up Gussy. Gussy, meanwhile, seemed not to realise that he was in the air and not the water, because he kept on swimming. In the air his little legs were still paddling away. 

And we all laughed. And I am so miserable about this, but we were all laughing fit to bust, at those little paddling legs, although my heart was aching for the efforts little Gussy had been making. 

And the curious thing was that as he was put on the small pebble beach he headed straight into the water again, as if he needed to keep swimming. Nothing for it then, but to get him away from the water and help his head forget its recent experience. A fuss, a photo-shoot, and a rub over with a towel seemed to do the trick. 

Things I have learnt: That fast flowing water is a wonderful remedy for legs that are heavy with the heat of the day. Sort of gets the circulation going again.
That animals can be traumatised by things which happen to them as well, and so  therefore deserve our respect at all times. 
That little doggies have big hearts. 

Nudey girls and boy

The looks on their faces says it all. "What have you done to us!?"
"Well, had your hot winter coats removed, that all. Aren't you happy?"
"Nope"
"Pourqoi?"
"Because we are all in the nude now. And where are our babies. We have lost them."
"No, you haven't. They are still in the Back Lane. When all you mums have been de-coated, then they come out." But somehow or other this was lost in translation with them, and they have had big-time attitude with us ever since.

And all that had happened was that Hubs had made a phone call to the Shearer Man to ask if he could have a look at the flock, and give suggestions as to how we were going to pen them ready for the shearing. 

For many a night our thoughts had pondered this question: How were we going to catch individual members of the flock. The solution we came up with was to section off the end piece of the Sheep House, (above) newly finished, and to fence off the end part of the Paddock as well so they could all be held in a small area. It was going to be another largish project, and being novices we needed the advice of an expert. So Shearer Man was phoned up. Was expecting a call back from him an hour or so later.

Meanwhile our neighbour popped over and somehow or other we got ourselves organised into a car ride of over an hour to go get some Soay sheep lambs to replace her poultry all of which had been horrendously attacked and eaten by another creature, leaving her with three ducks and another small black sheep who had now gone dreadfully skittish because of the trauma she had suffered when all her chicken and duck mates ended up dead.

Plans were discussed, phone calls made, lunch to be had and off on the road we were going to go. I am not sure why we volunteered for the collection of the lambs, but I think it was another translation problem, our neighbour not speaking a word of English and our French still being minimal. 

Phone call came in. Shearer Man. Going to come now to 'have a look'. Well that is what we thought he said, only when he arrived he suddenly began divesting himself of some of his clothing, and assembling what looked like a metal gibet (you know, those things one used to be hung from in olden days). Hubs was all of a flurry. "Got to get the sheep in" he said. 

"Why?"

"I don't know".

"Is he going to do them now? How is he going to do that? We haven't got anything ready.."

"I don't know". And off he went in the car to get some money, just in case Shearer Man was indeed going to shear them.

Which left me. 

"kfdnie lfa'sil , lloem.madkl" said Shearer Man. Well it sounded all gobble-de-gook to me. I ran through the routine of apologising in French for my minimal grasp of his language, he rattled off some more words. Blimey but I was starting to feel stressed. So were the sheep. They had been having their afternoon snooze in the shade of the one and only tree in their field, and were obviously not pleased at being robbed of their sleep and possibly their afternoon's eating session. 

Our neighbour ambled over with map in hand, and spilled out some more words in French, espying Shearer Man upon which her face lit up. He was tall. And dark. And very gypsy-ish. And she had her little sheep which needed her coat taken off as well. 

More words came my way from Shearer Man. Finally I understood that he wanted a rope.  And pallets. "Je comprend" I managed to utter as I shooed Bools and Guss off into the house, and left them to bark themselves silly because they were being left out of the goings-on, and grabbing my camera as I went.

The sheep were getting edgy. Shearer Man grasped my arm, and led me to the back of the Sheep House.

With the rope he tied a pallet to the fence, grasped my arm and made in clear that I was to stay put no matter what happened. "Je comprend" I again muttered. 

Shearer Man, with shepherd's crook in hand, went towards the sheep. And most firmly got them to go down the Paddock. Crikey but he was firm. And then, oh what joy! He got them into the Back Lane behind the Sheep House, and closed them in, having made another gate at the other end. Oh easy-peasy. And didn't cost a penny. 

Taking a moment to thrust my camera at my neighbour, asking her to take some photos, into the shearing we went. Only I don't know what button she was pressing but it most definitely was not the one which actually took photos. So: no photos. Not to worry. Hubs/ Trainee Shearer Man joined Shearer Man as his apprentice, and I remained as the Gate Lady, letting the sheep through as necessary. It was hot and dusty work. 

 All done. On our minds now was the necessity of honouring our promise to travel to Auch to get the lambs. Without a pause, except to grab some water, off we set still reeking of sweat and sheep, still in working gear and still with our boots on. Well, we are, after all, trainee smallholders. 

And the two lambs were got. 

This is how they were given to us, with legs all tied with plastic tape. We scooped them up, and were glad that they were being re-homed. Three hours later, even sweatier and dustier and near nightfall back home we found ourselves. The two babies were untied and scampered off into their new home. We parcelled up the fleece and put it as neat as we could on the bales of straw in the Sheep House. The sheep themselves were really mad at us as could be seen by the way in which they huddled down at the far end of the Paddock,  with the ram being in an extremely bad temper and ramming all his ladies  to show his displeasure about being tampered with. 

Day over. 

Things I have learnt: that it is best to put fleece from newly shorn sheep in another place rather than leave it in their vicinity. This will stop the effort of having to pick up bits and pieces of fleece from all over the place. It will also stop the fleece from getting a goodly quantity of straw muddled up with the wool itself which is going to be a nightmare of a job to get out. 

That it is nice to re-home two little sheep who were obviously not being properly looked after, and that hopefully the other little sheep will feel better now she has the makings of a new flock.

That it is going to be task indeed to get the fleeces all cleaned up. That the previous owner of the sheep, and Shearer Man, both suggested that I wash the fleece in the river Adour. Am not sure how I am going to do that. Only the fleece is mostly in bits now after the night-time gambols of the sheep. And if put in the river, most of it will swiftly flow away. However, pillow cases come to mind. And wellies. 

That the Internet seems not to be overly helpful about how I am supposed to clean the fleeces up. And not to get frustrated when I couldn't find a suggestion which said: 'Put your fleece into your washing machine, then take it out an hour or so later all nicely done'.
That it is necesary to be patient when one's flock looks upon you as the evilest of people, and will not want to come in from the field because you do the most horrendous things to them. And not to feel upset because they don't want to be friends any more. It will pass.

Meanwhile: I continue to go out into the field to cut off the seed heads of the dock weeds, which are growing rampantly now. The Mower Man came by the other day to say that in a week of two the field will be ready for cutting. This will oblige the dock weeds in their desire to make offspring since the tractor will gleefully scatter all the seeds from the ripe docks absolutely everywhere. So I go cut two black plastic sacks of docks each day. And have trained myself not to look at how many I have not cut. I just focus on how many I have stopped from reproducing. 

So off to start the Wool Project. Or rather, to think about the Wool Project. Bye for now!