This must be the start of my egg pun series. Feel free to contribute your own in the comments section.
Mike and I are both so tired that we've entered the hysteria phase - you know after denial, sadness, anger, eating too many cookies, washing cookies down with wine, and talking to your animals (doing both voices).
One of the incubators is faulty, and it's tripping out the circuits so all the hatchers and incubators go off. That's 20,000 chicks on the line. There is only one person in the UK who repairs these machines and he can't get here for a few days. Mike's only choice is to sleep in the stone barn with the machines, on a cot in my L.L. Bean sleeping bag, and make sure the machines keep running and the eggs stay warm.
What we do for our livestock...
It's not just Mike who has to suffer for his animals; Our flock of sheep is too large to lamb in the small paddock outside our house this year. They will have to lamb at Milkweed. I'm trying to source a small caravan on Ebay that I can sleep in, for pretty much the whole of October. I'll need to borrow that sleeping bag back from Mike.
I'm keeping the home fires burning - both of them, as north winds have brought winter back to England - and managing the non-pheasant related jobs. The tired hysteria has extended to my cooking, and meals appear to be a random amalgam of leftovers: beef stew over nettle pasta last night, fish with wilted spinach and macaroni cheese tonight. I think Mike is afraid to come home because of the food.
Be extra concerned because my job at the cafe started this week. In fact I was late for my first day of work because I had to break up a cock fight between Patches and our newest cockerel, and four hens tried to follow me to work. I had to bribe them back by throwing part of my lunch (a peanut butter, honey, and cinnamon sandwich...) up the driveway and shutting the gate. Chickens appreciate my culinary talents.
There is some good news on the animal front: Alan got a new foot today from the farrier. His infection is gone but it took the outside of his front hoof with it. The farrier used essentially acrylic nails for horses and built up the missing hoof. As a horse carries most of its weight on its front feet, conformation and stability is paramount; badly-shaped feet can lead to leg injuries and back problems. We're going out riding tomorrow morning (weather permitting) to try out Alan's newly fitted saddle and newly made foot.
We'll ride by the hatching barn and give Mike a wake-up call.
Showing posts with label horses. Show all posts
Showing posts with label horses. Show all posts
Thursday, 19 April 2012
Saturday, 26 March 2011
Flesh and Bones
This time last week I dedicated a whole day to all things horse. The farrier came and put on new shoes, the vet came and gave Kitty and Alan their boosters against horse flu, and the dentist came to file their teeth. I gave them a big grooming session as their winter coats are coming out, which is an indisputable sign that spring is here. Kitty's winter coat is never wrong.
I put all the horse sheddings in a bird feeder and the blackbirds plunder it to build their nests. The birds know when it's spring too.
Today it was the sheeps' turn. Their winter grazing on Milkweed is looking tired, and Tractor Dave is coming to roll and feed the grass so it was time to move the sheep. While they're gathered up, it's a good time to worm them and trim their feet, and generally give them a good once over.
With no outbuilding and ten acres for loose sheep to cavort about avoiding capture, I had to fashion a pen and entice them into it. A bucket of barley was enough to get them to ignore the open horse trailer and walk into the pen
I just picked up the trailer from its service, and I was worried that the truck wouldn't pull it when it was full of sheep. The clutch is so bad on the truck that every night I have to reverse up our sloping driveway, because it won't hold in first gear.
After digging the garden yesterday, and wrestling the trailer this morning, fetching all the metal hurdles was tiring. I can feel my wrists and elbows complaining. I worry that my joints are getting worn out. I try to carry more than my upper body strength allows and I think of those bodies from Pompeii. Archaeologists were able to discern slaves' bones from the scarring at the insertions of the muscles. These scars were most prominent on the arms of young girls. And I've got twenty years on them.
God, even my bones are lower class.
By the time I'd caught and treated the first two lambs, I had to surrender. I called Mike and Underkeeper Pete for assistance, and maybe some moral support. My gloves were ripped, I'd broken my makeshift worming syringe, and my hands were shaking from muscle fatigue. When the work gets physically hard, just some company, someone to hand you the can of antibacterial foot spray, takes the pressure off.
With help, I finished the sheep ablutions in an hour. Their feet were desperately overgrown so I've made a note to trim feet more often, my joints be damned.
The truck pulled the loaded trailer. I began to relax a bit and enjoy the few miles between Milkweed and their new field.
Hayley (our farrier) and I were discussing joints and bones when she visited. Hayley trained for years, and worked as an apprentice blacksmith. Now she has her own business and a mobile forge in the back of her truck. She "hot shoes" horses, heating a basic horseshoe in a forge and shaping it on an anvil to fit the horse's foot exactly.
She's a good fifteen years younger than me but she's already doing her best to conserve her joints. If clients want their horses shod, but the horse doesn't actually need shoes, Hayley tells them she's not prepared to do it. "I only have a certain number of shoes in me. Every pair I fit takes its toll on my body, and I need to work for as long as possible. If they only need a trim, that's what they're going to get."
Outdoor physical work has long been undervalued. There should be a premium paid if you are earning a living at the expense of your body. In most cases, these are jobs that someone else is paying you to do because they are not strong enough to do it, or the work is too hard for them to even contemplate. But there's a stigma associated with people who labor, outside laborers particularly. Hayley labors, but she is a business woman and an artisan. I use my back to grow plants and raise chickens, but I also use my knowledge of soil science, plant biology, and animal husbandry. My brain isn't wearing out, at least not as fast as my skeleton.
Mike is also wearing out, though the accident caused a great leap in his demise, and some side effects. Quincy the puppy is teething and tries to use anything or anyone as a chew toy. I saw the puppy playing on Mike's lap, writhing about and chewing his shirt sleeve. Then I saw blood. Mike doesn't have much feeling in his right arm and he didn't notice the puppy had chewed a hole in his skin. I cleaned it up and it's healing fine. Wearing out on the inside is one thing, being devoured from the outside is another.
I put all the horse sheddings in a bird feeder and the blackbirds plunder it to build their nests. The birds know when it's spring too.
Today it was the sheeps' turn. Their winter grazing on Milkweed is looking tired, and Tractor Dave is coming to roll and feed the grass so it was time to move the sheep. While they're gathered up, it's a good time to worm them and trim their feet, and generally give them a good once over.
With no outbuilding and ten acres for loose sheep to cavort about avoiding capture, I had to fashion a pen and entice them into it. A bucket of barley was enough to get them to ignore the open horse trailer and walk into the pen
I just picked up the trailer from its service, and I was worried that the truck wouldn't pull it when it was full of sheep. The clutch is so bad on the truck that every night I have to reverse up our sloping driveway, because it won't hold in first gear.
After digging the garden yesterday, and wrestling the trailer this morning, fetching all the metal hurdles was tiring. I can feel my wrists and elbows complaining. I worry that my joints are getting worn out. I try to carry more than my upper body strength allows and I think of those bodies from Pompeii. Archaeologists were able to discern slaves' bones from the scarring at the insertions of the muscles. These scars were most prominent on the arms of young girls. And I've got twenty years on them.
God, even my bones are lower class.
By the time I'd caught and treated the first two lambs, I had to surrender. I called Mike and Underkeeper Pete for assistance, and maybe some moral support. My gloves were ripped, I'd broken my makeshift worming syringe, and my hands were shaking from muscle fatigue. When the work gets physically hard, just some company, someone to hand you the can of antibacterial foot spray, takes the pressure off.
With help, I finished the sheep ablutions in an hour. Their feet were desperately overgrown so I've made a note to trim feet more often, my joints be damned.
The truck pulled the loaded trailer. I began to relax a bit and enjoy the few miles between Milkweed and their new field.
No gloves = purple hands. That will take a few days to wear off
I used what was left of my clutch to pull the trailer up the dirt track to the field. The sheep dribbled out and sampled their new forage. My bones are due a day's rest now, or until the sheep shearer comes.
Hayley (our farrier) and I were discussing joints and bones when she visited. Hayley trained for years, and worked as an apprentice blacksmith. Now she has her own business and a mobile forge in the back of her truck. She "hot shoes" horses, heating a basic horseshoe in a forge and shaping it on an anvil to fit the horse's foot exactly.
She's a good fifteen years younger than me but she's already doing her best to conserve her joints. If clients want their horses shod, but the horse doesn't actually need shoes, Hayley tells them she's not prepared to do it. "I only have a certain number of shoes in me. Every pair I fit takes its toll on my body, and I need to work for as long as possible. If they only need a trim, that's what they're going to get."
Outdoor physical work has long been undervalued. There should be a premium paid if you are earning a living at the expense of your body. In most cases, these are jobs that someone else is paying you to do because they are not strong enough to do it, or the work is too hard for them to even contemplate. But there's a stigma associated with people who labor, outside laborers particularly. Hayley labors, but she is a business woman and an artisan. I use my back to grow plants and raise chickens, but I also use my knowledge of soil science, plant biology, and animal husbandry. My brain isn't wearing out, at least not as fast as my skeleton.
Mike is also wearing out, though the accident caused a great leap in his demise, and some side effects. Quincy the puppy is teething and tries to use anything or anyone as a chew toy. I saw the puppy playing on Mike's lap, writhing about and chewing his shirt sleeve. Then I saw blood. Mike doesn't have much feeling in his right arm and he didn't notice the puppy had chewed a hole in his skin. I cleaned it up and it's healing fine. Wearing out on the inside is one thing, being devoured from the outside is another.
Sunday, 19 September 2010
Horse Sense
Apologies for a pictureless post - I'm having a few technical difficulties with the camera
I had the great pleasure of meeting Clive yesterday. Clive is the brother-in-law of our estate deer stalker. Clive runs a "small" 56-acre farm in Cornwall worked with the aid of five draught horses. He has kindly offered to help me get Kitty and Alan started in their new life as working horses under harness.
I asked Clive how he got started using horses. "Well, when I moved to this farm, I took an old Nuffield tractor with me. This tractor never did have a battery so I would park in on a slope, and when I wanted to start it I would push it down the hill then jump on.
"One day I pushed the tractor and I wasn't quick enough to catch it. That tractor made it all the way down the hill and ended up in the bottom hedge. I decided then that I must be getting too old and slow to be doing that. Maybe it was time to work with something that I could stop before it ended up in a hedge. It's all about those pivotal moments in life. Getting old was a pivotal moment for me." Clive said. So he switched to horses.
Really, he was switching back to horses. Clive had already learned to drive horses from his father who had been the village baker. Father used horses to deliver bread, and preferred them to the van that eventually replaced them. Clive and his father could drive the horses to one end of the street, drop the reins, get out and deliver their bread to a few houses. When they finished, father would whistle up the horses and the horses would drive themselves to the end of the road to meet Clive and father. The replacement van couldn't do that. They had to walk back and get the van, and consequently their deliveries took much longer after they'd modernised.
Clive won't make that mistake again. He chooses not to modernise his life. He doesn't own a computer or a mobile phone. He doesn't own a four-wheel drive vehicle, even though they get flooded in regularly when spring comes. When his wife goes away to visit family, he turns the electricity off in the house, to "see if he could get used to it again." Clive is a woodworker by trade, and says when he was an apprentice, the joinery where he worked didn't have electricty and all the wood was planked by hand. Or horse-power.
Now he specialises in making replacement moulding, all hand carved sections, to replace mouldings damaged in building renovation. And of course he's pretty much self-sufficient with his farm. He even grows all his own animal feed and cuts it with horse-drawn implements.
I don't think I've met a person more contented than Clive in a very long time.
Besides being a fascinating person, he was a wealth of information and happy to share it. We tried some collars on the horses, which both horses accepted with a reassuring indifference. He talked me through my first steps: long-lining. For you non-horsey readers (and believe me you're the sensible ones without a death wish, or a need to turn your entire life savings into manure), long-lining simply means walking behind a horse with very long reins attached to the horse's bit. In theory, you should be able to turn your horse left, or right, and stop your horse, from the far end of the reins. This will get the horse used to someone working behind him and to voice commands. As with all training, it's small bits of learning at a time, little and often.
Clive was so positive and encouraging that I woke up invigorated at daybreak this morning. Mike brought me a cup of tea in bed (of course he'd already started work) and I devoured the last chapters of The Heavy Horse Manual by Nick Raynor which I've been reading in snippets, in spare moments. By 7a.m., I had fed the dogs and was ready to drive the few miles to Milkweed to check on the horses and sheep. I had a scoop of sheep feed (in case of another breakout like last night) and I dug up a few of my remaining carrots to give to Kitty and Alan. After all, if they're going to be my work mates, I'd better treat them right.
I have a nylon bridle/halter combo and some spare rope that Mike uses to make dog leashes. That will do for long lines, as long as I wear gloves. Clive taught me the tying-on knot. I'll fix the lines to 2 clips, spares I'd saved from worn or broken tack, for easy on-and-off the bridle. I can't wait to get started.
But I have to wait a bit longer. We're shooting again tomorrow so there are workers' lunches to make, and dogs to prepare, suits that need blood spots sponging out of them, radios to recharge, shirts to iron. We also finished building our small log store yesterday (from recycled materials - total cost under £4) so there are logs that need stacking.
And I haven't made a cake in days. I have a week's worth of eggs - 4 1/2 dozen - in the porch. I usually supply eggs to a neighbor whose work colleagues devour her supply and mine, but she's on maternity leave. Our supply lines are shut. I put the freshest of my surplus on the side of the road with an honesty box. The oldest dozen has been made into dog rations. Today's eggs, along with a glut of windfall apples, can go into a couple of cakes for tomorrow.
I had the great pleasure of meeting Clive yesterday. Clive is the brother-in-law of our estate deer stalker. Clive runs a "small" 56-acre farm in Cornwall worked with the aid of five draught horses. He has kindly offered to help me get Kitty and Alan started in their new life as working horses under harness.
I asked Clive how he got started using horses. "Well, when I moved to this farm, I took an old Nuffield tractor with me. This tractor never did have a battery so I would park in on a slope, and when I wanted to start it I would push it down the hill then jump on.
"One day I pushed the tractor and I wasn't quick enough to catch it. That tractor made it all the way down the hill and ended up in the bottom hedge. I decided then that I must be getting too old and slow to be doing that. Maybe it was time to work with something that I could stop before it ended up in a hedge. It's all about those pivotal moments in life. Getting old was a pivotal moment for me." Clive said. So he switched to horses.
Really, he was switching back to horses. Clive had already learned to drive horses from his father who had been the village baker. Father used horses to deliver bread, and preferred them to the van that eventually replaced them. Clive and his father could drive the horses to one end of the street, drop the reins, get out and deliver their bread to a few houses. When they finished, father would whistle up the horses and the horses would drive themselves to the end of the road to meet Clive and father. The replacement van couldn't do that. They had to walk back and get the van, and consequently their deliveries took much longer after they'd modernised.
Clive won't make that mistake again. He chooses not to modernise his life. He doesn't own a computer or a mobile phone. He doesn't own a four-wheel drive vehicle, even though they get flooded in regularly when spring comes. When his wife goes away to visit family, he turns the electricity off in the house, to "see if he could get used to it again." Clive is a woodworker by trade, and says when he was an apprentice, the joinery where he worked didn't have electricty and all the wood was planked by hand. Or horse-power.
Now he specialises in making replacement moulding, all hand carved sections, to replace mouldings damaged in building renovation. And of course he's pretty much self-sufficient with his farm. He even grows all his own animal feed and cuts it with horse-drawn implements.
I don't think I've met a person more contented than Clive in a very long time.
Besides being a fascinating person, he was a wealth of information and happy to share it. We tried some collars on the horses, which both horses accepted with a reassuring indifference. He talked me through my first steps: long-lining. For you non-horsey readers (and believe me you're the sensible ones without a death wish, or a need to turn your entire life savings into manure), long-lining simply means walking behind a horse with very long reins attached to the horse's bit. In theory, you should be able to turn your horse left, or right, and stop your horse, from the far end of the reins. This will get the horse used to someone working behind him and to voice commands. As with all training, it's small bits of learning at a time, little and often.
Clive was so positive and encouraging that I woke up invigorated at daybreak this morning. Mike brought me a cup of tea in bed (of course he'd already started work) and I devoured the last chapters of The Heavy Horse Manual by Nick Raynor which I've been reading in snippets, in spare moments. By 7a.m., I had fed the dogs and was ready to drive the few miles to Milkweed to check on the horses and sheep. I had a scoop of sheep feed (in case of another breakout like last night) and I dug up a few of my remaining carrots to give to Kitty and Alan. After all, if they're going to be my work mates, I'd better treat them right.
I have a nylon bridle/halter combo and some spare rope that Mike uses to make dog leashes. That will do for long lines, as long as I wear gloves. Clive taught me the tying-on knot. I'll fix the lines to 2 clips, spares I'd saved from worn or broken tack, for easy on-and-off the bridle. I can't wait to get started.
But I have to wait a bit longer. We're shooting again tomorrow so there are workers' lunches to make, and dogs to prepare, suits that need blood spots sponging out of them, radios to recharge, shirts to iron. We also finished building our small log store yesterday (from recycled materials - total cost under £4) so there are logs that need stacking.
And I haven't made a cake in days. I have a week's worth of eggs - 4 1/2 dozen - in the porch. I usually supply eggs to a neighbor whose work colleagues devour her supply and mine, but she's on maternity leave. Our supply lines are shut. I put the freshest of my surplus on the side of the road with an honesty box. The oldest dozen has been made into dog rations. Today's eggs, along with a glut of windfall apples, can go into a couple of cakes for tomorrow.
Tuesday, 14 September 2010
A new season starts
Tomorrow's the first day of shooting season for us, the culmination of the hatching, raising, and releasing of all the pheasants and partridge. I can't say shoot season is busier or harder than all the work that preceeds it, but it's sort of like opening night after months of rehearsal. As long as the birds don't get stage fright the day should go well. The first day is only to stir them up, and we're expecting to put 100 or so partridge in the bag.
Of course, as per the laws of nature (well, Murphy's Law anyway) everything on my 'to do' list needed to be done by today. Top in the list: Move both the horses and the sheep to Milkweed Farm.
By 9am all my chores were done. My friend Lynne offered to ride Kitty, and we were tacked up and on the road soon after. It was only five miles but the horses dragged their feet as if it was the Long March. The horses walked most of the way, but we still made it with an hour to spare. Enough time for the horses to get used to their surroundings while Lynne and I had a coffee at her house, so close to Milkweed that you can almost see the horses from her kitchen window.
While the coffee was brewing I could hear a strange tapping sound.
"Lynne, what's that noise?"
"Oh, the baby peacocks are hungry." she said. And there they were, dumpy looking little birds, staring in at us through the patio door. Until they heard us arrive they had been happily scratching up the garden.
"What do you feed baby peacocks?" I asked.
"Cat food." Lynne said. "They need a lot of protein."
So we drank coffee while the horses grazed grass and the baby peacocks ate their cat food.
I headed home to put my own lunch on. On the way in I checked the mail and smiled to see a cheque for winter grazing we let out last year, and a flyer for animal wormer reminding me that "It's Tapeworm Time Again". I also found a letter from the estate office to say that a contractor had accidentally cut through our village's water pipe so the water might be a funny colour for awhile and please could we go back to boiling our drinking water.
Lunch was leftover pork in leftover soup. I saved a few slices of pork for Spud. While the soup heated, I used the tidbits to teach Spud to jump in and out of the back of the truck. I'd forgot to do this earlier and I'm taking her for her first day's work tomorrow so I thought she'd better learn. By the time the soup was ready, Spud was too.
Sheep were next on the list. I hitched up the trailer to the truck and as I dropped the tailgate, Simon the gardener and underkeeper Pete were coming back from their lunch break and offered a welcome hand driving the small flock from the pen to the trailer. With some guidance on our part and a bucket of sheep feed, the sheep went in and were ready to go in minutes. I deposited them in their section of field next to the horses who were too busy eating to look up and acknowledge their new roomies.
Of course, as per the laws of nature (well, Murphy's Law anyway) everything on my 'to do' list needed to be done by today. Top in the list: Move both the horses and the sheep to Milkweed Farm.
By 9am all my chores were done. My friend Lynne offered to ride Kitty, and we were tacked up and on the road soon after. It was only five miles but the horses dragged their feet as if it was the Long March. The horses walked most of the way, but we still made it with an hour to spare. Enough time for the horses to get used to their surroundings while Lynne and I had a coffee at her house, so close to Milkweed that you can almost see the horses from her kitchen window.
While the coffee was brewing I could hear a strange tapping sound.
"Lynne, what's that noise?"
"Oh, the baby peacocks are hungry." she said. And there they were, dumpy looking little birds, staring in at us through the patio door. Until they heard us arrive they had been happily scratching up the garden.
"What do you feed baby peacocks?" I asked.
"Cat food." Lynne said. "They need a lot of protein."
So we drank coffee while the horses grazed grass and the baby peacocks ate their cat food.
I headed home to put my own lunch on. On the way in I checked the mail and smiled to see a cheque for winter grazing we let out last year, and a flyer for animal wormer reminding me that "It's Tapeworm Time Again". I also found a letter from the estate office to say that a contractor had accidentally cut through our village's water pipe so the water might be a funny colour for awhile and please could we go back to boiling our drinking water.
Lunch was leftover pork in leftover soup. I saved a few slices of pork for Spud. While the soup heated, I used the tidbits to teach Spud to jump in and out of the back of the truck. I'd forgot to do this earlier and I'm taking her for her first day's work tomorrow so I thought she'd better learn. By the time the soup was ready, Spud was too.
Sheep were next on the list. I hitched up the trailer to the truck and as I dropped the tailgate, Simon the gardener and underkeeper Pete were coming back from their lunch break and offered a welcome hand driving the small flock from the pen to the trailer. With some guidance on our part and a bucket of sheep feed, the sheep went in and were ready to go in minutes. I deposited them in their section of field next to the horses who were too busy eating to look up and acknowledge their new roomies.
worming the sheep, ready for their new pasture
It's been raining all day so although the animals have fresh grass they also have wet backs. Later I brought the horses their now meagre dinner rations and checked to see how everyone was settling in. So far so good. A neighbor pulled into the gateway of the field as I fed the horses to say hello and talk about fencing and the weather - two hot topics around here. Although the field is a few miles away from our house, I know there are people closer than us keeping an eye on the new residents.
When the rain and fog lifts, everyone can enjoy the view
We've bought two new field shelters for the horses, one of which will get used as lambing sheds when the time comes. They shelters aren't due for another few weeks (and the lambs just after!) so the horses will just have to brave the elements until then.
While I write this I've been cooking tomorrow's meal for the workers, helping Mike find his tie and sock garters, and generally organising small stuff I've overlooked. Mike will be awake long after me and I expect I'll hear his truck start up at midnight as he gives his shoot one last look around before the morning. No doubt the animals on Milkweed will get a late night visit too. The weather will turn autumnal, the dogs will start getting working rations, and Flossie the chicken will get turfed out of the porch so I can put the pots of food in there to keep cool. The house will smell of wet tweeds and labrador, and the nights will draw in too quickly. I'll never get my 'to do' list finished.
Good luck to all of you hunters out there and have a great season.
Tuesday, 31 August 2010
Of ponies and puffballs
I'm desperate for the weather to turn autumnal so I can wear sweaters and eat more fattening food (which will then be concealed by said sweaters). Wild food and hedgerow fruits are starting to ripen, a good sign that autumn's coming. I've started harvesting a few things already.
Actually, I think the term harvest only applies if I've grown it myself. Otherwise I think it's foraging. Free spoils. Like finding a great chair on the curbside with a 'free' sign on it.
There's been a good show of fungi. We found a much-coveted prize: the giant puffball.
I think puffballs are coveted because of their size and ephemeral nature, and not their amazing flavor. It was palatable, although the texture is somehwere between a marshmallow and a nerf ball. I managed a few slices fried in butter and garlic on toast, but composted the rest. Next time I see one in a field, I might pretend that I didn't.
The pony paddock is awash in field mushrooms, which I pick as button size. They're your workaday mushrooms, nothing fancy like a shiitake or oyster, but they sure can bulk out a curry or an omelette. We've been eating those on an almost daily basis, while stocks last as they say.
I guess the nature of foraging is the gamble. After you're sure it's not poisonous, then it's all personal preference. Having a good repertoire of cooking skills and appropriate recipes probably stacks the deck in your favor. A puffball in the hands of a decent chef who knows how to work with its nerfball-like qualities might have made all the difference. Where even a amateur like me can muster up a passable chicken and field mushroom casserole.
I caught the crabapple crop just right this year. Crabapple jelly is a staple in our pantry and I have a bucketful of fruit to process. My favorite variety is Malus 'Dartmouth' and the one tree I know of is some 20 miles away in a public garden. Foraging for these apples verges on stealing, though I only pick up the windfalls. I tell myself that I'm simply clearing them up for the gardening staff. That will also be my defense in court.
In England, foraging for windfall apples has a particular name: scrumping. Many young children have had a slap 'round the ear, or incurred the wrath of an angry gardener for scrumping apples. Even the windfalls are used in cidermaking. Bruising, clods of mud, and the odd worm count as 'natural flavorings' in a bottle of cider.
I thought I would collect a few hazelnuts this year too, as I enjoyed the foraged sweet chestnuts last year. I envision rich chocolate hazelnut puddings (wearing sweaters means I can eat as many as I want). I thought I would do double duty: take the horses for a ride and pick nuts as I went. On horseback I could reach the higher branches. I put some panniers on Alan and expected to come back from our ride with both sides full. I was congratulating myself on my efficiency and genius.
I didn't know horses like hazelnuts too, or that they're quicker than me at finding them.
When I stopped at a tree to pick the nuts, Alan and Kitty joined in. For every one I found and picked, they ate a branch with several clusters on it. I only managed a few meagre handfuls in total. They ate their fill. Equine ingrates.
The hazelnuts will be around for a bit longer so my dreams of puddings and muffin tops aren't wholly lost. To improve my chances, I won't be taking the horses with me next time. But I'll still have to do battle with the squirrels and my money's on them. I'll accept my fate. As long as I don't have to live on puffballs.
Actually, I think the term harvest only applies if I've grown it myself. Otherwise I think it's foraging. Free spoils. Like finding a great chair on the curbside with a 'free' sign on it.
There's been a good show of fungi. We found a much-coveted prize: the giant puffball.
I think puffballs are coveted because of their size and ephemeral nature, and not their amazing flavor. It was palatable, although the texture is somehwere between a marshmallow and a nerf ball. I managed a few slices fried in butter and garlic on toast, but composted the rest. Next time I see one in a field, I might pretend that I didn't.
The pony paddock is awash in field mushrooms, which I pick as button size. They're your workaday mushrooms, nothing fancy like a shiitake or oyster, but they sure can bulk out a curry or an omelette. We've been eating those on an almost daily basis, while stocks last as they say.
All my harvests get collected in a horse feed bucket - is that in any way hygienic?
I guess the nature of foraging is the gamble. After you're sure it's not poisonous, then it's all personal preference. Having a good repertoire of cooking skills and appropriate recipes probably stacks the deck in your favor. A puffball in the hands of a decent chef who knows how to work with its nerfball-like qualities might have made all the difference. Where even a amateur like me can muster up a passable chicken and field mushroom casserole.
I caught the crabapple crop just right this year. Crabapple jelly is a staple in our pantry and I have a bucketful of fruit to process. My favorite variety is Malus 'Dartmouth' and the one tree I know of is some 20 miles away in a public garden. Foraging for these apples verges on stealing, though I only pick up the windfalls. I tell myself that I'm simply clearing them up for the gardening staff. That will also be my defense in court.
Still life with crabapples and puffball in horse bucket
I thought I would collect a few hazelnuts this year too, as I enjoyed the foraged sweet chestnuts last year. I envision rich chocolate hazelnut puddings (wearing sweaters means I can eat as many as I want). I thought I would do double duty: take the horses for a ride and pick nuts as I went. On horseback I could reach the higher branches. I put some panniers on Alan and expected to come back from our ride with both sides full. I was congratulating myself on my efficiency and genius.
I didn't know horses like hazelnuts too, or that they're quicker than me at finding them.
One for me...six for you...
When I stopped at a tree to pick the nuts, Alan and Kitty joined in. For every one I found and picked, they ate a branch with several clusters on it. I only managed a few meagre handfuls in total. They ate their fill. Equine ingrates.
The hazelnuts will be around for a bit longer so my dreams of puddings and muffin tops aren't wholly lost. To improve my chances, I won't be taking the horses with me next time. But I'll still have to do battle with the squirrels and my money's on them. I'll accept my fate. As long as I don't have to live on puffballs.
Thursday, 22 July 2010
Critter Catch-up
I apologise that my posts have been sparse recently and perhaps not my best work. Gamekeepers (and their dutiful wives) are too tired to see straight by this time of year. We are in the long grass. The pheasant crop is under attack from disease, which we are just managing to get on top of now.
The young birds have also been plagued by sparrowhawks, feral ferrets, buzzards and, by the look of a few in the woods with their throats ripped out this morning, possibly a stoat. We can counter the disease, we can't combat protected predators. We're tired and a bit disheartened, which is normal for this time of year. I promise I will be more philosophical and witty when I'm not falling asleep in my cereal bowl.
I can at least muster a quick critter update:
Grandma Brown is the proud (and very grouchy) mother of 4 chicks -
It was Pip vs. barbed wire fence. Pip lost. She tore a flap of skin from her leg but it appears superficial and she's not lame. I cleaned and reassembled the wound, and dressed it. I've given her some antibiotics just in case. She has taken to her bed to recuperate, which looks suspiciously like my bed. That woeful expression on her face should win her a best actress award.
The best news is that the horses are back in work!
I have found two wonderful ladies in the next village who are always ready to ride around the country lanes on horseback. Kitty and Alan are enjoying the change of scenery. When we get the fence finished at Milkweed, they will be enjoying some fresh grass as well.
The sheep are growing so big I needed to get them a bigger trough -
The young birds have also been plagued by sparrowhawks, feral ferrets, buzzards and, by the look of a few in the woods with their throats ripped out this morning, possibly a stoat. We can counter the disease, we can't combat protected predators. We're tired and a bit disheartened, which is normal for this time of year. I promise I will be more philosophical and witty when I'm not falling asleep in my cereal bowl.
I can at least muster a quick critter update:
Grandma Brown is the proud (and very grouchy) mother of 4 chicks -
We have two Japanese bantams and two Buff Orpingtons. Fingers crossed for a breeding pair of each.
Barbara's chicks are now big enough to range around the garden without being food for crows. Barbara is tidbit-ing them a piece of bread -
There are two more chicks lurking under the hedge. Barbara is a relaxed mother.
Gertie's chicks are now bigger than she is -
Chick (L) and Mom (R)
They still loosely trail around with her, and she hasn't kicked them out of the nest yet. Gertie also raised this silver Silkie chick, who already has a standout personality -
I really hope it's a little hen because she'll be a cracker. She's curious and friendly, and was the first to venture out without mom. Even if she's a boy, she's staying.
I took Spud to puppy agility class last night, just for some new experiences, and she did great. Dakota came along as nursemaid so I stuck her in the next class up for fun. She ran the course, including both tunnels, without any training. I don't think she found it as much fun as looking for deer or chasing rabbits.
We're dogging in now, i.e. pushing wandering pheasants back home with dogs. Sometimes three times a day. Pip wants you to know that she's sustained the first injury of this season -
It was Pip vs. barbed wire fence. Pip lost. She tore a flap of skin from her leg but it appears superficial and she's not lame. I cleaned and reassembled the wound, and dressed it. I've given her some antibiotics just in case. She has taken to her bed to recuperate, which looks suspiciously like my bed. That woeful expression on her face should win her a best actress award.
The best news is that the horses are back in work!
I have found two wonderful ladies in the next village who are always ready to ride around the country lanes on horseback. Kitty and Alan are enjoying the change of scenery. When we get the fence finished at Milkweed, they will be enjoying some fresh grass as well.
The sheep are growing so big I needed to get them a bigger trough -
The orphans are catching up with the in-lamb ewes, size wise. I hang over the fence wasting too much time watching them convert grass to sheep shit. I still can't believe they're mine. But what really makes me feel like a farmer? -
The bureaucracy.
Monday, 24 May 2010
Coming up short
Everything's growing. The chicken babies are getting bigger; some are foraging without their mothers now. Others are big enough to go to roost at night. Pheasant and partridge chicks are spending the warmer days and even nights now in their outdoor runs. Their adult feathers begin to grow and make their wings hang down which give them a slouchy teenager walk. The lambs are so fat it's almost obscene. And the horses have round spring bellies.
The only thing that's not growing well is the grass.
It doesn't matter what you farm: sheep, cattle, even alpacas. You are only ever a grass farmer. Everything depends on grass. Lactating ewes need it to make milk to feed this year's crop of lambs. Lambs and calves need it to graze. Even deer need the long grass as cover to hide their young.
A cold winter and a dry spring mean the grass has been slow to grow. Most of my time at the moment is spent moving grazing animals to any available patch of grass, even if I have to stand there with them as they eat it. Sometimes I'm patching fences with whatever I can find in the back of the truck: wire, baling twine. I had to tie two gates closed on a paddock this morning with the horses' bridles so they could graze the best of the grass in there.
The permanent pony paddock is left of the fence. It's horse sick and needs fertilizer and time to grow without being pestered by two gluttonous horses. I have let them onto the track the other side of their paddock, to let them eat what they can from that small piece of field, and for emergency fencing purposes ---
I blocked them in with the truck. The ingenious part of the plan was that I brought my knitting and a flask of coffee and was able to sit there and have an hour to myself.
The local farmers have a saying "Fog in March, Frost in May, isn't any good for hay". Which is exactly what we had. This means that hay is going to be short again this year. We need to get bales made, or bought and stored, before the end of summer.
We've just about come to the end of crow trapping season. I will pack up my traps by 1 June. I was surprised to see what was waiting for me in a crow trap this morning -
It's a fox cub. He climbed into the trap and got himself caught.
He might look like he's being cute in this picture, but he's actually hissing and snarling at me. This cub is the sign that it's time to trade in my crow traps for a gun, and do some fox control in the evenings. They get bigger alongside the pheasant poults. The foxes will have their share of the pheasants before pheasant shooting season.
Saturday, 17 April 2010
Nature adapts
Mike went to tray pheasant eggs this morning, ready to go into the incubator, and saw a hoopoe -
See how much redder his face is too, and more engorged. That's a real ladies man - at least in the pheasant world. But when he gets worn out and tired, the other pheasant will be ready to take over and fertilise those eggs. Nature thinks of everything.
It's the weekend and even though we're on egg duty, I'm hoping we will get a chance to ride the horses tomorrow. They've been turned out on fresh grass, I've harrowed their old paddock, repaired the broken fencer, given them a trim up with the clippers, and a good grooming to remove their winter coats. They are ready for a mosey and a look around. They seem to like the view from their temporary paddock:
image from www.birding.in
I only ever saw one once, when I was living in France. They are an uncommon visitor to England. We wondered if the fallout of volcanic ash from Iceland played any part in his visit. He's been hanging around the incubator sheds all day (though not long enough for me to get a good picture!)
Our little hen continues to hatch out chicks. I should have stopped her sitting on so many eggs, or at least I should have stopped other chickens from adding to her clutch and causing a staggered hatch. With chicks and eggs she was struggling to keep both warm.
Against all advice in books, I helped a tired and cold chick out of its shell. An hour later when I checked on them, the chick was in distress and still very cold. It didn't have strength enough to move to a warmer spot under the hen. I took it away and stuck it in the warmest spot I could find - right on top of the hot water heater in the airing cupboard, tucked into a washcloth:
The little chick dried off and warmed up while we had our lunch. Once it was moving well enough, I tucked it back under its mom. I check on them every so often. So far, so good.
I had to take the rest of the unhatched eggs away, to save the five chicks. There is a setting of chicken eggs in my small incubator, due to hatch in the next couple days. Against all advice in books (again), I candled out the infertile eggs (which was about half) and put the rest in the incubator with the others. Our neighbor has a spare broody hen and offered to foster anything that comes out of the incubator. He has big Orpingtons so there's enough bottom to cover everyone.
I know I should be more hard-hearted but it's amazing what does survive when given half a chance.
The pheasant egg production is nearing maximum now. Each pheasant hen will lay about 44 eggs a year in the breeding pens, if the proper nutrition is kept up. The cock birds are doing their bit too, and it's easy to tell which ones are busiest. Here's a pheasant who's not covering many hens:
His red face patch isn't fully swollen yet. See his long tail? When they're treading lots of hens their tails get worn down and broken like this:
See how much redder his face is too, and more engorged. That's a real ladies man - at least in the pheasant world. But when he gets worn out and tired, the other pheasant will be ready to take over and fertilise those eggs. Nature thinks of everything.
It's the weekend and even though we're on egg duty, I'm hoping we will get a chance to ride the horses tomorrow. They've been turned out on fresh grass, I've harrowed their old paddock, repaired the broken fencer, given them a trim up with the clippers, and a good grooming to remove their winter coats. They are ready for a mosey and a look around. They seem to like the view from their temporary paddock:
Tuesday, 2 March 2010
Spring Animal Round-up
I have one houseplant - an african violet which I won last week at a charity quiz night. My Aunt Meg has the greenthumb when it comes to these temperamental plants. She had a picture perfect display of them in her stairwell windows. Even as a (supposedly) trained gardener, I haven't got the affinity with this species. It probably wasn't a good start that I left the plant in the back of the truck for 2 days before I remembered it was there. But I'll do my best and enjoy the deep violet blooms while they last. I have had the sense to move it out of the truck and into the kitchen window.
The chickens are dusting in dry places and sunbathing. If you've never seen a flock of chickens sunbathing you'd be forgiven for assuming a car had just driven through the garden and run over every bird on the way out. Bodies everywhere, laying on their sides with their wings out. Occasionally there's a flap flap and some scratched dust kicked into the feathers, so you know they're alive and well. Or come outside carrying a bowl or pot and create a mass poultry resurrection. I estimate that they can go from dusting to feasting in under 3 seconds.
I'm moving 3 surplus cockerels to the woods today now that the guys have got the fence and feeders finished. I hate knocking them on the head when they're healthy. They can pretend they're jungle fowl and make their way in the (semi) wild. The Barbu D'Uccle hen hasn't improved any. It's the same condition that affected her mother Paula and her sister, but I don't know exactly what it is. I can only put it down to an inherent weakness in the strain. I think it's best if this weakness dies out with that line rather than perpetuating the problem. So we're visiting the log pile this morning.
No hens have gone down on eggs yet, so I trust that they know this break in the weather is only temporary. I set the duck eggs for Lady S this morning but early eggs usually have lower fertility. And there are only 4 eggs which are now over a week old. The odds aren't great but you never know. Nature always surprises me.
Chicken folk say that your early hatches tend to be more hens than cockerels and late hatches more cocks than hens. I'm going to monitor our chicken crop this year and see if the theory stands up.
We've had our first spring related injury yesterday. Eudora the lamb was gambolling (is that the term for lambs?) with her sisters and shortly after I saw her favoring her front leg. I sat her on her bum (it's so much easier to handle sheep when they're still pint-sized) and felt around the digit for a thorn or swelling, felt for any heat in the leg and looked for signs of scald. Nothing. She's still limping today so I'll keep an eye on her. I stopped the shepherd as he was coming through the village on his quad bike and asked him for a second (more experienced) opinion. Too much frollicking, quite common in lambs when the weather turns he said. Other than the sports injury, they are growing fast on their bottles of milk.
The horses are sulking from the lack of grass and it will be some time yet before enough shoots poke through their paddock to keep those fatties fed. I bought up all the surplus hay bales from a local farmer, and filled up our truck and trailer. I hope will be enough to see them through. It depends on when the ground warms up and the grass gets away. It's hard to predict.
Finding small bales of hay is difficult nowadays. Most farmers produce huge bales that have to be moved with a special fork on the front of their tractor. I watch them go down the road sometimes with the bale skewered in place. If it's haylage, you can smell the sweet fermented grass. It smells like spring. As I was humping bales into the trailer by hand, I imagined our ten acres being contract cut into round bales like that, and stacked on the field. Enough food for even the longest winter. I was dreaming of grass species that I would overseed to make it palatable and nutritious for the stock. And the agronomist coming to take soil samples so I could organise my fertilising plan and rotation. Pigs to turn over an area, then a catch crop of kale for the sheep to graze. Then a winter tares to feed the soil. Turn it in when spring comes and use that as my vegetable plot.
Any hint of spring makes me daydream like this. Any one of you who has been reading through a stack of seed catalogues knows just what I'm talking about. It's possibilities. As Charles Warner wrote "Hoe while it is spring, and enjoy the best anticipations."
As I'm anticipating this weather won't last forever, I'm off to take the dogs for a run behind the quad this morning and let them get some sun on their backs.
Monday, 23 November 2009
View Halloo!
There is a small shelf in the kitchen. One half is the "nature table" - found fossils, interesting seeds pods and bug carapaces. The other half is the "information centre" where we prop up invites and schedules to try and remind us when we're supposed to be at some function or other. This time of year it's filled with lists of dates for local hunts.
I should clarify the terminology. In England, 'hunting' means 'foxhunting' - riding a horse in pursuit of a fox (nowadays, only the scent of a fox). What Oscar Wilde described as "The Unspeakable in pursuit of the Inedible". Mike informs me that, in his experience, you would have to be pretty damn hungry to eat a fox. (Being experimental in college had a whole different meaning for him). What we Americans term 'hunting' - going after birds or deer with a gun or bow - is called 'shooting' (birds) and 'stalking' (deer) in England.
Semantics or no, I've never been foxhunting. But one of the local hunts crosses our land, and I thought it would be fun to go and watch the horses and hounds running over our little piece of England. Landowners who support the hunt are invited to attend hunt meets and sent a list of dates. The MFH (Master of the Fox Hounds) also called to ask if she could put a jump on our land for the day, so it looked like it could be a promising show. Particularly for an American who still finds British traditions a great source of hilarity.
But hunting is considered a rather upper class pursuit. And I didn't want to embarass the hosts by making too many faux pas (or is it fox pas in this instance?) Hurrah then for a guide to the British upper class - Debrett's.
I consult Debrett's - the bastion for etiquette and manners - for information on social matters. They publish books and have a handy website. They are the very definition of antiquated snobbery - in the nicest possible way.
In the appendices of its Correct Form guide is something called the Table of Precedence. This guide arranges everyone in England according to rank and status. Having a dinner party and you're not sure whether to seat your Baron or your Viscount at the head of the table? Why, simply check your Debrett's guide. (It's the Viscount in case you were wondering). There are even Tables of Precendence for ladies, and for Scottish people.
I guess, then, the starting point is finding your place on the list.
At the top of this list is HM The Queen, and at the bottom of the list is 'gentlemen' (and 'ladies'). Because we own land, we are raised one rank above 'gentlemen' to 'esquire' (and 'wife of esquire'). Only 90 places or so below the Queen! And to think, last year we were 91 places below Her. We're still below sons of knights and circuit court judges, but I'm begining to feel my own sense of self-importance growing. I may even start ironing my tractor overalls in keeping with my new status.
Armed with foxhunt how to's, I was ready to attend my first hunt meet. As with everything I arrived late, and my first image of the hunt was this -
Those minute dots on the horizon are actually horses. My initial thought was "Huh. Not much of a spectator sport then..." But I stood there, and then a horn blew and soon after the view changed to this:
I think that it's similar to watching professional cycling races like the Tour de France. A few seconds of frenzied excitement as the participants whizz pass at speed, followed by long periods of lull. I don't know about cycling, but a hip flask with homemade sloe gin is essential for watching the hunt. I'm glad I knew this bit of information before we set out for the morning.
We watched The Field (as the group of horses and hounds are called) ride off to our field (of the grass variety) and jump the hedge jump. Then it started raining again. That dampened my enthusiasm to follow them any further. I think I got the jist of this hunting thing, even if I haven't masterted all the terms yet. The next task is to actually get on a horse and join in. I have a plan for that too. Tally ho!
I should clarify the terminology. In England, 'hunting' means 'foxhunting' - riding a horse in pursuit of a fox (nowadays, only the scent of a fox). What Oscar Wilde described as "The Unspeakable in pursuit of the Inedible". Mike informs me that, in his experience, you would have to be pretty damn hungry to eat a fox. (Being experimental in college had a whole different meaning for him). What we Americans term 'hunting' - going after birds or deer with a gun or bow - is called 'shooting' (birds) and 'stalking' (deer) in England.
Semantics or no, I've never been foxhunting. But one of the local hunts crosses our land, and I thought it would be fun to go and watch the horses and hounds running over our little piece of England. Landowners who support the hunt are invited to attend hunt meets and sent a list of dates. The MFH (Master of the Fox Hounds) also called to ask if she could put a jump on our land for the day, so it looked like it could be a promising show. Particularly for an American who still finds British traditions a great source of hilarity.
But hunting is considered a rather upper class pursuit. And I didn't want to embarass the hosts by making too many faux pas (or is it fox pas in this instance?) Hurrah then for a guide to the British upper class - Debrett's.
I consult Debrett's - the bastion for etiquette and manners - for information on social matters. They publish books and have a handy website. They are the very definition of antiquated snobbery - in the nicest possible way.
In the appendices of its Correct Form guide is something called the Table of Precedence. This guide arranges everyone in England according to rank and status. Having a dinner party and you're not sure whether to seat your Baron or your Viscount at the head of the table? Why, simply check your Debrett's guide. (It's the Viscount in case you were wondering). There are even Tables of Precendence for ladies, and for Scottish people.
I guess, then, the starting point is finding your place on the list.
At the top of this list is HM The Queen, and at the bottom of the list is 'gentlemen' (and 'ladies'). Because we own land, we are raised one rank above 'gentlemen' to 'esquire' (and 'wife of esquire'). Only 90 places or so below the Queen! And to think, last year we were 91 places below Her. We're still below sons of knights and circuit court judges, but I'm begining to feel my own sense of self-importance growing. I may even start ironing my tractor overalls in keeping with my new status.
Armed with foxhunt how to's, I was ready to attend my first hunt meet. As with everything I arrived late, and my first image of the hunt was this -
And a second later, to this:
Then suddenly all the other spectators except us went running off in some pre-ordained direction to intercept the hunt at its next location and watch the whole 10 second spectacle again. So we just followed the pack, not unlike what the hounds were doing.
By the way, I am told they are called 'hounds' not dogs'. And they have a 'stern' instead of a tail.
I think that it's similar to watching professional cycling races like the Tour de France. A few seconds of frenzied excitement as the participants whizz pass at speed, followed by long periods of lull. I don't know about cycling, but a hip flask with homemade sloe gin is essential for watching the hunt. I'm glad I knew this bit of information before we set out for the morning.
We watched The Field (as the group of horses and hounds are called) ride off to our field (of the grass variety) and jump the hedge jump. Then it started raining again. That dampened my enthusiasm to follow them any further. I think I got the jist of this hunting thing, even if I haven't masterted all the terms yet. The next task is to actually get on a horse and join in. I have a plan for that too. Tally ho!
Monday, 9 November 2009
The Braidy Bunch
Image from http://www.horsechannel.com/
The dogs and I have had 12 days in the shooting field so far this year, and it's now painfully obvious to me (and to anyone within shouting distance of me) that the dogs need some refresher training. Dulcie and Pip are passable, but Jazz and Podge...well, I despair of them both at the moment. But there's no bad dogs, only bad training so I got my faithful book out last night - Joe Irving's Training Spaniels - and I'm going back to the beginning with their training. Watch this space for progress reports.
While I was inflicting the first chapter's training on Spud, Mike went off to feed the horses and found that someone had put a single plait (braid) in Kitty's mane. There's been a spate of these 'hit and run' braidings of horses' manes in the local area (we get an daily email update of country crime from the police, to help us stay vigilant). There are two theories to explain the braids - one a harmless activity, the other a more worrisome one:
1) It's a hallmark of the Winter Solstice in the Pagan calendar. The days get shorter and darker, and the darkness allows the gremlins usually banished by the light to come out and create mischief. This includes braiding horses' manes or tails, as well as less savory practices like putting out fires in the hearth by peeing on them. Apparently the gremlins have good motor skills but poor toilet habits. To keep the gremlins away, you can burn old shoes - the smell repels the creatures. Mike has a pair of stinking old leather Fell boots I'd like to burn. That would not only repel them, but probably violate the Geneva Convention rules on torture.
2) It's an old gypsy method for marking horses to steal. The idea being that if a horse is socialised enough to allow a stranger to come up and handle them, then it's probably rideable and therefore saleable. Our horses are gypsy vanner (cob) horses.
So far none of the braidings in this area have resulted in the theft of a horse, and we do have a strong pagan community so I'm hopeful that it's just a religious practice. I'm happy for Kitty to participate. She's non-denominational. But just to be safe, we moved the pair to the small paddock closer to the farmhouse where they live, and checked all the gates. Mike will drive by later, and probably find nothing more than horses with their heads down, contentedly munching the fresh grass. I might burn his boots anyway, just to be on the safe side.
Monday, 7 September 2009
Dave the Scarecrow & the Pigs Return
If it's not one pest, it's another. We're getting on top of the fox problem at 'The Hill' but now buzzards are giving the little pheasant poults a hard time. I think I explained in an earlier post that buzzards will sit in trees above the poults and worry them so much that they won't come out to eat or drink. Once they're weak enough, the buzzards picks them off at their leisure. In this case, it's probably this year's young buzzards learning to hunt on a pretty abundant food source.
It's illegal to shoot or trap buzzards so we made 'Underkeeper Dave' here:
It's illegal to shoot or trap buzzards so we made 'Underkeeper Dave' here:
I love making scarecrows - it reminds me of Fall in New England and seeing scarecrows with pumpkin heads sitting on porch benches. Sadly, this is my sole artistic endeavour for the week. And I had to lend Dave my best hi-vis waterproof coat. Neither of us know (or will admit) where the size 8 flowered wellies came from, but it lends Dave's outfit a bit of flair.
After our ride Mike went back to "check on the pheasants" (and sneak in a little fishing!) before dark. I was still thinking of those wild pigs we saw yesterday, and thought I would go sit in the high seat and see if they return to the field. It was a sunny evening and at worst, I could enjoy a few hours with the late afternoon sun and a beautiful view. I often bring my ipod and listen to books or the Craftlit podcast. I had been doing this for an hour when they appeared in the field, nearly under my feet - too close to get a shot and close enough that they winded me or heard me and trotted back into the woods. No matter, they may be back.
And they were, half an hour later, this time at a reasonable distance 100m or so away. I had a good look at Moby Pig - a sow as big as my quadbike. A half-bred for certain. She is the leader of this clan. Following on behind her were two ginger colored pigs, most likely sows as boars that size would have been pushed out of the group by the matriarch. And Moby Pig's 9 or 10 mini stripers maybe 6-8 weeks old.
At this point I saw Pete walking up the far hedge - he obviously had the same idea as me. He couldn't see me but I could see he was safely out of shot. I picked a barren ginger sow and dropped her in the field. Pete heard the shot and saw where I was. Now he might have a chance at the other ginger sow - he had a shotgun with rifled slug so needed to get much closer to be in range. I stayed loaded to back him up; he was on the ground and pigs, especially a big mom with youngsters, is likely to charge. Though not ideal, I could drop her if necessary, so I stayed on her.
But it's a trade-off. They're escaped domestic crosses which dilute the 'native' boar and do a tremendous amount of damage to crops. And it's meat, and I'm not a vegetarian.
Pete never got close enough. They winded him and ran back to the safety of the woods.
It looks like we'll be having wild pig for Christmas dinner then.
Sunday, 6 September 2009
Partridge & Pigs & Plums
Our partridges were delivered at 8.30 yesterday morning, and it was "all hands to the pump" to finish the pens. I ran ahead to secure the pens, tying up nets and blocking any partridge-sized escape holes. The boys followed behind filling them with partridges. We were done pretty quickly, and it was back to ours for some well earned fried egg sandwiches (thank you chickens!)
We left the new arrivals to settle in with minimal disturbance and used the 'free time' (what a blessed phrase that is...) to do some reconnaissance work. My 40th birthday is coming up this month (what a horrible phrase that it...) and I wanted to start the decade as I mean to go on, with a spirit of adventure. So Mike and I are planning to ride our horses from their stable to a little field we own about 10 miles away, camp overnight with dogs & horses, and ride them back to their stables the next day. It'll be the longest ride Mike's done since his accident but he assures me he's feeling up to it. I don't doubt it - he's as tough as they come.
We drove out the back roads and checked the map to get our bearings and make sure that bridle paths and rights of way were in usable shape.
We left the new arrivals to settle in with minimal disturbance and used the 'free time' (what a blessed phrase that is...) to do some reconnaissance work. My 40th birthday is coming up this month (what a horrible phrase that it...) and I wanted to start the decade as I mean to go on, with a spirit of adventure. So Mike and I are planning to ride our horses from their stable to a little field we own about 10 miles away, camp overnight with dogs & horses, and ride them back to their stables the next day. It'll be the longest ride Mike's done since his accident but he assures me he's feeling up to it. I don't doubt it - he's as tough as they come.
We drove out the back roads and checked the map to get our bearings and make sure that bridle paths and rights of way were in usable shape.
We came across a little local traffic.
And just in case you didn't believe me that our roads were a little 'rustic' -
On the way back we decided to pick some wild plums, which are in shorter supply than the sloes. We only know of one tree on the estate. While picking, Pete the underkeeper came by on his quad. He'd just seen a group of wild pigs on Slights Field (all the estate fields seem to have a name), and he was off home to get his gun. We couldn't resist the opportunity for wild pig meat meat, so I got my big rifle and joined him.
I say 'wild pig' instead of 'wild boar' because in this case it is domestic pigs that have broken free from a pig farm and become feral. You can tell the difference by color: pigs are usually a solid color and boar are striped. Wild boar and domestic pigs can breed and produce viable offspring, and the smell of a female domestic pig in oestrus will attract wild boar. The male (boar) will break through fences to get to her, then it's a free for all.
This little group had a great white sow (Moby Pig?) as its matriarch, and some slightly smaller ginger and dark pigs with her, and a litter of very small stripy boar piglets. Wild pigs or boar are jumpy and very difficult to stalk. They are on the move all the time; you have to shoot them when you see them or they're gone. It took us less than 10 minutes to get our guns and get to the field and they were already heading for the woods. We tried to split them and run them to where one of us could take a shot. No luck. That's pig shooting for you.
Here's a sign of pigs working a field. Small patches of the sward are turned over where they root for worms and small invertebrates with their snouts. Badgers will do this too, but on a much smaller scale.
Pete needed to feed his pheasant pens so I offered to stay behind in the high seat, in case they came through and I could get a shot.
I waited for an hour but saw nothing; I caught a lift back with Pete on the quad. On the way home we did see a beautiful roe doe. She probably had a youngster somewhere nearby. Had that been a buck, I would have had something for the freezer, but I have the memory of that graceful deer silhouetted against the hill. And a bucketful of wild plums for jam.
Friday, 21 August 2009
A Comedy of Errors
After our dreadful hit from a fox yesterday, the day just got worse. The farrier came to shoe our horses, both of which behaved appallingly. Kitty and Alan both pulled out of their bridles and legged it down the field in turn, each with one shoe on. The rattle of a bucket with a few apples in it brings them running back - they're nothing if not predictable, and constantly hungry. Alan topped off his 'one man show' by rearing up backwards, and throwing himself half over / half through the electric fence, which was turned off at the time thankfully. Cost of the visit: £85 for horseshoes, £13 for new reins, £4 for a new fence handle, embarrassment in front of the farrier - priceless.
The weather must be turning and, as the old farmers say 'They just got the wind up em'. And not just Kitty and Alan. I stopped in the village cafe for a chat and both Sarah and Nicki were sporting some fine cuts and bruises from that morning - dragged through a hedge, and fell off and trodden on respectively.
The day was just hellish busy trying to feed and check birds. I gave up collecting carcases at The Hill pen after I bagged 50 of the poor little things. We guess that we lost up to 250 birds in that first night. Even the spaniel was getting fed up - rather than deliver the birds to hand, she got to me and spat the bird at my feet as she turned to go get more. Bless her for picking up cold game that stank of fox (which often 'mark' their kills by peeing on them - another good way to tell if it was a fox kill). The smell really clings to you; nothing gets rid of it except time.
And Ted with the curled under toes died. That evening, Mike brought me another Ted (Ted the second), the survivor of a sparrowhawk attack. Ted the second didn't make it either. I think the name is cursed - it rhymes with 'dead'. I'm going to start calling them all Clive from now on.
We did what we could until it got too dark to see. At 10pm, we went back out to lamp the fox that was causing us problems. 'Lamping' is when one person carries a big flashlight and the other person has a rifle. You shine the flashlight around the fields and if there's a fox, its eyes light up a bright bluish colour (a reflection off the tapidum lucidum of the fox's eye). The person with the rifle takes aim following the beam of light. Mike 'calls' the fox by making an eerie high pitched whistling sound, intended to imitate a dying rabbit. Keen for a free meal or out of curiosity, a fox will follow the sound. That's the basics anyway - whole books are written on lamping.
Put it down to being tired or a breakdown of communication, but for some reason I only took 4 bullets, just enough to fill the magazine. I could have put another in the chamber. But I didn't. I could have brought the box of ammo and put some in my pocket. But I didn't. Mike could have done the same. But he didn't. And I really should have checked the rifle to see if it was firing straight. But I didn't.
And we saw 2 foxes. And I really shouldn't have taken the pot shots at the long distance fox. But I did. And when we saw the 2nd fox near the pen, I only had 2 bullets left. I shouldn't have fired until it was closer. But I did. Twice. When I was out of ammo, the fox presented itself side on - the proverbial 'broad side of a barn' shot - only 25 feet away. Did I mention I was out of ammo?
Sometimes cutting corners doesn't pay. For want of a bullet (and more importantly common sense), a dozen more poults were lost this morning.
So, I'm now off to the gun shop for more ammo and to spend an hour putting a few dozen bullets through the gun before we try again tonight.
The weather must be turning and, as the old farmers say 'They just got the wind up em'. And not just Kitty and Alan. I stopped in the village cafe for a chat and both Sarah and Nicki were sporting some fine cuts and bruises from that morning - dragged through a hedge, and fell off and trodden on respectively.
The day was just hellish busy trying to feed and check birds. I gave up collecting carcases at The Hill pen after I bagged 50 of the poor little things. We guess that we lost up to 250 birds in that first night. Even the spaniel was getting fed up - rather than deliver the birds to hand, she got to me and spat the bird at my feet as she turned to go get more. Bless her for picking up cold game that stank of fox (which often 'mark' their kills by peeing on them - another good way to tell if it was a fox kill). The smell really clings to you; nothing gets rid of it except time.
And Ted with the curled under toes died. That evening, Mike brought me another Ted (Ted the second), the survivor of a sparrowhawk attack. Ted the second didn't make it either. I think the name is cursed - it rhymes with 'dead'. I'm going to start calling them all Clive from now on.
We did what we could until it got too dark to see. At 10pm, we went back out to lamp the fox that was causing us problems. 'Lamping' is when one person carries a big flashlight and the other person has a rifle. You shine the flashlight around the fields and if there's a fox, its eyes light up a bright bluish colour (a reflection off the tapidum lucidum of the fox's eye). The person with the rifle takes aim following the beam of light. Mike 'calls' the fox by making an eerie high pitched whistling sound, intended to imitate a dying rabbit. Keen for a free meal or out of curiosity, a fox will follow the sound. That's the basics anyway - whole books are written on lamping.
Put it down to being tired or a breakdown of communication, but for some reason I only took 4 bullets, just enough to fill the magazine. I could have put another in the chamber. But I didn't. I could have brought the box of ammo and put some in my pocket. But I didn't. Mike could have done the same. But he didn't. And I really should have checked the rifle to see if it was firing straight. But I didn't.
And we saw 2 foxes. And I really shouldn't have taken the pot shots at the long distance fox. But I did. And when we saw the 2nd fox near the pen, I only had 2 bullets left. I shouldn't have fired until it was closer. But I did. Twice. When I was out of ammo, the fox presented itself side on - the proverbial 'broad side of a barn' shot - only 25 feet away. Did I mention I was out of ammo?
Sometimes cutting corners doesn't pay. For want of a bullet (and more importantly common sense), a dozen more poults were lost this morning.
So, I'm now off to the gun shop for more ammo and to spend an hour putting a few dozen bullets through the gun before we try again tonight.
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