Spring/summer collection 2017

With the arrival of spring and the mercury heading back into double figures for the first time in months, my husband decided it was time to embark on the smallholders' equivalent of a new wardrobe or in our case, a new set of farm animals to furnish our freezer with in the coming months.. The first Friday of the month is pig market day around these parts. The monthly gathering of seasoned pig farmers and those gullible suckers who haven’t a clue but fancy themselves as the archetypal smallholder. You can almost see the former rubbing their hands in anticipation as they see the newbies rolling up in their unblemished stock trailers, freshly printed (and totally incomprehensible – to them) livestock papers in their hands. My husband had pretty much been counting down the days on his calendar to this momentous day and on the long-awaited morning assembled my father, somewhat seasoned auction-goer, and a good friend from the Bar (the law type, rather than the other, although fair to say they have spent a fair amount of time propping up the other type too) with, quite understandably, zero experience of pig shopping. So off they all went, only to come back a few hours later with three lovely looking pink piglets and much laughter and guffawing. Turns out in the heat of the moment, my husband had misunderstood the pricing system and ended up paying for each pig what he had intended to pay for all three. Doh. Rookie mistake. There is some farmer from down the road now sporting a rather expensive new pair of wellies and the very latest in farmer chic overalls this season thanks to us. We’ve named our new collection Prada, Chanel and Gucci, the most expensive piglets in Christendom. And as if that weren’t bad enough, in our recent mini heatwave my husband thought that his new pride and joys were getting a little sunburned so asked me to get out there with my ultra-expensive Vichy Factor 50, to stop their little pink ears from getting any pinker. Seriously?

Meet Prada, Chanel and Gucci...

Having settled our new gold-plated pigs into their new sty and checked them approximately every 20 minutes, the following morning brought yet more new additions to the family. After 21 days of massively irritating clicking every 9 seconds, our incubator appears to have done its job. We came downstairs on Saturday morning to find a small beak protruding from a shell and pecking its way out. It is little short of miraculous watching this tiny, bedraggled form wrestle its way out of its shell and into the world. The kids were captivated, (CBeebies did not get a look in all weekend, their noses pressed up tight against the incubator instead), but not quite as enraptured as the grown-ups who couldn’t quite believe this had actually worked (previous attempts having all ended as duds). And it turns out watching chicks hatch is a little bit like making popcorn. After the first kernel pops nothing seems to happen for ages and then all of a sudden it all kicks off and it’s like Armageddon in there. Same for our chicks. You turn your back for a few hours and come back and there’s loads more hatched, all clambering over each other like drunks at the finishing line of the Grand National. What has had us baffled though is the colour of the chicks in relation to the shell they emerged from. Where we had been expecting a nice little yellow ball of fluff from one of our Light Sussex hens, they were coming out black or stripy. Awkward! Something you’re not telling us you naughty hens?!

Hot chicks..... a grand total of 14 hatched into the world

As if all these new arrivals to the place weren’t enough, our daughters have taken to adopting the many tadpoles swimming in the ponds around the place to be their ‘pets’, catching as many as they can in jam jars and making ‘aquariums’ for them with an assortment of stones and leaves. The whole kitchen looks and sounds like a sodding menagerie. You can’t move for something hatching, tweeting or wiggling around. 

Does my tail look  big in this?

And finally my husband decided to treat himself to an egg this Easter, a Big Green Egg. For those of you less familiar with this season's fashions in big brand American barbecues, this thing looks like something from outer space, an alien pod or cocoon perhaps (why is it that that particular film seems to become all the more appealing to me the closer I get to forty!). And it is bloody huge. You could fit all of our aforementioned pets and ourselves in there and close the lid and live out the next nuclear winter no probs. And not content with just one supersize barbecue, he came home with TWO! After the whole pig debacle it was a bloody good job he got a significant discount on these – when I casually perused the prices on the internet I nearly fell off my chair. But despite my concerns that in buying this we may have jinxed summer 2017 forever, for once the weather gods have been smiling upon us and we have actually managed to use the thing for three consecutive nights – we’ve cooked (venison) burgers, steaks (of course, venison), even pizza (yup, you guessed it, venison pastrami) on it, although admittedly last night it was my husband out there on his tod, shivering into his tongs as the rain hissed off the grill. Turns out that just because you have the mother of all barbecues it doesn’t mean you live in the South of France. Enjoy the sun while it lasts folks - and Happy Easter!

This year's Easter egg

The whole truth

In these days of ‘alternative facts’ and ‘fake news’, I thought I’d set you all the challenge of wading through the below headlines from our past month to see if you can detect the truths from the lies. Answers are at the bottom – no peeking now!

1. Landrover For Sale – after many years of loyal service and an obsession bordering on a love affair, my husband has finally agreed that it is time for his beloved Landrover Defender to move on.

2. Leading Beauty Editor’s Hand Cream Found In Local Agricultural Farmers’ Merchants – I almost fell off my hay bale when I saw my heavy duty hand cream “for people who work with their hands” showcased in the Guardian Weekend magazine’s Beauty column by Sali Hughes.

3. Leeks A Triumph For St David’s Day – I’ve finally broken my allium duck and have produced some fine tasting leeks the size of your forearm to grace the table just in time for 1 March.

4.  Massive Snowfall Creates Sledging Mecca – finally we have had a good dump of snow off the back of Doris so the kids could get out there and exhaust themselves whizzing down our fields in their sledges.

5. Husband Becomes Master Baker – my husband has become obsessed with cultivating his yeast and perfecting the art of baking sourdough bread. This weekend he also cooked up an impressive 4 inch high chicken, ham and leek pie.

6.  North Wales Voted 4^th Best Place To Visit In The World – The Lonely Planet’s Best In Travel list named North Wales in the top four spots, and it was the only UK destination to be featured in the rankings.

7.  Rare Golden Eagle Spotted In Our Field – I thought my eyes were deceiving me when I happened across a Golden Eagle minding its own business as we froze, stock still, and watched it eating its prey for a good few minutes before it took off. 

8. Husband Sacks Off Bushcraft To Retrain As Brickie – having decided he’s had enough of the bushcraft mullarkey, my husband has signed himself up on a bricklaying course in a shock change of career direction.

9. Four Year Old Fells Tree – in a feat of strength and fabulously well organised preparation my daughter was delighted to take down her first tree on the land.

10. Both Children Sleep Till 8am – in a rare and fortuitous turn of fortune both my children slept until nearly 8am on a Sunday morning. We couldn’t believe our luck!

ANSWERS:

1. False – are you mad? My husband loves his Landrover more than me and would sell me before it any day of the week. I strongly suspect he may even be buried in it, lest it fall into someone else’s hands. Nup, never going to happen.

2. True – no word of a lie, the same stuff that your local farmers slap on their grime encrusted hands was there, in print, next to the royal bloody jelly moisturiser. Wonders never cease.

The wonder stuff

3. Total bollocks – yet again I have failed to produce anything remotely larger than a spring onion despite months of trying. I give up.

Dismal - (although did consider sticking some shop bought ones in the ground for this photo)

4.  Alas no – we have yet to have snow to speak of and certainly not enough for any decent sledging. In fact since my husband proclaimed cheerfully that this winter had been the driest for ages in his company newsletter, it has done nothing but piss down and blow a howling gale.

Meteorite strike in North Wales

5. Delighted to tell you that this is true, although I may not thank him in a few weeks’ time when none of my clothes fit me anymore.

Bread of Heaven

Pie man

6.  Perhaps unbelievably this is the gospel truth – ranked ahead of places like South Australia, French Polynesia and Malaysia, North Wales is apparently the place to be folks. Let’s just say I’d like the chance to compare and contrast…

7.  False – with the rate and volume that my kids tear around the land you would be lucky to spot your dog let alone some shy, secretive rare bird species. Of course it may well have been there, dancing the fandango, but I was so busy dealing with the latest meltdown about who had the dog’s lead first that I completely missed it.

8.  True! Well partially. This is all part of the master plan to actually be able to afford to undertake any of the (we now realise, astronomically expensive) renovation projects that we have planned, although the bushcraft business will still take first place. We just didn’t think the paying punters would take that kindly to sleeping in rudimentary, rustic shelters made of sticks when they could have a luxury barn expertly crafted from bricks (can anyone guess what I read the kids for their bedtime story tonight??!).

9. True - as part of our family bonding activities the other weekend we decided to fell the willow tree that was growing perilously close to our sacrosanct overhead broadband cable. And so my daughter was roped in (quite literally) to heaving the offending bough on a long rope so it fell in the right direction, rather than severing our lifeline to the outside world. Fear not, she was never in any danger and this photo was staged for the blog. Now who in the world would fudge a photo like that…?

Heave!

10. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha. Yeah right. 

So there you have it folks, the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Or is it…..?

Lights, camera, action

At this time of year, when you live in a part of the world with no street lights or any hint of illumination apart from that which you create yourself, it becomes all about how good your head torch is. No one wants to be shoving a classic old torch in their gob whilst trying to grab some ailing kale leaves for dinner or scrabbling around in the muck trying to catch a chicken. A fine head torch is what you need……and I had no idea just how many different types were available until we moved here. You have big ones, small ones, some as big as your head….  You try going out for a run with one of those bad boys on your bonce; it’s like wearing one of those deep sea diving helmets and you end up with neck muscles like a prop forward. But when you find the right one, the world (literally) lights up in front of you. I barely even notice that it is dark now when I’m out on the hills before daybreak. And it’s amazing what you can surprise at that time of the day. I’ve lost count of the number of snipe and pheasants and rabbits I’ve nearly trodden on. And I’ve just about stopped freaking out when I see the barn owls sweeping towards me at point blank range. Trust me, LED lights, a large white feathered face and zero sound are an eerie combination.

Take yer pick

But it seems that not everyone is in possession of one of these indispensable pieces of equipment out here in the sticks. I arrived back panting and spluttering and covered in mud from one of our early morning forays the other day to find a pick-up parked up on the drive, headlights blaring, engine running. Very odd. Lapsed momentarily back into my City mindset and thought, “just ignore him, just carry on, just go away and pretend you didn’t see anything” but then I realised this vehicle was on OUR land and was clearly not right so I plucked up the courage to go check it out (the dog most unhelpfully pissed off back to the house at this point). So there I was, sidling up to a complete stranger, trying to sound cool and relaxed when inside I was screaming “this is it, he’s going to bloody kill me”. At which point he emerged from the darkness behind the vehicle, squinting menacingly into the beam of my head torch, brandishing an enormous crow bar. “Well that’s it then”, I thought, “Game Over”. And not even the Skippy the sodding dog to witness it or spread the word. But instead of being bludgeoned to death on my own drive, it turns out the chap had a flat tyre and was a long way from home and just needed somewhere to change it. In the pitch black. Flooded with relief that I was in fact still alive, the milk of human kindness suddenly started to pour forth from me and I offered him (my very favourite) head torch and even suggested I bring him a cup of tea (even my husband doesn’t get this treatment when he’s working outside!). But he politely declined and so I retreated to the house asking him to leave the torch on the gatepost as he left. Which, to my great surprise, he actually did. Perhaps there are some good people still left in the world.

Although it seems my husband struggles to believe it. His latest gadget du jour is an infrared wildlife camera which you can cunningly disguise in the bushes and capture anything that moves – mice, rabbits, children, unsuspecting villains up to no good. Unfortunately it has also rumbled our farm cat, Cooper, who has now been caught on camera wilfully letting the mice and rats gorge themselves on goodies in the workshop, barely flickering a whisker as they cavort about the place as if they own it. So the Go Cat is now being very much rationed in an attempt to persuade our kitty to damn well get out there and earn his bloody keep.

Big Brother is watching you...

And finally, it’s not often you feel delighted when your husband comes home looking like the cat that got the cream (or the cat that got to watch the dance of the sugarplum rats without having to lift a single paw) to tell you that he has Finally Got Some Action.  Yes, after months of abstinence he has finally managed to secure some deer stalking not too far from the house. For a man whose entire existence is seemingly geared all around deer (perpetually dressed in camouflage, house adorned with various deery body parts, a veritable arsenal of weapons in the downstairs loo…) I cannot underestimate what a significant breakthrough this is. And although he has yet to shoot anything on his new ‘patch’, the wildlife camera has afforded us tantalising glances into the large herds of fallow and roe deer whose days I fear are now numbered. His trigger finger is twitching already…

Rumbled!

Hen flu

There is much debate over whether hen flu, like man flu, actually exists. One the one hand you have much scare mongering in the media about avian flu and the risk of it rendering every feathered beast on our isle extinct. But then when you start looking into it the number of confirmed reports is miniscule.  Apparently, a wigeon (yes it is a bird and not a typo) was diagnosed with the dreaded lurgy at a nature reserve about 50 miles away. Stop press! Panic stations! Every bird in! Every bird in!

So being the diligent (i.e. clueless, farming-by-Google) smallholders that we are, we decided we needed to protect our flock of hens, if we’re honest more from the investment point of view rather than sentimentality. We could never afford the super strength Lemsip for all ten of them for starters. Plus you do feel that you need to right by your animals (in intent anyway even if not in actual action). So we decided we would decamp said birds to the polytunnel – it’s dry, it’s protected from wild birds (disgusting disease carriers) and there is the added bonus that they can scratch up the beds and manure them a bit, saving me the job later in the spring. I was a bit miffed though as my pak choi and winter lettuce was doing so well, but all in the name of sacrifice I suppose.

En route to winter luxury accommodation

Feeling the pressure from the media hype to move them but, for once, recognising the amount of chaos and coordination I can physically cope with, I scheduled an hour in my work day to move the birds while the kids were at nursery. Unfortunately it just so happened to be the last hour of the day and so in failing light my husband and I found ourselves skidding and sliding around the hen pen, blaspheming loudly (the real reason why we needed the kids out of the way) trying to catch the bloody hens who delighted in squawking between our legs and clucking indignantly as we huffed and puffed behind them like a scene from a Benny Hill sketch.

Two hours later... unimpressed!

We eventually managed to get them all into the old dog cage and then transported them the short distance to their new digs. Which we soon realised are like the poultry equivalent of being overwintered in a luxury health spa – soft bark underfoot, as many worms as you can possibly eat, the equivalent of a Waitrose finest oriental baby leaf salad and completely dry and out of the wind. Given they will be here for 30 days (so says our oracle the interweb) it gives a whole new take on Dry January. Plus with the slightest hint of sunshine the whole place warms up to sub-tropical temperatures. In fact, sod the avian flu, I think I’m going to chuck them back into their soggy hen house and move in there myself! 

Champneys for chooks

Postscript: we've since learned that the aforementioned wigeon was misdiagnosed – turns out he just had a bit of a sniffle and Match of the Day was on the telly...  

Digital detox

Well my friends, it’s been a while. My radio silence over the yuletide period in part the result of a planned ‘digital detox’ but mostly due to generally- knackered-can’t-be-arsedness and the inevitable end of year cold/flu which of course strikes the moment you take your foot off the gas.

So what the hell is a digital detox I hear you ask? Well, anyone not living under a rock in January will be all too familiar with the ever present reminders of the need to get fit, lose fat and generally deny yourself any pleasure during the most miserable time of the year. This year, we decided to partake in no such nonsense, after all life is too short and too damn full on with kids and 20 acres of unruly land to take care of. But the digital detox was a revelation to me.

I’m sure it has not escaped your notice that there is an inherent paradox in blogging and generally whoring yourself about on social media discussing something which is supposed to be all about back to nature and turning your back on the modern world and all its general online chaos and pressures. My Twitter feed in itself sums up this dichotomy so beautifully - it never fails to amuse me how I can have the very latest in ‘Digital HR’ and ‘Future of the Workforce’ trends scrolling up right next to all the hippy spiritual bushcraft type stuff and sustainable living feeds. While my day job puts me right at the forefront of innovation and all that’s new, my home life serves to anchor me with my hands in the mud and shit doing the same stuff that has been done for generations. Balancing the two is either going to send me insane or render me the 21^st century’s answer to the wizened old crone with the whiskers on her chin and her gnarly old hands, with her Google Glass and her wearable tech ‘gemstones’ hidden discreetly under her vast green cloak.

More rolling, less scrolling

So anyway I took advantage of a two week break from work to completely detach myself from the internet – no Facebook, no Twitter, no Whatsapp, no general newsfeeds whatsoever. And you know what? It was strangely liberating. The first two days were the hardest (I removed all the apps from my phone to remove temptation) and then I just got on with the present, without feeling the constant distraction of vibrations in my pocket or automatically reaching for my phone every time I sat down for a cup of tea or had a spare moment. Instead I focused 100% on what I was doing, paid more attention to the kids and the conversations I was having, indulged in a LOT of people watching and generally felt more space and room for reflection in my head. Could this be the ubiquitous mindfulness we hear about more and more…?

Simple pleasures - the witchy witch hazel

Which then gave me the great idea that perhaps more people, especially the younger generation (eee by gum, it weren’t like that in our day, we had to walk ten mile in us bare feet just to get a stale loaf a’bread etc. etc.) might welcome the opportunity to switch off and focus on more practical, outdoor activities, engaging with their present and the people around them in the fresh air. I know I’m not the first to come up with this idea and won’t be the last but it has definitely sowed a seed. Watch this space.

As for my husband, I asked him what kind of detox he was going to be undertaking this January. He said it involved three days of preparation and would blow my mind. For the past week he has been up till all hours boiling and dehydrating and frying and microwaving pig skin. Yes, pig skin. Tons of it. After a very brief conversation early in January where he asked if we should buy a deep fat fryer at which I scoffed and said absolutely not, he has now made it his life’s mission to make healthy pork scratchings. The end result has so far been “interesting”. I’ve never been a massive fan of Mr Porky but these were slightly more palatable (maybe). The kids on the other hand went mental for them. Couldn’t get enough. I suppose this is one way to get through all the remaining Peppa body parts in the freezer before we get our next pair of porkers in the spring. Cleansing the freezer he tells me. Right you are then. Happy new year everyone!

Mmmmm guilt-free pork scratching anyone?!

Gun power, diesel and plonk

Some people look forward to this time of year as a great opportunity to set off a few fireworks and burn an effigy as we commemorate someone who once tried to blow up the Houses of Parliament (I tried explaining this particular tradition to my non-British colleagues and they all thought we were stark raving mad!). But around here it’s the time of year when we eagerly await the delivery or our annual lamb as part payment from the farmer for the grazing in our fields. Last year, you may remember, said lamb rocked up bleating loudly on the back of a quad bike, all a bit Mad Max, what with the ensuing dispatch on the drive and all. This year’s offering arrived more like one of the mob, reclining imperiously in the back seat of a Landrover Discovery, all blacked out windows and leather seats, like North Wales’ woolly answer to Don Corleone. Alas this poor lambster did not come tooled up and before he could make us any kind of offer we couldn’t refuse he was swimming with the fishfingers in the bottom of the chest freezer.

Lamb safely dispatched it was time to turn our attention to our bonfire. Nothing like an ongoing renovation project and several years’ worth of crap in the crumbling barns to give you enough fuel for a ruddy great burn up. Having invited some friends around to join us we endeavoured to make it look (at least on the outside) less like a pikey fire and something more akin to the beautifully constructed pyramid shapes you see in parks up and down the land in the first week of November. We were doing pretty well disguising the mountains of cardboard and chipboard and old curtains with tasteful, well-seasoned hazel poles and branches.  But then in the absence of a guy (or an effigy of Donald Trump which we were sorely tempted to create) I opted to burn all vestiges of my previous life as a commuter, symbolically crowning the fire with my two old lap top bags. There was also no disguising the unmistakable whiff of diesel fumes that my husband assured me was “just to get the thing going”. A classic bushcrafter's technique, I don't think.  Anyhow go it went. Whoosh. No toasting marshmallows on this baby. No way Jose.

Symbolic end of an era? Or just a massive pikey fire?

Dressed and ready to burn

Our beautiful fire alight
(Note the traffic cone and other miscellaneous items to be burned later to the right of the shot) 

Recoiling from the intense heat (that could quite possibly have melted a car), we wandered round to where we had set up a series of fireworks. Now this being our first attempt at pyrotechnics and in the interest of not giving our new nervy cockerel, sheep, dog, cat, young children, or heavily pregnant friend coronaries or the onset of early labour I had gone through the proffered box of fireworks with my husband in advance and carefully vetoed anything with a name like ‘Earth Shaker’, ‘Deep Impact’ and ‘Jet Screamers’ and opted instead for the lovely, gentle sounding names like 'Diamond Burst', ‘Silver Shower’ and ‘Golden Sprinkles’ (why is it that the names of fireworks all sound like some dreadful double entendre or 1970s soft porn film titles?!). Anyway off my husband went, religiously sticking to the Rules of Fireworks, (25m away, never return to a firework, yadda yadda) setting off our nice, tame fireworks to the reception of many squeals of delight. Right up until the last lot when it soon transpired that he had sneaked in a few noisy big boys to get the party started. And with that the sheep all high tailed it over the hill and far away, the cock and hens retreated hastily inside their hut and the dog pretended he no longer existed with his paws over his ears under a camping chair. 

Standing well  back!

After all the excitement it was then back to the house for some light refreshments. Nothing like some homemade sloe gin to warm the cockles and defrost the toes. And good to clear out last year’s supplies before we embark on the 2016 vintage. I do believe very strongly in a strict clear shelf policy when it comes to homemade tipples. At least that’s what I told myself as I swigged the last drops in the bottle and lolled slowly to sleep in the rocking chair by the fire, children safely in bed and the dog finally back on speaking terms with me. And he calls himself a gun dog. Really.

The mighty Dot

I wanted to call this blog post ‘My big cock’ but feared that my whole blog might get taken down and/or I would start to attract the wrong kind of attention, even though my intent on this one is purely innocent, you understand.

Our massive new cockerel

So let me introduce you to ‘Dot’, the latest member of our extended animal family – a Silver Laced Wyandotte cockerel, who is close in size to your average African ostrich (well Emu maybe). This is the culmination of my husband spending the last few months on the phone, whispering in hushed tones when he thought I was out of earshot, “I’m looking for a really big cock……”. Then just as I was getting increasingly concerned that perhaps this remote, country living had sent him over the edge and he was about to run off with Bruce the town show-off, he rocked up home with my grand surprise. This handsome fella. The plan is we now let nature take its course and with luck by the spring we will have our own little family of chicks, the girls going on to lay us lots of eggs, boys destined for the pot. Time will tell whether our little experiment proves more successful than our last foray into poultry matchmaking. Ah Chauntecleer – God rest his soul. Still the randiest, largest chicken we have ever eaten, bar none.

Sex pest - moi?

I’m not sure what it is about hens and feathered farmyard creatures that sends my husband into a frenzied flurry of activity, clucking about to prepare the hen house, water troughs filled with all sorts of potions and tonics to welcome in our new visitor with the cockerel equivalent of a nice G&T. He even dragged the whole family out after dark, with head torches and wellies on to check on his prized bird and to give him a good dose of louse powder. Unfortunately he did not warn me of his intention as we left the house and so it was that I found myself an hour later, back in front of my computer on a video conference call with Seattle, covered in feathers (albeit pretty little silver-laced ones), my hair white with louse powder and with mud all over my face. Good job it was Hallowe’en or I’m not quite sure I would have got away with it!

So with all dependents, both the toddling and feathered variety, all safely tucked up in bed, we were feeling quite contented with our purchase. Right up until the point where the mouthy bugger starting crowing. At 4.30am. Made all the worse by the fact that we had smugly thought that we had nailed the clock changes with the kids at the weekend and put our 4am starts behind us for a while. Ach well, who needs sleep anyway…? 

And so finally to the name. Slightly less Chaucer, more first words type territory this time. The girls only managed to grasp the last part of his breed and so ‘Dot’ was born. Also fittingly, when my youngest was born it seemingly was a North Wales-ism to refer to small babies as ‘dots’ – as in, “Ah, what a little dot she is”.  So, with a good helping of irony, our massive cock will now forever more be known as ‘Dot’, or ‘Dotty’ to his friends. And let’s hope things do remain friendly, or we all know what will happen…