Bugs, Bellies, and Bags

We've been feeding the freezer over the holiday season. There are only 3 more weeks left to harvest pheasant and partridge, and this winter has been so mild that even the January birds are in good condition, still with a yellow layer of fat to buffer them from a cold snap.

The warm weather hasn't been a blessing all around. The dogs were hit hard with a stomach bug, possibly from bacteria in muddy puddles or cow pats (both are dog delicacies). A harsh winter would normally keep the bacteria in check. The illness only lasts 24 hours per dog, but as one recovered another came down with it. I think it's passed through, so I guess I can rub off the red crosses from above their kennel doors.

I've had bacteria on the brain - figuratively speaking - after a chat with Peggy, who teaches me butchery. Her pigs had a porcine version of IBS (Irritable Bowel Syndrome) and we talked about treating them to restore their gut balance, rather than bombing them with antibiotics. After all, the pigs were healthy otherwise, and drugs are expensive and not without side-effects. It gave me an idea for treating Matilda.

Poor Matilda.

Our orphan lamb, who has survived just about everything in her short life, was not thriving. Most noticeably, she had the 'pot belly' common to bottle-raised lambs. But her belly was bigger than most, and tight as a drum.

Compare and contrast: that's Matilda in the foreground (obviously)

As she's been weaned for awhile, bloat was unlikely. I took her to the vets to talk about an experimental treatment: get her guts moving again, then add a pro-biotic to help re-balance the flora. I went away with metaclopramide injections to kick-start her gut motility, plus a B-vitamin injection (necessary vitamins which won't have been synthesised without a good, working rumen), and followed it with a week's worth of Pro-Rumen, good bacteria in powdered form that I added to water and got her to drink from a syringe.

(FYI - Pro-Rumen is both sticky and smelly. If you get it on your iPod touch screen, it actually coats it enough to stop it responding.)

The treatment is working well, so I related the boring technical details above, in case anyone else can benefit from our experiment. Her belly size has decreased and she's much livelier now. But the thanks has to go to Peggy and her pig expertise for the initial idea.

A commercial shepherd would probably question my approach in treating individual lambs. It's not always cost-efficient and it does affect our profitability. But, I have a deep-seated reason for wanting to save them all, which I'm going to whisper to you now (don't tell anyone..): When Mike and I got caught in the gas explosion, I was wearing a 100% wool sweater. Wool (or more correctly the lanolin) is naturally flame-retardant and protected my whole torso from being badly burned. I sort of feel I owe one to the sheep. In fact, there is a line across the middle of my right hand where the extra-long sleeve stopped, and a v-shape of scarring at my throat, an outline of the sweater's edge, marking how much worse it could have been.

Anyway, sheep traumas over for now, it was back to wild foods for the freezer. Mike, Underkeeper Pete and I have been walking the margins of the estate, to harvest some of the outliers - those birds that never go over the gun line. They find a quiet copse like this one and try to sit out the shooting season -

Mike and Underkeeper Pete survey the landscape

The birds in there are more clever than we thought. We walked through the whole copse and fired at least a box of cartridges. Neither Mike nor I seemed to be able to bring down a single bird. If it wasn't for Spud, our irrepressible Flat-coat, catching a hen pheasant herself, we would have gone home empty-handed. Underkeeper Pete shot one, and his terrier-mix Wigeon caught the other.

Spud, Wigeon, and their bag

So that's Dogs 2 - Keepers 1, then.

We had better luck on the duck ponds later that evening. Pete bagged a mallard and I had this little hen teal -

I shot it, but I would never have found it without Spud. She winded it almost immediately in the thick grass, nowhere near where I thought it had fallen. That's one more for the dogs then.

Mike prefers fishing to shooting and left us for another pond - the trout pond. A local landowner keeps a pond stocked with trout and kindly issued Mike an open invitation to fish. Mike caught a brown trout and a rainbow trout -

The rainbow was stuffed with eggs -

Our flock made short work of that unexpected bounty -

Mike and I even managed a day off to go fishing together. We drove to a fishing lake a few hours away and fly-fished for trout, undeterred by the gale force winds blowing our lines in every direction except towards the fish. Mike lost one, and caught one - both rainbows. Water Bailiff Stu (who happens to be Underkeeper Pete's brother) helps Mike net the trout-

I've started to keep account of how much food we're catching or producing ourselves, inspired by Tamar at 'Starving Off the Land' charting her own year in calories. I'll keep a running list of ours in the sidebar of the blog, for all to see. If our shooting doesn't improve, it could be a short list and a hungry winter. Perhaps some kind soul will send us a care package - I'm partial to Kraft Macaroni and Cheese, but we're set for trout, thanks.

OK- how about best two out of three...

Mike and I drove to Dever Springs to do some fishing yesterday. The lambs came too, so we could give them their 4-hourly feeds. We put them in a dog crate in the back seat. They were good little travellers, better than children (no whining 'Are we THERE yet?)

It's about 2 hours' drive to Dever. We got up early, and the sun came out for a change, but it was below zero with a serious wind chill. Dever is on Salibury Plain (not far from Stonehenge), and the winds howl across the flat land. We got there and headed right to the lodge to warm up with a cup of coffee, and catch up with Neil and Stuart, who run the fishery.

Warmed up and ready to face the fish!

Neil and Stu were in the middle of re-stocking the fishing lakes, moving the fully grown fish from the nursery ponds into the lakes, and putting the almost grown ones back in, to finish growing.  We agreed as payment for my fly-fishing lessons with Neil (teacher extrordinaire) that I would help them with the restocking process by running the almost-grown fish back to the nursery pond. It was fascinating (and tiring).

First the fish were rounded up in a seine net:

Then Stu scooped them up in a hand net and Neil sorted them by size.

Isn't it easier just to keep one, rather than put it in the lake and fish it back out? 

Neil throws the big ones in the tank - literally:

Good aim Neil!

And I run a netful of too-small fish back to the stock pond (the one farthest away!):

The worst idea for an olympic sport ever

And tip them in, making sure they were oxygenated and ready to swim away. Neil says "Give 'em a poke with the net - that wakes them up!":

Once the big fish were separated from the little fish, we drove the tank to the lake, backed it up and Stu fitted a fish waterslide to what looked like a catflap. The lever opened and it was like the log flume ride at a fun park:

If you listen closely you can hear the fish go 'WHEEEE!!'

At this point Mike came back with the first fish of the day:

Check out the manly beard!

Normally I would be competetive, but Mike snuck off to see if he could still cast a fly. His arm movements are restricted from his skin grafts post-accident. He had been a very keen fly-fisherman and was quietly fearful he wouldn't be able to cast the line anymore. When he came back with the fish, I hugged him and we both shed a little tear, but that quickly gave way to laughing, and the competition was back on.

Mike went back to fish. Neil and I took up a spot across the way and Neil gave me a great casting lesson. The trick is timing (let your line stretch out behind before you cast forward) and to relax and let the rod do all the work. My casting improved and Neil was full of kind (undeserved) praise.

Mike caught another fish while I was having my lesson. DAMN! By this time we were all succumbing to the bone-crushing cold winds, and took to the lodge for a quick coffee and defrost.

Once I'd thawed out enough, Neil sent me back out on my own with a rod and fly. Three hours' fishing, as the sun was starting to set, I caught my very first trout on the fly:

My 5lbs 4oz rainbow trout

Coincidentally, I took this trout in the exact same spot that Mike landed his first Dever trout. He claims his first trout was bigger, of course.

Mike decided to have 'one last cast' which lasted nearly another hour (he lost his fly to a good fish and was determined to get both the fish and his fly back). Not even a nibble. I told him the fish was full from the meal Mike had just provided.

His form's changed a bit, but he can still get that line out there!

The final score was Mike's 2 trout to my 1. And he had the biggest fish at 7 1/2 lbs. Most importantly, he can get back to a hobby he really enjoys. And I've got the feeling back in my fingers, so it's win-win. I will practice my cast in the back field, and be back for a rematch. When the weather warms up.

When we got back home it was snowing.

We left them in the back of the truck last night and they're frozen solid!

Mike's got one more post-accident hurdle - using a shotgun. We worried the recoil might be too much for his shoulder, but after yesterday's success, he wants to pop up to the clay pigeon ground with my 20 bore today. I'm happy to endure the cold weather for that.

Real Farmers Don't Cry

I took big lamb and little lamb to the abattoir yesterday. I was stoic all through the hitching of the trailer, backing it up to the field, leading them in and driving to the destination. I unloaded them into their holding pen, signed the paperwork, put the ramp up on the trailer, drove out of the yard (out of sight of the workers) and just started sobbing my heart out. I kept driving but couldn't stop crying.

Mike said "Jen, let's just turn around and go get them. They can live in the field with the others." I wanted to, but I didn't. I knew what they were for when I raised them, I knew it would be hard, and I knew that they had a good (and longer than normal) life. But I didn't like it. Mike offered to go back 3 or 4 times on the way home (he was sad too). But we didn't.

We're picking up our first home reared, grass-fed lamb for the freezer on Thursday.

Between sobs, I said to Mike "I bet real farmers don't cry". Mike said "I'll tell you something. As you were backing up the trailer for unloading I said to the guy 'Go easy on her mate, these are her first lambs and she might get upset.' And do you know what he said? He said 'Trust me, she wouldn't be the first.'"

I guess you have to love animals to want to raise them and care for them in the first place.

Our two new orphans seem to be managing their first week of life. Temperatures have plummeted and there's a fierce wind about, so I've kept the heat lamp in their shed on permanently so they can convert their food into growth rather than just keeping warm. I open the door to the run for a few hours a day, for fresh air and some extra space. Some of  the chickens perch on their run, and the lambs come over to investigate. So far so good. We're calling around to see if any more orphan ewes need a home, as we'd like to have at least 3 lambs around the same age.

We're on holiday this week but pretty tied to the house with animal commitments. But Mike promised to take me fly fishing at Dever Springs tomorrow. It's a world renowned trout lake, about 2 hours from here, and our friend Neil is the head keeper. Neil has promised me a fly fishing lesson and I'd hate to miss the opportunity. The lambs still need a feed every 4 hours so they're coming with us in a dog crate in the back seat of the car. A bit of fishing, a quick lunch for us and the lambs, a bit more fishing, then home for evening chores.

I bet real farmers don't take their lambs fishing either. I won't tell them if you don't.

Feeding the Birds

I checked on new mother hen Gertie and her chick this morning. The chick looked very odd - large head, tiny body. I thought at first glance that it was a second chick, it looked so different than 48 hrs ago. See for yourself - compare it to the picture of the chick in Saturday's post. Nope, all the unhatched eggs were still there, it was the same chick.

I spoke to Mike about it. He thought it sounded like malnutrition. The chick, when first hatched, lives off the yolk sac which it absorbs into its abdomen as it hatches. We reasoned that the chick had drained these reserves and Gertie, who was too focused on hatching the other eggs, hadn't yet taken chick to the feed tray and taught it to eat. It was starving to death.

We had to intervene. Either we had to take the chick and raise it ourselves, or we needed to take the yet unhatched eggs away to push Gertie into caring for her chick. We decided to remove the eggs. Even as a first time mother, Gertie had a better chance than me of successfully raising her own offspring and teaching it how to be a chicken. It was motherhood or bust for her now.

I checked on the pair at regular intervals. I'm pleased to say that Gertie was taking charge of her little one, calling it to eat and dropping tidbits for it. There's a good chance for that chick. The eggs we removed all appear to be addled or infertile so it looks like we did the right thing.

As it was raining again this morning, I thought I would get on with chutney and preserve making. As I checked the cupboards for ingredients, I realised I had LOTS of out of date stuff in my pantry, but all things the birds like, so I figured I'd cook for them first. After all, they're going to need the extra energy now that the weather's turning. Here's a simple recipe for your wild birds:
Clean out your cupboards! Nuts, dried fruits, seeds, stale crackers and bread or cake crumbs.

Take some lard (UK) or empty that coffee can of grease (US) from your fridge. Warm it in a pan and add the dry matter.

Make sure it's pretty soupy - the fat holds it together. If it's too soupy you can always add more dry stuff later.

Save a few paper cups from your Starbucks. (I had these still in the cup holders in my car!)

Fill it with the mix and put it in the freezer overnight.

When it's set hard, cut off the paper cup

Pop it in your fat ball holder and hang it in a tree, sheltered from the rain if possible. If you haven't got a holder, just put a long piece of string doubled to make a loop into the mix before freezing it. Hey presto! -

After chores, Mike and I did a little fishing this evening at the pond by 'The Hill' pen. I picked some more blackberries and elderberries while he cast a spinner. He lost 2 trout, released 3 trout, and kept 1 trout for Mr & Mrs Puzey, our neighbors who raise organic beef. I guess fish is a nice change for them. We dropped off the fish, and sat on their stone wall as the sun set, exchanging fishcake recipes and discussing rabbit damage to Mr Puzey's crops.

You can guess by the look on my face that I'm not crazy about touching fish. I'll gut any mammal you like but fish freak me out. Look inside a trout's mouth - all those rows of backward-facing teeth. It's not quite 'Jaws' but it's still not somewhere I want to put my hand.

I never did make any chutney. Maybe tomorrow.