Crafty Moment of Geek

My sister's upcoming birthday was the perfect chance to let my geek flag fly, so I knitted this for her -

It's a Dr. Who 'Tardis' Kindle cover. It covers the full geek spectrum because:

a) It's based on a Sci-Fi show with a cult following

b) It's meta because a Kindle, like a Tardis, holds more on the inside than its small shape would belie

c) It's a cosy (OK, technically cosies are more nerd than geek. If you disagree, we could draw a Venn diagram and discuss the overlaps...)

And bonus: I got to use the word 'meta', which almost never happens in my line of work.

If you want to make one for yourself, or for a geeked-out Sci-nerd loved one, the FREE pattern by Stephanie Walls can be found here

Socktoberfest

I've just finished knitting my very first sock!

It's a knee-length shooting sock in Superba wool (colour: 'Santa Fe'), for you yarn nerds. Pip is thoroughly underwhelmed by my achievement, but I'm proud. Socks are an advanced knitting project and I am not an advanced knitter. Yet, it wasn't as hard as I thought it would be. In fact, it was kind of addictive - which is good because I have to start all over again and knit one exactly like this one before I can wear them.

But I'm told that bird sh*t is lucky

It's buck season now, the Glorious Twelfth has marked the opening of grouse season, and our own shoot team has had its annual barbecue and clay shoot. We get together before the season starts to talk dog, guns, and disappointment in our respective vegetable gardens (there have been tragic losses during this cold summer). We exchange cakes, jams, and even homemade hooch.

This is how my voyage of self-discovery started. With a gift bottle of alcohol.

One (OK, three) glasses that evening and my inhibitions yielded. I got straight on the Internet to fulfil my apparent heart's desire. Do you know what I did?

I booked myself on a welding course.

I did the equivalent of drunk-dialling an adult education centre. Who knew my yearning to weld was so strong? I'm not sure if I think this is sad, or a sign that my life is so replete that all I crave are some skills to stick two pieces of metal together.

The course was full, probably with sober participants, so there was no room for me. However, it seems that our work experience student Ian is competent welder. He stays with us most weekends and gains 'keepering experience working alongside Mike. On hearing my story (after he stopped laughing), he offered to bring over his arc welder and teach me the basics.

Have I mentioned that Ian is 17 years old? These farm-raised kids have serious skill sets.

We found a spot in the yard away from anything we could burn down or blow up. Ian gave me a quick demo - rod goes in here, tighten, touch rod to metal, weld. And it is that easy when you get the hang of it. Which I didn't. At least not right away.

I started by making what Ian called 'bird shit' welds -

It's a result of moving the rod too fast and too far away to properly heat the two bits of metal until they 'weld' together - a rookie mistake. It's a weak weld and wouldn't hold up to the kind of abuse it would get on a farm or pheasant shoot.

Besides technique, there are safety tips to learn. Firstly, assume everything is hot. Inner core, centre of the earth hot. Secondly, sparks. Nothing to panic about, unless one happens to go down your boot. Then you'll be dancing the funky chicken and the running man at the same time, trying to get your boot off.

Occasionally I could smell burning and later noticed tiny holes in my sweatshirt. Wear old clothes. And safety glasses. I forgot to put them on when I cleaned the slag from my weld, and a small piece landed on my left eyelid. It was hot enough to blister the skin. It's scabbed over now, but sore. It would have been serious if it went in my eye. I'll take that as a shot across my bows from karma.

That's a lot to learn in a first lesson.

With more practice I got used to looking through the dark screen of the welding helmet and a better feel for the materials. In moments of clarity, I produced an inch or two of good strong weld -

Ian gave me 'the nod', which around here means 'It's acceptable'. It's the closest thing to praise in Dorset. It means I'm ready to take on a simple project. And I have just the thing -

courtesy www.dpi.nsw.gov.au

A wool packing frame. It holds the bag so I can pack my newly shorn fleeces ready for sale to the Wool Board. Even if my newbie welds aren't perfect, they will be strong enough to hold up a bag of wool.

We've been busy with other projects that I'm equally inexperienced with. Our hay has been cut and baled -



It was nearly two months later than last year but it's a reasonable crop. The grass benefited from a dose of fertiliser in the Spring.

We also managed to dig out a yard at the entrance of our hay field, lay a hardcore base, and crane the horse shelters into place -

The shelters can double as lambing sheds for the next few years, until the flock outgrows two small buildings. The sheep and their lambs can graze fresh shoots following on behind the cut hay, and overwinter in the field.

The horses are still living in their summer residence, which they share with a nest of swallow chicks. I know the chicks are still there by looking at Alan's back -

Bird shit. Those baby swallows wouldn't be any good at welding either.

A bit of background

For those of you reading the blog who aren't members of my family (and I still can't believe you find this engaging enough to come back, but I'm so grateful you do) I think I need to give you a back story. The only reason I'm doing this is because Mike is about to embark on another series of operations, and it seems so crypic to refer to "The Accident" without any explanation. I don't write about it in my blog because 1) we don't want it to define us just because it affects us and 2) I don't really feel much like talking about it. Not with strangers. But you guys are either my family or my friends now, so it seems relevant.

Anyhoo, this short piece was written in September 2009 for a podcast on the theme of 'Make Do and Mend'. I've simply copied it here for the information (and added a few more details about the accident). Please don't feel obligated to comment, I know you know it was horrible and that you're glad we're better now. We are. And I promise, after this recap post, I will get back to stories about the daily lives of countryfolk, working dogs, and our ineptitude learning experiences.

In June 2008, my husband and I were caught in a terrible explosion. A shed full of pheasant chicks filled with gas from a faulty heater. We were airlifted to Swansea Burns Unit in Wales where we spent a horrible year (coincidentally, also our first year of marriage). Though my injuries healed in a few months, my husband was in a coma having taken the full force of the blast. He had suffered over 80% burns - a huge injury. Doctors carried out skin graft operations every few days; as often as his body could cope with the trauma of surgery.  I lost count after 11 trips to the OR.

When the worst of the wounds were covered, Mike still had weeks of fighting off life-threatening infections with drugs and even dialysis to support his immune system. Mike was thankfully kept comatose through it all, to spare him the pain of his injuries. Even if he survived the surgeries and the infections, he would have much rehabilitation to do. But the doctors' prognosis was pessimistic to say the least. They use a calculation adding the patient's age with the percentage of burns to give the likelihood against survival. 43 years + 80% burns meant Mike had "over 100% chance of mortality" as it was described to me.

Mike continued to survive in spite of the numbers. He went from surviving hour-to-hour, to day-to-day. Mike was brought out of his coma in September. We lived in the Burns Unit until October, then commuted back and forth from Dorset to Wales which we still do now, though our visits are getting less frequent as he gets better.

The injury called his job into jeopardy. He's a gamekeeper and his job is a very physical one. We weren't sure if he would walk again. He persevered and pushed himself so he was back to work only 2 months after coming out of the coma, only one month after re-learning to walk. His hand movements were still limited and I was his constant helper. A few months later, perhaps after too many sick days, I was made redundant from my job. We were facing the worst recession in decades, I was jobless and Mike was in a weakened state. On top of that, our home is tied to his job.

'Making do' became our only option. We cut back on everything - turning the heat off and wearing extra jumpers. I logged wood for our woodburner to keep one room warm enough for Mike for his daily dressing changes. Our horses has their shoes taken off and they were turned away to overwinter pasture, to save on food. We ate wild game which clients or I shot from the estate. We ate our own chickens and eggs. We were still too shellshocked to concentrate on reading, or to talk about what just happened, or the future. I knit Christmas presents, the knitting being my own therapy and the gifts just a small token.


'Making do' started us down a road which has become a major part of our daily life, and which has helped to heal us inside. Being self-sufficient gives you a feeling of independence and control. If you can look after yourself, you will be safe. I needed to feel safe.

I began to remember the skills my mother taught us when we were growing up. She came from a rural home in upstate New York where making do and mending was a necessity and a fact of life. Even after she married and moved and had children of her own, she continued to can tomatoes she grew in the garden, and to make preserves. When our neighbor got too old, she pruned his grape vines for him, in exchange for the grapes. She made grape jelly for us and for him. She sewed all our clothes, taking us to pattern stores to pick out patterns we liked. She helped us adapt them to suit our own sense of style, even into our late teen years. She made every Christmas ornament for our tree including the full set of the 12 days of Christmas and the Nutcracker Suite. She re-upholstered our furniture when it got threadbare, and wallpapered the rooms herself to match.

I was surprised how many skills I remembered. I must have picked them up just by standing with her stirring fruit or sitting with her doing my own needlework, like the simple tapestry apple that took me months to finish. I remembered stitches for hemming, blanket stitches, how to sterilise jars, the recipe for sugar cookies. I remembered that I still wear the same apron now that she wore then - a plain white full apron, with a permanent record of stains. The pots and pans I cook with were hers, and part of my childhood. Spoons, a garlic press, a hand-held can opener. A wooden serving bowl carved by her father is the centrepiece of our table, filled with pinecones and rocks and things I collect on my walks. It is my most prized possession. All of these things have followed me across the Atlantic ocean.


I don't just make do with these objects. They have never outlived their purpose. And they connect me to the knowledge of my past, passed down from my mother. From her mother. They make me feel rooted, they give me a history and bring back pleasant memories. They make me feel safe. When I put on my mother's apron, I can make anything. This year I have made dozens of jars of jam and chutney already, from the hedgerow bounty. I wear it when I'm jointing rabbits for the freezer, or cooking meals for friends.


Being more self-sufficient has helped us both to mend. As Mike gets better, I find my creativity returning. I've made a wreath for the front door from seed heads and plants in the hedges. I've re-made his old hospital bathrobe into a coat for the dog, to keep her warm on shoot days. This has cleansed the item of its old negative associations and given it a new happier use. I've been making do with fleeces from the Jacob sheep not wanted by the estate, to practice my spinning and increase my stash. I have enough for an aran weight 2-ply for a new jumper now.


And there's a lot we do without because we don't have a choice. But actually - we don't really miss it. We have been given perspective, and a reminder of what's more important to us. Mike and I pick blackberries, which gives us time together (an excellent 'date night' activity!) and fruit for more jelly. We notice more around us. We forget more about what happened, or maybe we can talk a little bit about it and share our fears a little because we're distracted by fruit, or a pair of nesting hobbys, or a prolific and wild tomato harvest in the greenhouse. Every year I promise to grow the tomatoes on neat cordons but when it comes time to prune, I can't bear the thought of losing even one fruiting truss.

Mom sadly died 20 years ago, at the premature age of 42. The same age I'll be this birthday. I'm still unemployed for now but I think it's going to be OK. And Mike is going to be OK. Though he will never be the same, he is making do. He uses a leatherman because his fingers are too stiff for small work. But he thinks maybe he will start tying flies again, he feels like he wants to. He finds it relaxing, like I find knitting. I will start saving the hairs from my rabbits for tying his flies.

Results of the Sweater Challenge

Today was the final day. The bet was that I couldn't finish knitting my cardigan by midnight on 30 May -

Ta Daa! . Even though my husband tried to sabotage my efforts with extra pheasant duties, I finished it with 9 hours to spare. This included having to spin the rest of the fleece to have enough yarn to finish the job and learning a new technique out of a book to make the neckline.

It is the very definition of "homespun" and not exactly a complicated pattern. It's unintentionally more complicated when you use hand spun wool that has a lot of variation in thickness. The front of one sleeve was a good 4 inches shorter than the back, but I worked out how to add some stitches. When the sleeves are rolled up you can hardly tell. A blind man galloping by on a horse would never notice it.

In hindsight, I might have reversed it before sewing it together (the inside seems to be the better side!) but it fits and it's warm. I gave it a trial run picking up eggs this evening. Not too itchy, comfortable, and the sleeves stay rolled up. And the silver colour matches my hair - well, my roots anyway.

I win the princely sum of nothing, as it was a "double or quits" bet. But I do get the satisfaction of meeting a goal I set for myself, in spite of extra work and some gentle ribbing from Mike. In future I might not race to finish knitting projects as it means I'm more likely to drop a stitch or lose count on a row as my competitive streak kicks in.

Each time I knit a new project I gain more knitting skills in the process. That's the best part. And knitting is the only thing that encourages me to build up my feeble math skills. If you really want to geek out on the knitting/maths combo, there are a selection of resources to choose from. Unfortunately our local knitting group has folded (if it were an origami group, that would be a great joke). It's back to knitting from books and You Tube videos. I've got some fleeces to prepare first.

Hig Tech and Low Tech

My practical skills are improving all the time. So are my improvisation skills - think 'MacGyver' improvising, not 'standing in front of a brick wall telling jokes' improvising. I can fix pretty much anything around here with a leatherman, which is like a pair of pliers married to a swiss army knife. I have to improvise because stuff breaks all the time and we haven't got much of a tool kit. But there is such a feeling of success when it works, which is surprisingly more often than you would think.

I would like to say that this is because I'm technically gifted. It's not. It's because our life is, for the most part, low-tech. Relatively speaking. We have electricity and central heating. I have a car, a mobile phone, a refrigerator. I have a computer and the interweb. We're not exactly living off the grid here.

But we are trying to keep it simple. Old machines, reconditioned appliances, basic technology (is that an oxymoron?) that can be repaired. I think it's an appropriate choice for our lifestyle because we haven't got time to be fiddling with complex things. There's only two of us. So much time is lost when machines break down. Complicated machines have more parts to break down and are less easy to fix with, say, baler twine or a limited knowledge of electronics.

Mike acquired an old microscope from a lab at Cambridge University (I didn't ask how). It needed a domestic plug fitted so we could use it at home, for looking at microorganisms causing diseases in the pheasants. I googled a wiring diagram, cannabalised a plug from a broken lamp, and used my leatherman to strip the wires and put on the new plug:

Caution: Genius at Work

I couldn't have felt more MacGyver-y if I was fixing it with a ballpoint pen, a chewing gum wrapper and a piece of string (Actually I think he used that combo to effect a jailbreak, not fix a microscope). I plugged it in and there was a godawful BANG which blew the bulb and tripped the fuse.

That never happens to MacGyver.

A neighbor who happens to design complex electrical systems for a living was happy to take a look at it for us. Seems my re-wiring was spot-on (WooHOO!) but there was only a 6 volt bulb in it. And I plugged it into a 240 volt socket (D'OH!). Lesson learned.

On a daily basis I depend on the very low-tech. For example, the weather pinecone -

Along with the outdoor min/max thermometer, the pinecone makes up my "weather station". When the pinecone is open, as in the picture, we can expect dry weather. When the scales on the pinecone are shut tight, rain is coming. It doesn't matter what the TV says, or BBC weather on-line, my pinecone is never wrong. They've been predicting rain for the last two days. My pinecone stayed open so I planned outdoor chores. Not a drop of rain.

The secret of the pinecone was taught to me by Gilbert, the octagenarian farmer I lived next door to in rural France. Neither of us spoke the other's language, but between the ten French words I knew and some elaborate mime (wasn't Marcel Marceau French?), Gilbert explained the concept of the pinecone.

He also taught me to cut rose branches to a point and put them in mole holes. The point would 'pique le taupe' - poke the mole in his sensitive nose - and deter him from making mounds in my already pathetic looking vegetable patch. I figured you don't get to 80 without learning a few things so I took his word on both weather prediction and mole control. Gilbert was also missing some fingers on both hands, so he likely learned some things himself the hard way. Though he never could learn my name and called me Janette for as long as I knew him. It sounded so much more glamorous than Jennifer that I prefered it anyway.

So we have the technical and the low-tech, but we also have just pure ignorance. We've owned our truck for nearly two years now. Mike had a puncture and the guys down at the garage chaged it for him. When they put the back seat down to get the tire iron Mike took the opportunity to ask them what that silver box was behind the seat. "Mike, That's your CD player. You can put 6 CDs in it and play it through your radio. Didn't you know you had that?"

Neither of us did. Neither of us had ever seen a CD car changer box thing before. Between us we don't even own 6 CDs. I have exactly one CD: John Denver's Greatest Hits (Thanks Seester!). That's the upgrade from the eight-track tape version we listened to as kids.

But I did get one of those cassette tapes that you can plug your iPod into so it plays in the car. I bought Mike one too, for his work truck. He gives me his iPod shuffle when it "stops working" (ie needs recharging) or with the request "Can you put AC/DC songs on it for me?". Of course I can, I totally know how to do that. If only I could do that with just a ballpoint pen, a chewing gum wrapper and a piece of string - THAT would be something!

A Family History of Objects

daughter's jumper

TaDaaa! My first finished object of the year. It's a baby jumper made from my handspun Gotland fleece, a gift for my cousin whose baby boy is due today. It's soft but very warm, perfect for the Maine climate. I will post it tomorrow, but I expect baby will arrive before the jumper does.

I recently received a box of childhood memories in the post. Dad was cleaning out the attic and sent on keepsakes like photos, report cards, my old cheerleading outfit (!) and some cushions that were hand embroidered by my mother. The cushions were appreciated not only as a remembrance of my mom, who passed away in 1989, but of her talents too. She was a talented seamstress, making most of my sister's and my clothes until we left home. These included some dubious 80's fashions and cringe-worthy prom dresses, designed by us of course, all lace and pink taffeta. But her real skill was needlepoint and embroidery, where she could let her artistic notions run away with her.

mother's cushion

I'm more of a process crafter. I just find the repetitive movements of knit and purl, or blanket stitching a cheap form of therapy. The product is like a bonus. I don't have the skill my mother had, but I get huge pleasure from making something by hand for friends, or for my small but much loved family. That's why I wanted to make something for my cousin and her baby - to mark the occasion and pass on that love. I enjoyed making every stitch of the baby jumper and I hope the happiness I felt making it transfers to the wearer. Maybe one day, he'll open a box and find the jumper he wore as a baby, made for him by his crazy aunt who lived in England and kept sheep. Maybe his own son or daughter will wear it one day.

My most prized possession in the world is this:

grandfather's bowl

It doesn't look like much, and my photograph doesn't do it any justice. It's a plain wooden bowl, carved by hand by my mother's father. He was a carpenter by trade, and died when I was quite young. I have only a few memories of him. I don't know what kind of wood it is, or why he carved it - was it for a purpose or simply an artistic expression of his carpentry skills?  It is the centrepiece of every table I set for dinner with friends. I wonder how many Thanksgivings it saw before I inherited it. I know it had sentimental value for my mother who prized it too. I love it for its simple beauty.

Enough nostalgia. The lambs need dinner, the horses need their rugs changing, and the dogs want a run before it gets too dark. And I want to start on my next jumper.

Food for Thought

We're past Christmas now and the not-so-festive stomach bug that hit us Christmas day. Mike soldiered on and made Christmas dinner, but neither of us could eat it. We are having leftover Christmas cockerel tonight in a chicken tetrazzini, our first real meal since the illness.

Pip and/or Dakota also scarfed a plateful of cocoa-rich cookies on Christmas night so we were on the 'phone to the vets calculating how much chocolate per body weight they might have ingested, and whether or not we were going to have to get out of our sick bed and take them to the vets. I'm glad to report we all made it through.

A few days' illness meant we needed to catch up on some chores. I re-pressurised the heating system and cleaned up broken glass - the winds blew a pane out of the greenhouse during the night. Mike split logs. The weather's been cold and wet, but the fire's roaring away so much so that I'm stripped down to my long johns now. (note to self - no future career as a phone sex operator...)

A Christmas addition to the freezer

Although we haven't been eating much over the past few days, we have been discussing food. Particularly that our diet has been a bit meat heavy recently. Understandable as we're harvesting a lot of (free) game this time of year, and our garden is empty due to my poor planning and limited space. Traditionally only the estate owners and wealthy people would have had a meat rich diet. Workers like us would get their calories from carbohydrates like grains and root vegetables, and lard (which explains the British proclivity for suet puddings and pies).

I gave Mike a hand feeding the pheasants, and as we were driving around the cover crops I realised that they were in fact cover CROPS. Maize and kale and stubble turnip. Turnips may be sheep fodder but they are also a root vegetable, and there are acres of them. Kale is likewise edible, and not bad with chili vinegar dressing. Maize, aka "cow corn", when dried and ground is essentially polenta. Flour is just ground wheat, and I was emptying bagfuls of it into pheasant feeders. It's different than proper milling wheat, but worth further examination.

Why did I never notice this before?

I picked some turnips for this evening's dinner, and extras for the animals: the chickens eat the green tops and the sheep will eat the whole plant. Mike said as he set off to walk the dogs, Nellie the old spaniel was tucking into the green tops alongside the chickens. I guess even she's fed up with venison leftovers.

Before

Mike was dubious after enduring the Great Swedefest of '08 (too much of a good thing..). But, having just finished dinner, I can confirm that the turnips were a success. Granted I mashed them with marscapone cheese and topped them with a parmesan breadcrumb crust which added flavor, but definitely edible. I see turnips in our culinary future.

After

Santa brought me a coffee grinder for Christmas and now I'm thinking that I might collect and dry a few maize cobs and see if I can grind them into a rough flour using the coffee grinder. Turnips with a polenta crust??

Santa also brought me a leather punch and rivet set which was fortuitious as I found a broken raddle harness abandoned in a field. I've hung it up to dry and it looks like it can be returned to work with a few minor repairs. I think it's a good omen as I intend to start my flock of Gotland sheep this year. Santa also brought me a set of butchery knives which is a bad omen for Big Lamb and Little Lamb.

A working raddle courtesy of donaghys.com

Now if only I could find a crop of peanut M&Ms...

Mending

Usually I'm posting about a disease outbreak or injury to the animals here, a worrisome aspect of keeping livestock. Just for a change it's us who're sick. Mike and I have been "cooking something" as he puts it, probably some low level influenza. Enough to slow us down, and just in time for a busy week of shooting.

Neither of us is good at diagnosing the exact cause of human illness, and our cure is always the same: a glass of brandy and ginger ale, and a hot curry to combat any lurking virus. A friend of ours, a veterinarian, once treated Mike for a human virus similar to hexameter in birds by prescribing him to eat the hottest curry he could cope with. It seemed to do the trick so we've been converts ever since.

Neither of us is a very good patient either, though Mike would definitely take the title if impatience was a sport. He beasts through his sickness, stopping behind a tree occasionally to do what he has to do, as he did yesterday while the guns carried shooting, none the wiser. I felt sorry for myself quietly, while picking up birds and coaching a new lady shooter for a few drives.

Now that heavy rain and winds are buffeting our part of England, I have a good excuse to stay in and mend both my health and a backlog of clothing. The shoot takes its toll on our uniform. Besides spot treating the blood stains and general muck on Mike's suit and my breeks, I have to patch holes made by barbed wire and brambles, darn holes in sweaters and pull threads back through that got caught by thorns and branches.

The uniforms are not disposable like most clothes these days, nor are they machine washable. I've had to look back in household hints books from the earlier part of the 20th century for tips and solutions to keep the woolen cloth clean and in good repair. Shooting suits worn by guns are often threadbare in places and patched in others. Some guns have worn the same breeks for 40 years, or passed them on to sons as their waistlines expanded. It's almost a sign of "good breeding" to have a well-worn suit. Only new money have new suits. There's a lot of history and tradition even in a single pair of breeks.

There are stories in them too. Mike tells me of a gun who's affectionately referred to as Mr "Wrong Trousers" because when it comes time to tip the keeper, he pats his pockets as says" Ah - I appear to have put the wrong trousers on. I left my money in my other pair. I'll shall see you double next time." But he always seems to have on the wrong trousers. I think the story more than makes up for the tip anyway.

All of the dogs are off duty today, resting up for tomorrow's shoot, except for Dakota. She's at her sentry post next to my desk, keeping watch on the front yard for intruders or visitors. We don't have a doorbell but we have a vigilant shepherd with a loud bark, which functions just as well and doesn't need batteries.

All the mending is done, all the shooting socks and dog leads are washed and drying above the fireplace ready for tomorrow's shoot. I think I will go and see if I can interest Mike in a brandy and ginger ale - for medicinal purposes of course.

Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in

No, not the Sicilian mafia. The hedgerows. Miles of them, still heaving with fruit and foliage and possibilities. I gave in to my appetite and picked more blackberries (just this one last time...I swear...) as I had a new recipe idea - Blackberry, Apple & Winter Pimm's no 3 cup Jelly. Pimm's is an alcoholic mixer, in this case based on brandy infused with spices. Summer Pimm's (no 1 cup) is based on gin with spices and citrus. Of all the British gastronomic traditions, Pimm's and lemonade in summer is in the top 5.

I also gave into my creative urges and made a Fall wreath for the front door, using only what's in the hedgerow (and a bit of wire). I braided some teasel and formed it into a ring, then added rosehips, old man's beard (Clematis vitalba), and some Crocosmia seedheads. I think it looks seasonal.

I can remember my mother making Christmas wreaths for the doors and windows of our childhood home. Every year was a different style. One year she made outlandish wreaths out of white turkey feathers. Suburbia and taste be damned. As a child I thought they were pretty cool. As an adult I admire her for expressing her own creative vision.

I've been pretty productive today in general. It's the countdown to the start of our shooting season - only 2 days away now. Mike is dashing around with a pained expression on his face, and his usual mellow attitude has given way to a panic normally associated with DEFCON 2 or worse. I can just hear his truck pulling into the drive as I write this, at 8pm on Saturday evening. I've been preparing the village hall kitchen to feed the shoot workers, getting last minute supplies in and preparing the very basic menu, as all my food has to be done in a slow cooker [crockpot]. And chasing birds back home every morning. No weekends off.

We did have a few hours off the estate this afternoon to look at sheep. We've now decided on Gotlands as a good balance between fleece quality and meat. We went to White Hall Farm in Devon and met David and Lyn who breed Gotlands and run the breed society. They were so generous with their time and knowledge, and we will contact them in spring to buy 5 ewes and start our own flock. Those are some of their handsome breeding rams in the picture below. I confess I also brought home a bag of Gotland fleece to spin. It's so soft it's unreal. I'm knitting a secret project for my dear cousin Lisa who's expecting her first child. It's one of my "auntie duties". I swatched it last night and started it this morning at 6.30am - is that dedication or what!? And it's nice to have something on my needles again.

The meat chickens are growing so quickly, I've had to build them a makeshift extension, and give them some fresh grass. They showed their appreciation by doing a comical run while flapping their wings. With those breasts they have no hope of getting off the ground but it gives them a good stretch. Totally winded, they spent the rest of the morning laying in the sun and eating. Now that they're nearing their cull weight, it dawns on me that I'm not sure how I'm going to get 29 chickens in my already full freezer. Hmmmm.

One old bathrobe = dog coat & training dummy

I put my back out splitting firewood this week. Thankfully the chiropractor righted it for me this morning, and now it's just sore muscles. My body is reminding me that I'm about to turn 40. Add that to my own poor judgement - using a heavy splitting maul when an axe would do - and hey presto, ice packs and no heavy work for a couple days.

So I've been doing odd jobs and making lists of things I need to do once my muscles stop yelling at me. With shoot season upon us, and the prospect of wet and cold weather, I thought about that old bathrobe I saved. I was about to recycle it when I thought, I bet you could make a simple dog coat out of that. Turns out you can, here's how:

1. Find a willing dog that will stand still long enough, and is the right size(ish)

2. Cut the arms off the robe. If you cut neatly just past the join, you won't have to hem. Put the dog's front legs through the armholes like so-

3. Check that you can pull each side of the robe closed over the front of the dog's chest, enough that you can put a good size piece of velcro there as a front fastener. Check when the dog is stood up and sat down that it's not too tight.

4. Get the dog to stand up and fold the bottom half of the robe up over the dog so it covers the kidneys but doesn't drag - 5. Now cut off all that material folded over the dog's back. Leave a little extra if you want to hem it and neaten it up.

6. Now cut along the sides so they aren't dragging on the ground. Again, leave a bit extra length if you want to hem it. Be careful you don't cut through the arm holes. It should look like this -

7. Take the belt that came with the bathrobe and feed it back though the belt loops. Wrap it once around the dog, quite loosely. Leave a 3-5 inch overlap and mark it with a pin. This is where you'll put another velcro fastener -

8. You can hem the edges if you wish. I used some iron-on hemming tape. Add the velcro strips to the front and to the belt. Done. Instant dog coat, and I saved myself £35.

I'm out of velcro so I can't show you the finished coat, but I will post a picture when it's done.

Besides terrycloth/towelling coats, you can by dry bags - essentially a towel bag you zip your dog into and only the head is poking out:

The bags keep your car clean, which I think is their main selling point. We have one and have tried it, but ended up with a writhing spaniel chewing its way out. I find the coats easier to use and I can put them on a dog while we're having lunch and let them walk around to help keep warm and limber.

While I had the iron-on hemming tape I remembered I needed a training dummy for the puppy. She's just starting to show interest in retrieving things. Mike has lots of tubifast leftover from his hospital visits. I used an arm-length section of tubifast and sealed one end with the tape. Then I rolled up one of the sleeves I cut from the bathrobe into a sausage shape and put it inside, and sealed up the other end. Puppy tried it out:Perfect! Just the right size, not too heavy, good mouth feel and it smells of her family. Later I can put some pheasant feathers and such in it to get her used to the smell of quarry.

It's especially cathartic to take objects associated with our difficult time in the hospital last year - Mike's robe and the tubifast he wore to protect his arms - and turn them into something life affirming like our relationship with our dogs.

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.