The Not-so-Great Escape

It's humbling to be outsmarted by your animals. I'm used to it with the dogs, but I rely on their smarts - their senses and experience finding lost game helps keep my freezers stocked up. The dogs on the whole work in partnership with me.

Then there's Alan.

I mentioned in the last post that Alan is a smart horse. Kitty has the looks, but Alan has the brains. Mostly he uses them for his own amusement, and he seems to get most of his amusement exasperating me. It would not surprise me at all to find that Alan has a secret lair in a hollowed-out volcano where he hatches his devious plans.

We moved the pair to a small but greener paddock, for a change of scenery and a few days' fresh grazing. Within hours, Alan worked out how to unlatch the small pedestrian gate, and how to open it - inwards! - and took Kitty out for a walk. Of course, he waited until it was dark to do this. The gentleman who owns the farm where the horses live noticed they were missing and kindly drove to our house to let us know. Alan timed his escape to coincide with our dinner.

Worried that the pair may have wandered onto the road, I called our friend Tim, who's a local policeman, to ask who I should notify. Within ten minutes Tim and his wife Megan showed up to join our search. They're good friends, the kind who, on their night off, come out in the cold to help you search for your horses in the dark. We tracked the horse hoof prints in the mud to a nearby orchard, and using flashlights we eventually found them happily grazing in a hedgerow. We caught them up for the mile-long walk back to their regular paddock, and confined them behind electric fencing.

They were both out again in the morning. Alan used his thick winter rug to protect him from the shock of the electric fence and simply pushed the tape at chest height until it snapped. This time they walked to the farthest orchard behind some houses, to have breakfast with the owners. Alan looked completely unrepentant when I turned up. I spent the next few hours replacing and reinforcing their fencing.

The following morning both horses managed to breach the first line of defence, but were caught by the second. And I had another few hours of fence repair while Kitty and Alan ate their hay and watched me carry posts and tape, and a heavy post banger, up the muddy track. Of course, Alan broke the fence in the far back corner, the one place inaccessible by vehicle, so I had to walk everything in.

Besides reinforced fences to keep them from breaking out, I upped their feed and changed the regime to make it more stimulating, hoping to make them want to stay in. It's a 'carrot and stick' approach. Or in this case a 'carrot-apple-hay-mineral lick' and stick approach.

I understand that they are as fed up with the rain and mud underfoot as I am. I think Alan is looking for drier pasture where he won't slip when he walks. I explained to him that it's like this everywhere, we all just have to tough it out. He hasn't broken out since our chat (and the extra rations!)

I've been riding for nigh on 30 years now, but it never fails to surprise me how much I still learn from horses- whether I want the lesson or not.

Rain, rain, go away

I know it's churlish to complain about the weather, but I hoping the cathartic act of complaining will help me to endure the almost constant rain that's been our weather since May 2012. I don't mean that drizzly mist one associates with the moors of British literature. This is a full-on deluge, assaulting the mind, body, and drainage systems. So much soil has washed out that our lanes have collapsed, including the lane that leads to our pheasant feed bins -

The original height of the road is the two cones in the upper left corner!

The crumbling road can't support the weight of the tractors that deliver the wheat. Mike's borrowed a grain trailer from a neighbour to use as a temporary wheat bin for our wheat deliveries. No fieldwork can get done, as the ground is so saturated that a tractor and plough would do more harm than good to the soil structure. Cue lots of grumpy farmers.

A view from in our village, so quiet without the tractors

Everyone looks as if they're dressed for going to sea: full waterproof suits, and wide-brimmed hats pulled down over their faces. I can't recognise anyone in all that protective gear. It's like a soaking wet, witness relocation program of the Damned. So I simply wave at everyone I pass figuring I probably know them and, even if I don't, well, we're all in this misery together.

The livestock isn't faring much better than the people. Wet ground and sheep's feet equals foot rot. Wet ground and sheep's livers equals flukeworm. Both suck for the sheep. I wormed and trimmed feet on Christmas eve, and prepared the sheep sheds with fresh straw as my small gift of comfort to them. I still have one case of foot rot in a ewe and one case of joint ill in a lamb to manage. I have accepted that the ewe lamb with persistent joint ill, Eudora's only daughter, may never be suitable breeding stock and will have to go to ice camp with her brothers.

A clean Christmas Eve shelter from the rain

At least the sheep have dry sheds with straw. The horses have a shelter barn with a leaky roof and a muddy floor. Until we get a dry spell, or at least a prolonged cold spell to freeze the mud, I can't get a vehicle to the shelter to repair the roof or fill in the muddy yard with stone. We only need the temperature to fall by 4 degrees to freeze everything solid and turn the rain to snow.

The grass in the horse paddock ran out on Christmas day, so the horses are now on their winter diet of hay. It's not their favourite but, if I'm late to deliver it in the morning, I usually find Alan has pushed over some fence posts, which he's worked out give way easily in the sodden ground, and jumped over the now-lowered electrified wire. As I come round the corner I can see his big butt sticking out of the hay shed, his head plunged deep into the stack of bales, helping himself to breakfast. That horse is too smart to ever go hungry.

Our working dogs are impervious to the weather, and still beg to come out on shoot days. A clean straw bed under a heat lamp, and a warm meal of venison and potatoes, is waiting for them at the end of the day.

Thank you Aunt Meg for our new coats!

Quincy is turning out to be a joy, both as a working dog and as a companion. She's already sporting white hairs in her black coat, battle scars from dragging pheasants out of bramble patches. I think Quincy will eventually become a house dog, once I figure out how to break the news to my husband that he will be sharing the house and his small sofa with three big, often wet, dogs.

All ideas welcome, folks

Of course, every cloud has a silver lining. All this rain has given me an excuse to knit. I managed to finish another jumper over Christmas, a green version of the red jumper I knit previously. I wear the crap out of the red one, and I'm a creature of habit, so it seemed sensible to whip up another one.

Being sat down also gave my knee a chance to heal. While cutting the hedges, my feet slipped on the wet ground (are you sensing a theme here?) and the blade of the hedge trimmer dug into my knee. It's healing fine with no medical intervention save the contents of my first aid kit. I was more upset that the blade ripped into my good thermal riding trousers.

I finished the hedges, but decided to leave the wood splitting for now. Wielding an axe in the slippery mud with my track record is inviting disaster. Heck, I can barely manage to walk to the back shed with an armful of laundry without risking a twisted ankle on the muddy lawn.

What the lawn looks like now...

We had a peaceful Christmas despite the rain. Mike gave me a set of numbers to mark my sheep that he had made for me. I had a red squirrel mounted for him, a road kill specimen found by a friend on the Isle of Wight, one of the few red squirrel habitats in the UK. It's been in our freezer for the past two years (I had to check UK taxidermy law before I could have it mounted.) Now it sits atop a log on our piano.

Cecilia the squirrel in her new habitat

And Santa brought us a new chicken/pheasant plucker, so no more cold, sore fingers! We also had two days off in a row to spend together - not counting chores, of course.

Pheasants loaded on the truck - traditionally delivered on 

Christmas Eve by the gamekeeper to all the houses on the estate

Here's hoping that 2013 brings us all some much needed rays of sunshine.

Poachers and puppies

It's less than a week until Christmas, and we're being plagued by poachers. A neighbour called to say one of his lambs had its throat ripped out by a dog, and another neighbour lost a couple lambs earlier that week. The poachers were working in broad daylight, using wolfhound / lurcher crosses to run down deer; unfortunately, some lambs got in the way. The market is paying over a pound (£) per pound (lb) for venison, so deer are valuable.

We know so much about the poachers because, after recent heavy rains, the fields are so muddy that they got their vehicle stuck. The poachers were easily apprehended by our local police, who I'm sure pointed and laughed at them before dragging them off to the station. It is a serious issue.

Aside from deer, heating oil has been stolen from farms around us, and dried split wood from the woodsman's barn at the bottom of the road. Chickens and geese have also been taken and I'm worried for my turkeys. Last night someone ripped open a round bale of silage, one in a pile of bales. The cheeky thieves were checking the quality before they went to the trouble of stealing it! They would have to come back with a tractor and bale forks to get it.

In a bid to help, we've set up our Critter Cams in various hotspots. Normally we use these infra-red cameras to look for predator activity of the furred and feathered kind. But, vermin is vermin, and if we can catch a face or vehicle make/plate number, it might help stave off future thefts. Or at least give the police something to go on.

I'm not worried about things getting stolen, but I fret over our kennel dogs. If I were to lose a dog to a thief I would be inconsolable.

Quincy has been letting me know that she wishes to spend more time with me, instead of in the kennel with the other dogs. When I try and put Quincy in the kennel after a walk, she stands next to me wagging her tail. If I leave the truck open, she jumps in, peeks out at me and wags her tail. So, she's been coming with me on morning checks. We're packed up ready with feed, milk replacement, and pheasants for neighbours -

The back is full so Quincy has to ride up front with me, which she prefers. She uses the opportunity to showcase her retrieving skills. First a notebook -

Here - I found this for you!

Then a lamb's milk bottle -

Here - I found this for you!

Then a glove -

Hey - you'll never guess what?! Yup. I found this for you!

And this is all before I've even pulled out of the driveway. 

In her defense, if I cleaned out my truck once in a while, we might not have the in-car retrieving entertainment. But, where's the fun in that? In the end, I give her a dog lead to hold on the ride around and she stares out the front window, proud as anything to be carrying her lead.

When we returned from our morning rounds, I saw that the stalker was in with the boys having breakfast. How do I know? -

Gamekeepers are easier to track than deer. Look for abandoned boots, en route to a kettle and baked goods.

Dave the stalker was successful on my patch of ground, and put a big fallow doe in the chiller for me. That's two roe does, and one fallow doe for about 80 pounds of meat in our freezer this month. I've butchered and packaged both roe already, but the fallow will have to hang until after Christmas. For the rest of the season, our shoot day menu will be venison casserole for the workers, thanks to that fallow. 

The dogs had all the raw bones, and butchering scraps. There was enough to feed seven dogs for three days. And I made 5 quarts of game stock for soup and casseroles. It was an early Christmas present for us all.

These are some of the dogs, post-feast -

They tell me they're working dogs, but that it happens to be their night off.

Dog Diaries

Our shoots have been scheduled on the 'feast or famine' program: a week off, three intensive days, another week off, another crazy weekend. I rotate the dog teams so they don't get too tired. Last Friday's team was Pip, Spud and Dulcie - a formidable pack.

Pip the yellow lab is getting older, but she's experienced. She knows where a wounded bird is likely to hide, she can mark more than one retrieve, and she works nice and steady. With her hip dysplasia, one day's work for Pip means two days off to recuperate in front of the wood stove. 

I can hear her snoring over the crackling of the wood

Spud is a retriever par excellence. Quirky but honest. I know when she has brought me a wounded bird, because she lays down with it, instead of sitting and giving it to me. I think because she can hold it down with a big paw if it flaps and struggles.

Spud works out problems and finds her own unique solutions. At the end of a work day, I put a wool dog coat on Spud to keep her joints warm. When she's sufficiently warm and dry, she simply chews through the strap and deposits the coat in her bed, ready for collection (and repair) rather than wait for me to take it off of her. I stitch the strap back on for the next shoot day. 

Look at their concentration -

Pip and Spud are watching pheasants flying over, looking for injured or fallen birds. I adore my retrievers.

Spaniels are a different gun dog. Adrenaline-fuelled workaholics. Dulcie is a come early, stay late dog. She has her own way of telling me that she's spotted a wounded bird and please let her go get it. Now. Pleasepleasepleaseplease.

She jumps on me and implores me with those eyes. Those spaniel eyes. 

She knows when birds are hit birds. I know if I let her go, she'll bring me back a bird with just a few pellets in its leg, or a wing tip out. I don't know how she does it. 

By the last drive Dulcie had debris in her eyes and was getting cold sat marking birds on top of a windy hillside. It didn't slow her down or dim her enthusiasm, but I took off my coat and put it around her anyway, until it was time to work again. 

She surely needed it more than I did.

Quincy, Podge and Dakota came out on Saturday's shoot, picking up and beating (driving birds from cover). I'm trying Quincy in all different permutations, to see which dogs she compliments and works best with as a team. So far, she's fit in with every scenario, and with all jobs.

Quincy went in the beating line Monday for her first full day as a beating dog. As a beating dog, Quincy is expected to hunt and flush birds close to her handler, and come back as soon as I whistle her in. Basically, be a well-behaved little dog. Apart from one minor infraction when she scented a fox and ran on to investigate, Quincy did great for such a young dog. She will be 2 years old on Christmas day.

Quincy has another job to do this time of year: duck flighting. On the road between the sheep and horse fields, there is a small pond that we use for duck shooting. The ducks are fed in to encourage them to take up residence. We don't want the ducks to become too domesticated, so we rouse them off the pond and stir them up a bit.

That's where a water-loving, energetic Labrador comes in handy -

She's flushed the ducks once, and she's now waiting for them to circle around and land back on the pond. She waits for the command to 'Get on' and throws herself into the icy water, sending ducks back up into the air again. A few minutes of this is enough for the ducks, but Quincy would spend all day here if I let her.

 

Today Quincy worked with Podge the cocker spaniel and Dulcie, in the driving rain. Tomorrow Pip will have to drag her little yellow butt off the sheepskin rug and do a day's work with Spud.

For work, for companionship, and for the laughs - I just don't know what I would do without my dogs.

A Fruitcake that even Americans will eat

It's twelve days until Christmas, or as the children here say "only 13 more sleeps 'til Christmas morning". Traditionally  this is when many houses put up their decorations, although in the past few years I hear complaints that it's all happening much earlier. We haven't got Thanksgiving as a 'buffer' holiday

Here Thanksgiving usually coincides with Stir-up Day, traditionally the day British cooks mix their Christmas pudding - a concoction of dried fruit, suet, spices, and lashings of alcohol. We don't eat Christmas pudding in this house. I can't reconcile suet in my desserts, let alone one that "matures" for 5 weeks before cooking. Mike is not a big fan either, but he does like fruitcake. I make this one every week for Mike and any passing gamekeepers, farmers, or friends that stop in and have a cup of tea.

The recipe was kindly given to me by the chef at our local cafe. This cake always sold out, and got more compliments that any other we made. Even my father, when on a recent visit, enjoyed a few slices, and took the last piece with him for the train ride back to London.

- Pineapple Fruit Cake -

In a pan combine:
8 oz sugar
1 can (appx 430g) crushed pineapple in juice
4 oz butter
12 oz dried mixed fruit (a UK staple - 90% raisins/sultanas, 10% candied fruit, Raisins and dried cranberries mixed works well too)
1 1/2 t mixed spice (or pumpkin pie spice)

Bring mixture to a boil, boil for 3 minutes, allow to cool. (I often do this bit before bed so it's cool in the morning and ready to finish)

When cooled, stir in:
1 1/2 t baking soda
8 oz (225g) flour
2 t baking powder
2 lg OR 3 medium eggs, beaten

Pour into a pan - I use a spring-form cheesecake pan with a silicon liner - and bake at 325 deg F for 1 hour and 15 minutes.

It's not a fancy looking cake, but it keeps for a week without going stale and freezes well.

I only made this one yesterday!

Of Christmas trees and cobbling together

This year I broke with tradition and took a husband with me to pick out the Christmas tree instead of a dog who, frankly, didn't have an eye for design anyway.

This is a view from the Christmas tree plantation, looking over other pheasant drives -

The plantation is bordered by a crop of Jerusalem artichokes, put in for pheasant cover. I have to walk through it to get to the trees -

The trees are planted for windbreaks so individual specimens are imperfect. Charlie Brown Christmas tree territory. But we found a tree with at least one good side and in easy reach, so I took him down -

Obviously I should be wearing protective equipment every time I use the saw

Trimmed him and snedded him -

Held him up for the official naming ceremony. Mike christened the tree 'Mervyn' -

Mervyn and I made our way back to the truck -

I got him into the truck -

And tied down for our ride back home on bumpy farm tracks -

The rough ride home pruned a few of his branches, but we found his best side, faced it out, tidied him up with secateurs, and popped him in the tree stand - well, wedged him in with some fireplace kindling for support -

A strand of lights, some ribbon, and a few decorations gussied him up for the big day -

Not bad, Mervyn. Homely but festive.

After the holidays, Mervyn will be recycled for cover in pheasant drives. Mike collects all the old Christmas trees from the nearby villages, and uses them to replace cover for pheasants on windy hillside drives in winter, when so much natural vegetation has died back. Mervyn will be going back to his roots, pun intended.

There aren't many presents to put under the tree this year - the customary socks for Mike and flannel pyjamas for me, of course - but the saw bench (Mike) and sewing machine (me) will have to wait as both the truck and the Land Rover decided to break down at the same time this past month. Our gift from the mechanic was a bill in excess of a grand. Still, two vehicles that run is a great present as far as I'm concerned. Even Mervyn is going to have to make sacrifices and give up his tree skirt that I made out of an old birdseed sack. I need the burlap for setting mole traps, as moles have invaded the garden again leaving heaps of soil like speed bumps on the lawn.

After tree trimming and evening chores, I cobbled together a dinner of leftovers - home made pumpkin and mushroom soup, with apple and Gorgonzola on bread toasted under the grill. There was even enough apples and some pastry left to make a strudel, which we ate with double cream poured over it. We opened a bottle of Churchill's vintage port to toast the tree and another year, to give thanks that we're both still here, and to laugh at how much we enjoy our oddments, leftovers, and less-than-perfect life anyway.

The freezer is looking better

The stalker brought back a roe deer this morning -

And there were three brace of oven ready pheasants left by the guns today.

Cheese sandwiches are officially off the menu.