Country Life List

There is an old joke that goes “How do you make a million dollars in your first year of agriculture? Start with two million dollars, and know when to quit.”

I didn't really get the joke the first time I heard it, but after buying 40 acres of land, accumulating livestock, and helping my husband run a commercially-viable pheasant business for the past five years, I understand the joke. In fact, if you didn't see the funny side of your failures, you couldn't get up every morning and go to work.

My office and some work colleagues

I still have so much to learn that it sometimes overwhelms me. As long as I can laugh at myself while I learn, I look forward to getting up every morning. I thought I would share with you a little of what I’ve learned so far, and let you laugh at it too.

1)      In the country, ‘washing your hands’ includes everything up to the elbow, unless you’ve been gutting deer or helping a ewe give birth. Then, it’s up to your armpits.

2)      This is the same reason you will be instantly cured of biting your nails.

3)      Invest in a pair of rubber dungarees, the kind dairymen wear when cleaning down the milking parlour. ALWAYS have them with you. You’ll thank me later.

4)      You will find at least five uses for pig oil, besides oiling a pig.

5)      In the country, there is no such thing as ‘good clothes’. They may start out that way but I guarantee that the second you put on a nice frock, one of your sheep will instantly roll onto its back and get itself stuck in a hedge.

6)      On the plus side, fashion becomes irrelevant. Feel free to choose clothes based solely on warmth, or to hem your jeans with a stapler.

7)      You will have winter camos, and summer camos

8)      People know that you’re going to work because you add a pair of earrings to your regular jeans and t-shirt combo, making it ‘dressy’.

9)      When you have to go into ‘town’ to pick up a few supplies where non-country folk work and shop, you’ll notice an all-pervading bad smell. Accept the fact that it is absolutely coming from you - unless of course you shop next to a landfill site, open sewer, or cattle yard.

10)   When buying livestock, steer clear of any breed with the word ‘Mountain’ in it – they will jump any fence you build and you will never see them again. ‘Hardy’ is code for wild, and ‘Easy keeper’ means it will eat everything, especially after breaking out of its pen and into your neighbour’s garden.

11)   You will sleep through cockerels crowing and big tractors rumbling past your front door, but the tiny peep from a distressed chick will immediately wake you up.

12)   You will expend more time and thought finding a good farrier than you will a husband. It’s better to have a great farrier and a half-decent husband than the other way round.

13)   You will never again be caught short trying to find a loo / bathroom. Every hedgerow, field margin, and sheltered gateway is your public convenience (accent on the “public” part if you forget to check for walkers or farmers.)

14)   You will have no shame at restaurants or friends’ dinner parties asking for any leftovers, and will go so far as to take them out of the garbage bin. There is a food chain at your house.  The Trickle Down theory may be weak as an economic plan, but as a feeding program it’s faultless.

15)   It is also perfectly normal for the hostess at a dinner party to take a break between courses to check on a ewe that’s lambing.

16)   When driving, you will note species of animal for their edibility, not their cuteness.

17)   When forking manure or squeezing an abscess to drain it, always keep your mouth closed.  (Please don’t ask me how I learned this.)

18)   There is a “Law of Size” applicable to trailers and greenhouses: whichever size you buy, you will wish you got the bigger one.

19)   Learn how to reverse your trailer, and practice this skill before you need it. You do not want your first time to involve a 35-point turn at the livestock market in front of all the farmers. You will never live it down. Ever. The story will be told to your grandchildren by the farmers’ grandchildren.

20)   Hang out at your local feed store, market, or fair – anywhere farmers are – and listen. Whatever jobs the farmers are talking about doing is what you should be doing also. Remember, in farming, “All the other kids are doing it!” is a reasoned argument.

21)   Don’t be tempted to try and civilise your working vehicle.  An air freshener is no match for the smells in a country car, and you will only succeed in making your car smell like wet dog and strawberries. If you don’t believe me, you are welcome to put your head inside my Land Rover at your convenience.

22)   Don’t be tempted to try and civilise your house. Skip the potpourri, pick up 10 litres of Dairy disinfectant at the feed store, and practice acceptance.

23)   Get an iPod. Country life, though spiritually uplifting and chockfull of great scenery, can be lonely. Many jobs around the farm are monotonous. How hard you need to concentrate to shovel out kennels or scrub buckets? This is your reading time.

Agriculture is a risky business, both financially and physically. It’s hard on your body. It’s hard on your mind too, because as another saying goes “Where there’s livestock, there’s dead stock.” You will lose animals you’ve fought to keep alive and healthy - newborns, and old friends. You will cry out of frustration, holding a flashlight over a stalled engine while rain pours down your back and a ewe is bleating for a sick lamb that you can’t find until you can get your stupid truck to move.  You feel like the world and the weather is against you, and disease is rampaging through your pack or flock or herd. It’s a visceral, gut-wrenching, no-breaks-for-holidays-or-illness life.

And it is the most rewarding thing I have ever done. I don’t know when to quit.

Jubilation

Mike and I were invited to celebrate the Queen's Diamond Jubilee with our neighbours in the next village, who we've got to know well from our all-too-regular visits to the local pub. In traditional British fashion, the village threw a street party. In traditional British fashion, the weather was totally unsuitable for al fresco dining. Revellers brought out fire pits and burning logs and we warmed our hands together. Battling the elements is all part of the fun. 

Tables were set, we all shared in the food preparation, and a young lady sang a song in honour of HM the Queen to open the celebrations -

The gentleman in the picture is the Town Crier. And you thought we had antiquated jobs!

It's only a small rural village but the people are quite diverse. Besides the Town Crier we have a scuba gear scientist, a bomb disposal expert, a celebrity fisherman, a cider maker, and of course you can't throw a clod of dirt without hitting a farmer or two. It makes for lively discussions at street parties.

I inadvertently created a ghetto of foreigners when I sat down to catch up with Bridget (South African) and her husband Dom (Scottish). We were surrounded by their many children, who were taking turns dancing with their grandmother's poodle to the lively music from a local band. Dogs whose dance cards were empty were freely roaming the party, picking up handouts sneaked to them under tables.

Here's our table, complete with a spaniel -

And honoured guests -

Well, our local publicans anyway.

Of course we had to leave early so I could walk the dog pack, and Mike could check the incubators, but great fun was had by all (except maybe that poodle!)

It was another day of jubilation this week, for us and the pheasants: the annual letting out of the laying pens. All the breeding stock - i.e. pheasants which have been penned so we could collect and hatch their eggs - have done their duties, and were free to return to the woods. 

Unfortunately we can't just open the pens and shoo them out; we have to catch them, crate them and move them to their new home. Thankfully we have a great group of volunteers to help with the huge task of catching 3000 birds spread out in 35 pens -

The birds are packed pretty tightly into the crates as it's only a short journey to the woods, maybe half a mile or so. I love accompanying Mike and helping to open the crates, and giving the birds back their wild space. I videoed it so you could enjoy it too -

We make sure there's food and water in the woods, and some protection from predators. At least one hen has already made herself at home, making a scrape and laying an egg. Now it's her turn to rear some young. 

She won't need our help hatching these eggs.

Out with the new and in with the old

After attending the May Fair sheep sales this year and watching a ram sell for 4,200 guineas (£4400), I decided to take up the very kind offer of a ram for loan again (£20). Pip and I set off with the trailer to collect him -

Pip is purely along for the ride. She's great company but useless in any capacity that involves sheep. I think she's decided that they're just big, grass-eating dogs. But she loves being in the car -

I call shotgun!

I'm hardly one to judge. I'm the least authentic farmer-type in the village. My own shepherding outfit this day consisted of a long skirt with multiple barbed wire tears in the hem, pink crocs, and a beaten up straw hat. Our misfit duo set off for Somerset and Mr. Baker's farm where we collected Roz -

Roz is an older, experienced ram who has serviced Mr. Baker's ewes for a few years now. After I checked my ewes' numbers to make sure there was no relation, Roz was chosen as a suitable sire. 

Last year we had an unproven, young ram lamb, who did a commendable job siring offspring, but took a bit of time to learn his job. As I put raddle harnesses on my rams, they leave a chalk mark on anything they mount. The young ram lamb left his mark on ewes' rumps, but also on their heads and shoulders, and on the water tower, the water trough, the tractor tyres...well, you get the idea.

Roz knows his job. I dropped the tailgate on the trailer and he sauntered out, and casually walked over to my small flock of ewes. He sniffed each one almost methodically and within minutes...

Yup. And by the time I'd checked them the next morning, he'd covered three more. 

The ewes with their tramp stamps

That's a win for age and experience over youth and enthusiasm.

My only job is to ensure the raddle doesn't rub and make Roz sore, and that none of the sheep go lame or seem unwell. And it doesn't matter that I don't look like a farmer, or have a lot of shepherding experience yet, because Roz knows his job. That's what counts.

Date Night - Dorset style

I know most people go out to dinner or the movies, but this time of year we're lucky to find an hour to spend together. That's enough time for us to either catch up on the day's events or unwind enjoying our hobbies. It was rare we could do both, until we invented Knishing -

If one of you is a fisherman and the other likes to knit, compromise is easy. I sat by the pond on an upturned dinghy working on my jumper while Mike cast a line.

It's slightly midge-ier than sitting on the couch at home, but the early evening sounds of pheasants going to roost, and tawny owls calling out their territorial claims more than compensates for a few bug bites. I'm ready with a net in case he hooks something.

And he did -

A 5+ pound rainbow trout. We had steaks for dinner, and I made trout gravlax from the rest of it.

If only all compromises in a marriage were this easy, and ended in two nights' worth of dinner!

Ugly Naked Sheep Day

I personally think that people look better in clothes. It's not that I'm against nudity, but a flattering waistline or a good pair of jeans can enhance one's...erm...assets. It turns out sheep are the same. In their wool, sheep look sort of plump and snuggly -

Once sheared however, sheep look spindly and not at all like sheep in a children's picture book -

As you can see, my Polled Dorset ewes were hiding a thick covering of fat under their sheep-fros. A mild winter and a daily handful of barley each has gone straight to their hips. I probably didn't want them to be quite so fat before the ram visits in a few weeks, but too fat now is better than too thin. I have cut out their barley rations though.

Shearing day - my own personal Hell - came a bit late this year due to the rain, but still too soon for my liking. If I kept a smaller, less woolly variety, I wouldn't find shearing such a trauma. I know, I say this every year. The trauma was compounded by a shoulder injury I sustained falling off of Alan the day before we sheared. Blame the rain again for washing out the bridle path. Alan's legs went out from under him sideways and it threw me into the hedge. I rolled under him, but he's so sensible that instead of kicking me in the head while panicking to stand up, he actually waited for me to crawl out from under him before getting on his feet. Alan is my new best friend.

I was too scared to tell Steve my shearer/drill sergeant that I was a bit stiff. These are tough farming men, and professing any weakness is just not done. So I pulled up my big girl shearing trousers, washed down a Vicodin with a cup of cold black coffee, and said nothing. By the time we sheared the seven lambs and three half-breed sheep, my shoulder was burning and there were beads of sweat on my forehead. I suggested lunch to buy some recovery time before we started on the ewes.

Setting up in the paddock to shear the ewes

By now my energy was spent and the Vicodin was wearing off. I sheared the first couple of sheep trembling with muscle fatigue. That fact that Polled Dorset sheep are notorious fidgets and kickers only exacerbated the situation. I focused on my reward: opening a good bottle of red wine when it was all over. Even Steve was beginning to tire, and slipped with the clippers. One sheep got an ear wound so gory that Tarantino could have used it in a film -

As blood is only about the sixth most disgusting substance I come in regular contact with, I was happy to play nurse and clean up the wound while Steve wrestled with more fat, woolly, uncooperative ewes.

We finished twenty sheep by 6pm. Our neighbour the professional shepherd did a flock of 50 Polled Dorsets, alongside his son, and they were finished by 2 o'clock. And his son sheared with a hernia!

I will collect this year's Ram / baby daddy in a fortnight. By the time all the little lambs are born I will have forgotten all about shearing, and be complaining about the sleepless nights on birth watch. I will never give up shearing my own sheep, if only for the perverse pleasure I get from farmers complimenting me on 'having a go at it'. Props from a farmer is praise indeed.

But you don't have to wait until October for pictures of cute baby animals. I've hatched some more chickens, including Buff Orpingtons and Welsummers -

And some French Copper Marans, which will eventually lay deep chocolate-coloured eggs -

The Orpington/Welsummer batch is being mothered by a Buff Orpington hen -

The Copper Marans are being mothered, appropriately enough, by a Chocolate Orpington who we've named Mrs. Cadbury. I don't mind a few more chickens around the place, they don't need shearing.

My shoulder, I'm pleased to tell you, is completely healed. And I enjoyed my job-done-for-another-year glass of wine immensely. Now, to get that vegetable garden under control...

More Random Acts of Husband

" Hey - Come out and see what we've got!"

These are the words that fill me with trepidation. Especially the 'we' part, which inevitably means more work for me.

And what have we got?

Meet Hattie -

Yes, Mike brought home another dog. A ninth dog. "But she needed a home! And isn't she sweet?"

Of course she's sweet. In fact it was hard to get a photo of her because she kept trying to crawl into my lap for a cuddle. Mike knows any resolve I have to be hard crumbles when I see the dog.

Hattie is destined for Underkeeper Ian, as his first working dog. She's a four-year-old cocker spaniel who's already had experience on the shooting field. She's biddable and lovely natured. She now belongs to Ian, but she'll be spending a lot of time in our kennels (and kitchen) while Ian finishes his course at Gamekeeping College.

I have learned to accept the inherent chaos of the universe. And of a husband. Plus, what's another scoop of dog food in the grand scheme of things?

It's Showtime

It has been raining for three straight weeks now. I haven’t been exposed to sunshine for so long that I think I’m in danger of getting rickets. I’m living in my rubber dungarees and swapping to a drier fleece top only when I have to wring out the sleeves like they were sodden dishcloths. So when the local sheep farmer offered me a chance to come and wash sheep in preparation for a show I thought “Well, I can hardly get any wetter.” and jumped at the opportunity.

Sheep are about the greasiest creatures you can imagine, which is great when you want a water-resistant sweater to wear, but hard work when you’re trying to clean one. There’s no science to it: simply fill a bucket with water and soap and get scrubbing. It was oddly therapeutic work – enjoyable even. Sheep are peaceable companions.

Once the half dozen sheep were scrubbed clean we put them back into the sheep wash for a final rinse in mud. Mud? It seemed counter-intuitive to me, too. A 25 kilo sack of field soil is tipped into the sheep wash to dye the now grease-free but white sheep the colour of their local soil type. I assume it's one of those traditional things best accepted without question.

Sheep are excellent swimmers, and appear to be naturally buoyant, popping straight up every time the farmer dunked them under with his brush.

See? Everyone's rocking the Rubber Trouser look. Accessorised here with bailing twine belt.

As my mother always said "It hurts to look beautiful" Or in this case, it takes a lungful of water to get to show standard.

I apologise for the lack of photos to accompany the whole process. I'm really there to help not document, and even taking these couple of photos elicited a sideways glance of bemusement from the farmer. He'd already shown remarkable patience towards his chattering, enthusiastic amateur sheep washer. In the few hours it took to complete the task, I watched him handling sheep, using equipment I knew nothing about, and handling his shepherding dog. I did my best to take in his thoughtful, complex responses to my simplistic questions.  With a collection of prime sheep to compare and contrast, he showed me how to feel for width and depth in the loins, and what constitutes a good head. I'm doing my best to watch and learn, but it’s a steep curve and much will simply take time and experience to master. Check back with me in 25 years.

Sadly, a day spent washing sheep has done nothing to dissuade me from my plan to show my own sheep at a local show. In fact I’ve already asked if I can come back and watch the farmer trim the sheep’s fleece, which is done to enhance or conceal, and present a pleasing overall shape.  So far I can only do one style of sheep haircut, and I don’t think there’s a show category for Most Naked Sheep.

While the sheep seem impervious to the weather, our laying pheasants aren’t fairing as well. We provide them shelters and cut greenery as windbreaks, but their usually green pens have turned to mud. I’m struggling to find the eggs because they’re laid in puddles deep enough to cover them.

This evening Mike found a hen that was hypothermic in one of the pens, laying on her side near death. We started up the tractor and put the heat on in the cab, and left the hen in there to dry off and warm up. When she was revived, Mike took pity on her and set her free. I think it was a symbolic gesture, to try and alleviate the guilt he feels that his laying flock is subject to the elements. (This courtesy doesn’t extend to his wife, who is subject to the elements just the same, but never excused from egg collecting duties!)

We've taken two hatches out of the machines, both very successful in spite of incubator breakdowns. Most of the chicks are already out of the shell when we open the machines -

Of course, there are always the late arrivals which need a helping hand. 

Each time I removed that shell from over a chick's eye, and it sees the world for the first time, I feel amazed. Elated to bring life into the world.

I don't enjoy the other end of the process so much. By far the worst chore this week was taking Meaty and foster lamb to Ice Camp. Meaty’s name seems to be ironic; although he weighed 31 kilos it appears 20 of those kilos is fat. I butchered him and restocked our freezers.

No points for spotting the glass of wine.

Foster lamb is much less fatty, and the best lamb carcase I've produced yet. He’s been sold, and will hang another day or two before I butcher him. That’s two lambs down, and three to go. Later. When I’ve recovered from this trip to the abattoir. I still take a Valium to help me cope with that trip, but a glass of wine is enough to get me through the butchery. I think that's progress, don't you?

Under surveillance