Making Do

A quick post while I wait for the dogs to eat their dinner, but before I lose the light. I'm woefully behind on my chores.

Mike and I had a Loading certification course to attend today. Loading is peculiar to English driven shooting. A 'loader' accompanies a 'gun' (the person shooting). The 'gun' may shoot with a pair of shotguns, in which case the 'gun' fires, hands you the empty shotgun and you pass him a full (loaded) shotgun ad infinitum until the whistle ends the drive (that bit where the birds flying over your head). Clear? Probably not. A loader can also "stuff", i.e. keeps reloading one shotgun by "stuffing" cartridges into it when it's empty. If I can find a picture of loading, I will put it on the blog. It makes more sense when you see it.

It was a 2 hour course, but a 4 hour car drive there and back so we lost half a day's work at least. And with 2,500 partridges being delivered tomorrow and pens not yet finished, it's been a mad rush to get things ready enough for tomorrow. Mike's still out putting up electric fences around the pens which I quickly strimmed, so quick in fact I forgot to find my safety gear and had to make do with what I could find in the truck: a pair of old sunglasses for eye protection and a bit of tissue wadded up and shoved in my ears to protect them.

At least we had a scenic journey, and the Loading course was held on another estate owned by the Earl of Shaftesbury. Unfortunately, the last Earl (no.10) who was reputed to be a bit of a ladies' man and scoundrel was murdered by his widow (a former nightclub hostess) and her brother 2 years ago. They threw his body down a ravine in the Alps where it was eaten by wild pigs. Only enough was left for DNA to confirm his identity. They were tried in a French court and got 25 years. I believe his son inherited the title and now runs the estate.

We also drove by the Drax estate, whose owner shoots here at Mapperton. Mike was telling me about a particularly wily poacher who "works" around that estate and every year at Christmas, he sneaks in and leaves each of the gamekeepers a brace of pheasants, presumably poached from their own stock.

I haven't even got any pictures to post today, you'll have to make do with a few thoughts and anecdotes instead. I promise to try harder after the partridge are in but, for the moment, I'm losing the light and the dogs need their walk.

This is an indication of how bad the weather is. When I come in the back porch and find 3 pairs of keepers' wellies, I know even the guys had to concede to the wind and rain. A cup of tea will warm them up while they wait for the squall to pass through. I think they were grateful for the bread and butter pudding I made yesterday too!

Just after we dropped the trout off to the Puzeys, I drove home to find Danny the fisherman waiting to give us a fresh crab. His boat came in before this weather could catch them out at sea, but they had to leave some of their lobster traps set, and we hope they won't lose too many in the storm.

Lobsters are selling for 3 times the money that crabs are at the moment, so crabs are almost considered a by-catch. They are delicious nonetheless, and easy to prepare. The back of a hatchet is a great tool for breaking into the shell, and the pincers on the ends of the legs are perfect for removing meat. If I haven't said it before, a good hatchet is invaluable.

Aside from doing a few hours' work in the village cafe, I took the opportunity to do some 'inside jobs'. And although the house doesn't look much cleaner than when I started, I did manage to finish these jars of apple and cranberry chutney using a simple recipe I found online.

Chutneys are not a huge part of American cooking; the term is Anglo-Indian and refers to any condiment made from contrasting spices and vegetables to accompany a main meal. The British developed a taste for it from their 'involvement' with the Indian sub continent. Our palate tends to favour the fruit/sugar/vinegar recipes, which are also easy to store and use fruits we have gluts of like apples and green tomatoes. And it looks prettier in front of the window than the view outside does.

The chutney is forming part of our preparations for Christmas. I know it's still 3 months or so away but we're making a concentrated effort to cook a Christmas meal composed wholly from what we can put away this harvest season. Chutney needs a few months to 'improve' and allow the flavors to develop. Mike loves cold meats on Boxing Day (Dec 26th) and this will be a welcome addition, although until I shoot it or harvest it, I'm not yet sure what meat that will be!

I hope this storm doesn't blow the last of my cooking apples off the tree before the travelling cider press comes in a couple of weeks.

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.

The Great British Summer

I know it's hard to make anything out in this picture but that's the point. Granted it is late afternoon so it's getting dark, but what's the excuse for having to wear a deerstalker, full length oilskin coat, scarf and wellie boots on the last summer bank holiday of the year?

It's been a mizzly dank Sunday. And the week's weather looks to be more of the same until Friday. The animals got the basics done today and were left alone to find a warm dry bed without any more disturbance. Between rain showers, the mother hens took their chicks out for a 'constitutional' around the garden, and darted back indoors when the rain started again. Gertie's chick is still an only child, but we'll leave the other eggs under her a few more days yet.

I spun the Gotland sheep fleece I bought at the Fibrefest a fortnight ago. It spun beautifully once I got the hang of it. It's so soft I could make a baby sweater from it. And there's just enough of it, so I'll earmark it for that purpose. First come, first serve - if anyone's expecting, call dibs on it now.

I will leave you with this image of the gamekeeper and his working dog in repose. What else is there to do on a wet Sunday when your chores are done but have a decadent afternoon nap?

Hunting and Gathering, and an Unexpected Arrival

As I finished my blog post yesterday, I got a phone call from our chef friend Gordy in a panic, desperate for rabbits by that evening. He had a catering function and the menu said 'rabbit and foie gras terrine' and he was short the 'rabbit' part. Could I pop out and shoot him a few? I can't resist the pleadings of a mate in need (and it was a good excuse to put off mowing the lawn yet again) but it was mid morning on a windy day. This was not good rabbiting time or weather.

I tried all the hot spots which are usually carpeted in rabbits but after an hour driving around and stalking some burrows on a hillside, this was the sum total of my mid morning hunt:

I gave him my one fresh rabbit and my last frozen rabbit meat. I hope it was enough for the terrine.

It's been a quiet Saturday and after the animals were seen to, we thought we had better start gathering some of the wild hedgerow fruits before the birds beat us to it. The back of Mike's work truck makes an excellent mobile picking platform.

We picked sloes today, for sloe gin of course. Last year's batch has been drunk already (..ahem...) and there's another batch ageing in the pantry. Both were from sloes frozen two years ago. Last year was a terrible year for wild fruit and it was nearly impossible to find some in any reasonable quantity. Plus, in the bad years I think of the birds and animals that need it more than we do. Hence, we will make hay while the sun shines - or gin while the sloes are ripe and abundant, as the case may be. And we will pick a few extra pounds for the freezer, just in case.

We picked until it was time to feed the horses and check the birds at The Hill again. We stopped home for a quick cup of tea (gamekeeper fuel) and heard the recognisable cries of a lost chick. We checked both mother hens, then I remembered Gertie. Gertie is the little pekin who went broody on a dummy egg left in a nest to encourage the chickens to lay eggs there. She was so doggedly broody, I took pity on her and popped a few bantam eggs I'd found in a hidden nest (obviously nobody told that chicken about the whole dummy egg principle). I didn't even know if they were viable .

Turns out at least one was. And it has a terrible sense of direction. We found it wandering outside the chicken house, headed for the dog kennels. It's been reunited with its inattentive mother, and I knocked together a makeshift broody coop around the pair. We will keep our fingers crossed for the 2 or 3 siblings that may yet hatch.

Love is in the air...if you're a slug

I woke up this morning and there was that noticeable chill in the air, the one you know if you sleep with your windows open, the one that reminds you autumn is fast approaching. I knew it was coming as the chickens are nearing the end of their moult and egg production is down, and the sloes in the hedgerows are ripe now.

When I lived in New England, it heralded the start of the tourist season -"leaf peepers" - when people travelled to the New England states to watch the leaves turn the most magnificent colours. It's the one time of year I get homesick.

In England, it signifies the end of summer and the end of the tourist season here in the south west, which is a huge relief for locals. Our roads are those picturesque lanes that wind languorously through the countryside but are only wide enough for one and a half cars (what engineering genius came up with that concept?)and littered with dips and blind spots which effectively hide from view walkers, horse riders, and other cars that have stopped to admire the scenery.

The speed limits on these roads are 50mph - the national speed limit - which is crazy. And just the sheer volume of traffic clogs up the roads. Just getting milk from the store requires military- like timing and a thorough knowledge of back roads - which includes field margins and tracks. Anything to avoid the traffic created by "grockles", a local nickname for tourists.

We have 'rush hour' in our own village of Mapperton, when Joe and Piat herd their sheep to new grazing, or Mr Puzey walks his bull down the road to another field of heifers so it can set to work producing next year's calves. Only in this rush hour, you are sometimes asked to participate - closing gates ahead, driving a old ewe who's decided to stop and sample the hedgerow offerings back to the flock. Livestock still have right of way on the roads. And so it should be.

Autumn's chill reminder made me remember that our log pile is still only pitifully knee-high and it should be covering the side of the shed, 2 rows deep. I must go and get a new bar and chain for the chainsaw today. The old one needed replacing anyway but I finished it off the other day helping Simon take out a stump from his garden which had soil lodged in its lower branches. It's also time to mow the lawn again, a job I always put off. It's so long now if I wait another day I might as well cut it and bale it for hay.

Anyway - today's post is on slug reproduction. When I went out to check the meat chickens this morning, I stumbled across this very private moment between two consenting slugs:

Although slugs are hermaphroditic, they will choose sexual reproduction when possible preferring new genetic material to a clone of their own. I knew slugs laid eggs, and I was pretty sure I knew what the white jelly was, but I wasn't exactly sure how the whole process worked. It was more fascinating than I thought. Wikipedia says:

Once a slug has located a mate, they encircle each other and sperm is exchanged through their protruded genitalia. A few days later around 30 eggs are laid into a hole in the ground, or beneath the cover of objects such as fallen log.
A commonly seen practice among many slugs is apophallation. The penis of these species is curled like a cork-screw and often becomes entangled in their mate's genitalia in the process of exchanging sperm. When all else fails, apophallation allows the slugs to separate themselves by one or both of the slugs chewing off the other's penis. Once its penis has been removed, a slug is still able to mate subsequently, but using only the female parts of its reproductive system.

I bet you didn't know THAT!

Big Day Out

Mike and I had a 'day out' together today, our first in many months. Most of the young pheasants are out "to wood" (i.e. in sheltered pens) and settling in so they can be left longer without checking - long enough to go off the estate for half a day.

Today was the Melplash Show. You may remember my recent foray into village shows with my victoria sponge and loaf of bread? This is the next level. But still a real local farmers' show. And definitely an experience. I will take you through some of the high points

LIVESTOCK

There is a class called 'Lambs for the Meat Trade' where the live sheep is exhibited in the ring on Tuesday, butchered on Wednesday, and shown as a carcase at the show Thursday (today). The main body is hung and a cross section of the ribs is also displayed. Caution - not for the squeamish or vegans among you:

Thankfully, all the other participants in the livestock classes had their skins still on. There were sheep:

Here's the judge (in tall leather boots) feeling along the backbone for the right amount of covering. Points off for a sheep that's too fat or too thin.

And our neighbors Bernie & Sadie in the ring with their rare breed Grey Faced Dartmoors (the back view!) which took ribbons in the class, but lost first prize to the bigger Costwold sheep

Some sheep were just striking to look at and the huge variety between the different breeds was surprising.

The owner of this ram told me his horns are more valuable than the whole beast. Walking stick makers prize this sheep horn to top their sticks.

There were pigs in the show ring ...

and goats waiting to go in the show ring...

And very tired calves at their first show...

There were also traditional farming categories such as 'Four stalks of Maize', 'Bag of this year's Hay', 'Best fleece - shown rolled'

And of course - the vegetable growers categories including our favorite 'The longest runner bean' which was won by our neighbor Mrs Busk! (of the sweet pea fame, in an earlier post). There was also the famous 'giant vegetable' categories. Check out these leeks and onions:

Our friend Joy Michaud did well with her tomatoes and vegetable tableaus. There was also terrier racing, tractors for sale, and lots of homemade cider and preserves to sample and take home. It is an English tradition that I hope carries on for a long time to come.