tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25045482267257236282024-03-05T11:43:33.575-08:00Tails from the CroftChristine Ralphhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12293907213971228706noreply@blogger.comBlogger9125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2504548226725723628.post-47070093963285960672013-04-30T14:22:00.000-07:002013-04-30T14:22:16.170-07:00Ostriches and Drambuie<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Ostriches weigh about 28 stones, can run at 43 mph,
and stand 10 feet tall. At five feet four inches, it never occurred to me that
I would ever look one in the eye....<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">That hot July day in the heart of rural Aberdeenshire I
found myself staring deep into the beadiest of beady eyes. I didn’t even see or
hear her approaching. There I was, on all fours pinning down an abnormally hirsute
and unwilling sheep when I just sensed this enormous presence. A small head, a
beak, and those beady eyes were right up close and personal. Then I allowed my
eyes to take in the whole scene – the snake-like neck, the feathery black body
and long powerful legs ending with huge flat prehistoric feet. She would have
looked like an alien anywhere, but in sleepy Aberdeenshire she brought a great
flapping whirlwind of the surreal. With a touch of the absurd.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I wasn’t sure what to do – not that I had much choice –
after spending an hour in the baking heat just catching the wayward sheep in
order to sheer them, if I moved at all the big bundle of wool would have run off
half done. I looked into the beady little orbs and my eyes said ‘</span><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">I'll give you my sheep when you take</span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span></span><span style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">it from my cold, dead hands’ the
ostrich’s eyes said ‘EH???’. Not a lot of brain room in that little skull. An
awful lot of muscle on those lanky legs. Then a passing butterfly caught her
attention and she was off galumphing after that…<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Later, I sat bolt upright on the overstuffed, ancient
sofa, cradling the huge egg under my arm while balancing a glass of Drambuie in
one hand and a plate of apple pie in the other. I watched without the least
surprise as a clucking mother hen strode confidently over my feet followed by
twenty (yes twenty) small chicks. She headed straight for the kitchen where she
and the little fluffy hoard began hungrily tucking into a large bowl of cat
food.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Nothing would have surprised me by this stage. I had
arrived at the small croft a couple of hours earlier – knowing only that two
sheep needed shearing urgently. It was a hot day in July, and having been on
some sheep shearing courses run by the British Wool Board, I was gaining some
experience by going around some of the smaller farms which only had a few
sheep. The big shearing outfits only go to farms where there are many sheep,
making it worth their time to travel and set up. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">There may have only been two sheep to shear – but what
sheep! It must have been at least 2 years since they had been shorn. Big woolly
balls of panting defiance they had certainly given me the run around before
eventually succumbing to the inevitable. They were also huge, even underneath
the massive fleece, so instead of doing the carefully choreographed dance –
balancing, rolling and immobilising the sheep, I had no choice but to just pin
them down on their side, shave, roll over and shave again...It’s very hard, sweaty,
smelly work, so I was happy to accept the offer of a sit down inside with a
drink. It’s usually tea, but I was handed a generous beaker of Drambuie and an apple
pie. Once refreshed, the farmer, a man of few words, led me into a shed. It was
a day for looking up. He gestured at the ceiling beams from which were hanging
hundreds of shepherd’s crooks – most were painted bright colours, some were
bare and varnished wood, but one was shiny all metal. He invited me to choose
one. I took the metal one – it was all one piece and would never break. I knew
I would never forget this day...off I toddled , carefully picking my way
through the chicks running around the floor, clutching the biggest egg in the
world and an indestructible crook. I waved cheerily at the ostrich which was
standing dreamily with the sheep in the corner of the field, all three staring
into space generating an unrivalled air of mystery....</span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK5d6EwMpW7pnL6IB5oQP7xwiVkWEEBWrW-FDeaYm22B31uJFa8O2juRoXjGf3AvmwVzEd7iOOcb93G9G14XcCyyhBcJQiVHh0Lnl9ov0xe6KDv8JFP23lV-WsI7nQ9J8iJd44-1sXbSo/s1600/ostrich.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK5d6EwMpW7pnL6IB5oQP7xwiVkWEEBWrW-FDeaYm22B31uJFa8O2juRoXjGf3AvmwVzEd7iOOcb93G9G14XcCyyhBcJQiVHh0Lnl9ov0xe6KDv8JFP23lV-WsI7nQ9J8iJd44-1sXbSo/s400/ostrich.jpg" width="337" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Christine Ralphhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12293907213971228706noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2504548226725723628.post-68093277912758529432013-04-20T10:20:00.002-07:002013-04-20T10:20:51.820-07:00A Very Special Cat<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Since turning up from nowhere about 3 years ago,
Spooky has adopted me as his constant companion. He started by being a regular
visitor to the barn, getting fed alongside the other farm cat Twinkle, but
refused to ever come in the house, despite his immaculately groomed fur and
excellent manners, he maintained that he was an outdoors cat.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">He watched with interest while the soap cabin was
built, and graciously offered to repel any opportunist mice and rats.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">So, in the morning he appears magically in the barn to
receive his wages as a farm cat (a third of a tin of cat food). He follows me
around while I feed, water, and milk the goats, waiting eagerly for a little
saucer of warm milk straight from the goat. He somehow manages to purr and
drink at the same time. He then finds a
comfy corner to sleep away the day until tea time, when he resumes following me
around outside, sometimes even following me up to the top fields to check the
goats. This is what he was doing in the photo, not even turning back when it
began to rain...<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Spooky has lately
begun to come into the house – getting on famously with Coco the dog, so in the
evening he gets his supper on the kitchen windowsill, and curls up in front of
the fire for a few hours. He insists on going out at night – he knows how to
open the latches on the windows, which is a bit of a nuisance when I get up to
a freezing cold house in the winter because as yet he hasn’t learnt to close
the window after himself.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">He has never once tried to steal my cocoa, or knock
the milk over, like certain other cats on the farm, and I love him to bits.</span></span><br />
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWSE9xNTr3EjK5rEgZqlRrnt6Rkn6QR-6s-ZahSHvQDkriRJ9hU69m1L-RHc22WG9-BHKNHEIHdE-jXIblX2nzauQAfzWXJF8vMXRsM6t7vLVdmbBcLTsVqZlgPMB1h0gEN7u2XGMu8uQ/s1600/PB140378.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWSE9xNTr3EjK5rEgZqlRrnt6Rkn6QR-6s-ZahSHvQDkriRJ9hU69m1L-RHc22WG9-BHKNHEIHdE-jXIblX2nzauQAfzWXJF8vMXRsM6t7vLVdmbBcLTsVqZlgPMB1h0gEN7u2XGMu8uQ/s640/PB140378.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Cambria, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span>
<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]-->Christine Ralphhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12293907213971228706noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2504548226725723628.post-83118465081307590502013-04-06T06:11:00.001-07:002013-04-06T06:11:21.861-07:00A Moment of Madness...<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I believe that, like every dog has its day,
every pony has its moment of madness....</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Molly the Shetland pony had her mad moment
one day when she decided that she’d had enough of being in the field on her own
(this was before <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kelpie, the Highland
pony joined her) and very cleverly opened the gate of her enclosure, I’m not
sure how, as there were no human witnesses, but she got into the goat enclosure
which has a convenient little hillock where the goats love to play King of the
Castle. Molly, however, was not interested in being Queen for the day, she had
more practical ambitions. Being a goat area, it has a high gate separating it
from our garden. Molly further exercised her sharp brain, took a few steps
back, ran up the hillock, using it as a springboard, and made a prodigious leap
over the gate, clearing it easily (I was a rather shocked witness to this part
of her escapade) Most animals in new and unexplored territory proceed with
caution – looking around and sniffing for danger. Not Molly – she must have
known that she was the biggest danger around. Before I had a chance to get
anywhere near her she was off around the ponds at a sharp, confident trot -
raising her legs and head high,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>all the
while keeping a rolling eye on where I was (at this point I was rushing off to
find her head collar). After a quick recce around the larger areas of grass,
sending chickens and ducks dashing for cover, she decided that she would like
to explore further afield and off towards the house she trotted, up a few steps,
around the side of the house and into the front garden. This was my chance to
catch her as there are only narrow entrances and exits to this area. I followed
her round but she was determined not to have her fun curtailed so early,
brushed right past me, knocking me sideways into the rose bushes, and back into
the larger side garden where she couldn’t be captured so easily. Soon she spied
her downfall – the compost heap, brimming with rotting vegetable peelings. She didn’t
think twice, and began greedily chewing great mouthfuls of decomposing carrots,
onion leaves and cabbages. I knew I had her then.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I never imagined that Kelpie, a rather
senior and placid Highland pony, would have a moment of madness, but one day,
thanks to the weather, he did. This time it was nearly the end of me.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Kelpie doesn’t really like going out –
preferring laziness and the company of his best friend Molly. He will go – but
showing his reluctance by being as slow as he can get away with. I used to
think that if he was a car he’d be one of those old Morris Travellers with the
wood panelling – dependable, charming to look at but not built for speed. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">One winter afternoon I took him out for a
little (leisurely as usual) hack on a regular route – up the road and then
turning off onto a grassy lane. As we got to the point of turning around and
heading for home I heard a distant long, slow rumble of thunder. So did Kelpie.
His ears twitched and his head jerked upwards. ‘Never mind, we’re on our way
home ‘I told him (I often talked to him – he prefered it to my singing). Home-
as quickly as possible- was evidently Kelpie’s objective. He started trotting –
‘this makes a change’ I thought, then I felt him change gear into a canter, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>he pulled his head forcefully forward, got the
bit between his teeth, and started galloping for all he was worth. I’d never
known him actually gallop before – my little Morris Traveller had turned into a
roaring red Ferrari. As the end of the lane, and the junction with the road,
was fast approaching I tried to brake – the brakes didn’t work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By the time we were at the junction I was
standing in the stirrups, pulling with all my might on the reins but it was no
use – this was his Moment of Madness. For a brief moment I contemplated hurling
myself off sideways, Cossack style, into the hazel bushes, but threw in my lot
with Kelpie and prayed that there wouldn’t be a vehicle coming along. Well,
somebody must have been watching over us that day, because the road was closed
for drainage work. When he felt the tarmac under his feet Kelpie screeched to a
shuddering halt, with me grabbing hold of his mane to prevent myself flying off
over his head. As you can imagine, we were both in a bit of a state after this,
and we trembled in unison all the way home through the wind and rain that was preceding
the thunder. From then on I studied the weather forecast very carefully before
riding out...</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg27q69EElpi5hgxyJ1GBs7lLhi6Y9acaXpoK6-mv3vEtHXVNLWSwA3jk-zfkZpAt8fxF70f35U_kF616xN8mbf-iwErxZR5XtTSYu5I2Uf2nsmFHKzQLKUeBydzQT9r9znmd4jZfFBsfs/s1600/kelpie+in+rain.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg27q69EElpi5hgxyJ1GBs7lLhi6Y9acaXpoK6-mv3vEtHXVNLWSwA3jk-zfkZpAt8fxF70f35U_kF616xN8mbf-iwErxZR5XtTSYu5I2Uf2nsmFHKzQLKUeBydzQT9r9znmd4jZfFBsfs/s320/kelpie+in+rain.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
Christine Ralphhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12293907213971228706noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2504548226725723628.post-51897200537246459242013-04-05T02:26:00.001-07:002013-04-05T02:26:45.280-07:00<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRC4z5OUOrO8ZRCX5-rUTSyA5jdVm86lAWW4BTADmsZlPVadPKFDoJ9AOaKm2fN8wGRjPRTsJDki60v8YLXDaAcqVUUsxqWnELYUKwwCyMaVD1Ubm9aG8qzSKHgPuFmo5hR9dgDYsiIcA/s1600/The+Pig!.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRC4z5OUOrO8ZRCX5-rUTSyA5jdVm86lAWW4BTADmsZlPVadPKFDoJ9AOaKm2fN8wGRjPRTsJDki60v8YLXDaAcqVUUsxqWnELYUKwwCyMaVD1Ubm9aG8qzSKHgPuFmo5hR9dgDYsiIcA/s320/The+Pig!.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-GB">THE PIGS!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The chicken house keeps moving - I know it
keeps moving because I built it on a square of paving slabs. Some mornings it’s
about 10 inches further north, some mornings it’s about 10 inches further
towards the south. It is being moved by an unstoppable force which likes to
flex its muscles regularly – the wind. I do live in an elevated position,
unsheltered by any natural features. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">When I was considering the position of the
polytunnel I therefore took this into account, and decided on a site where the
long sides were sheltered on one side by a large mound of earth, and the other
side by the hill on which the croft is stood. I commenced the project on the Saturday;
the metal framework was completed within a few hours and then decided as the
weather forecast was good to press on with the job of getting the polythene on.
This took longer than I <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>had anticipated
as the cover was far too big for the framework and needed cutting to size.
There were also lots of un-anticipated fiddly around the ends. The upshot was
that I ran out of time to finish the job before dark, so I judiciously placed
some large anchoring rocks around the base of the polythene and left the
finishing off till the next day. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The following morning I went outside to
inspect the work in progress. It wasn’t till I got around the corner of the
house that that I realised how windy it had become, and as I arrived at the
polytunnel I was greeted with the sight of several yards of expensive polythene
flapping hysterically – apparently intent on escape up the hill....</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Once completed the polytunnel became a haven
of peace and tranquillity – for a while. I planted a peach tree and started
quite a good little vegetable garden with peas, beans, peppers and courgettes.
Unfortunately my luck didn’t last. That summer I <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>had two little Tamworth weaners (little
piggies) who one day, while I was out, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>somehow escaped their enclosure and went a–wandering.
They found that the polytunnel door opened quite easily with a firm push of a
curious snout and trotted in. They feasted on the carefully tended vegetables,
and having done a thorough job of ploughing up the soil after their banquet,
decided to continue their magical mystery tour of the garden. Unfortunately for
them, the door had closed behind them and they could not get out. Being full of
initiative however, they came up with a cunning plan, and ate their way out
through the polythene wall.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">When I arrived home the trail of evidence
was laid out before me: closed polytunnel doors, a distinct absence of fruit
and veg, and a rather neat pig shaped hole in the side of the tunnel. Keeping
animals enclosed was, I concluded, a constant battle of wits – one which I
usually lost miserably.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Christine Ralphhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12293907213971228706noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2504548226725723628.post-48341164431515736902013-04-03T01:00:00.000-07:002013-04-03T01:00:04.108-07:00<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Goats are very useful creatures; they give
milk of excellent quality and goodness, provide meat to a high proportion of
the world’s population, and their skins are used for clothing, rugs, drums and
many other useful things. They are companions to humans and other species,
generally easily managed in small or large numbers, and will graze on land that
other animals will turn their noses up at. They also provide endless hours of
fun and amusement to anyone who cares to take an interest in them. They are
intelligent animals and require hobbies to keep themselves occupied.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Some goats take an interest in politics –
conniving and butting their way to the top of the tree. They are herd animals
and need a leader. A leader has to be strong, decisive and a dynamic decision
maker. The leader has to find the best food for the herd – be that by finding
the best things to eat in a field (but usually it is on the other side of the
fence), by calling the loudest at feeding time, or by being the first to raid
the feed bins when a breakout is organised (usually by the leader). Sometimes
it is not possible for the leader herself to squeeze through a gap in the
stall, so she will train up a younger, slimmer kid to push through the gap (helping
it along with her horns). The assistant will then become the leader by proxy
and knock over all the feed bins, having watched the leader do this. Quite
often the weight of the feed inside will cause the bin lid to pop off and
reveal <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">El Dorado</st1:city></st1:place>
inside.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Lesser members of the herd also find their
niche in life. Some are professional mothers – looking out for their kids long
after they need to. Others become athletes – jumping hurdles, sprinting and
even climbing trees to reach the juiciest leaves. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The more intellectually inclined goats
become expert problem solvers, using their front legs to bend down a pliable
branch of a young willow to get at the only leaves remaining at the top. Some
of these problem solvers become expert escapologists, chewing through knots in
rope used to close a gate or using a bucket as a stepping stool to be over the
top of a gate or fence.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Then there are the more creative types.
They relish the opportunity to leap on the stage (preferably a car bonnet but a
wheelbarrow will do) and exhibit their tap dancing, singing and acting skills.
Their acting skills become positively histrionic when suffering from a stomach
ache after raiding the feed bins.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Goats are truly wonderful animals – they do
not smell (well, Billy goats do – but most goats are female or castrated male
and definitely do not smell.)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I think that it is about time that goats
are endowed with the value that they deserve. Few people will buy a common or
garden goat as long as they are given away for free, and there is always the
risk that a pet animal will end up neglected, passed from pillar to post or end
up in the meat trade. So please goat lovers, make a charge for your goats.
After all, a person who has thought through the expenses of good fencing, feed
and vets bills will not mind paying £45 or so for an animal which will give so
much in return –if only in entertainment value!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHlsjlqvLg0_xzR5_bfFTZly_MsrYfI4Jb6HtyUcUlam-ehDYt2mOTdIE2j3X7D0W1guJ3MvO_hTZwOJ0CkaOKgPpfJ1N3Eb9MgA1zgwTMrBBv7gMLWN_Zh_PBcbeXtQbNCwimSXpgGzU/s1600/scan0004.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="243" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHlsjlqvLg0_xzR5_bfFTZly_MsrYfI4Jb6HtyUcUlam-ehDYt2mOTdIE2j3X7D0W1guJ3MvO_hTZwOJ0CkaOKgPpfJ1N3Eb9MgA1zgwTMrBBv7gMLWN_Zh_PBcbeXtQbNCwimSXpgGzU/s320/scan0004.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><o:p><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><!--[if gte vml 1]><v:shapetype
id="_x0000_t75" coordsize="21600,21600" o:spt="75" o:preferrelative="t"
path="m@4@5l@4@11@9@11@9@5xe" filled="f" stroked="f">
<v:stroke joinstyle="miter"/>
<v:formulas>
<v:f eqn="if lineDrawn pixelLineWidth 0"/>
<v:f eqn="sum @0 1 0"/>
<v:f eqn="sum 0 0 @1"/>
<v:f eqn="prod @2 1 2"/>
<v:f eqn="prod @3 21600 pixelWidth"/>
<v:f eqn="prod @3 21600 pixelHeight"/>
<v:f eqn="sum @0 0 1"/>
<v:f eqn="prod @6 1 2"/>
<v:f eqn="prod @7 21600 pixelWidth"/>
<v:f eqn="sum @8 21600 0"/>
<v:f eqn="prod @7 21600 pixelHeight"/>
<v:f eqn="sum @10 21600 0"/>
</v:formulas>
<v:path o:extrusionok="f" gradientshapeok="t" o:connecttype="rect"/>
<o:lock v:ext="edit" aspectratio="t"/>
</v:shapetype><v:shape id="_x0000_i1025" type="#_x0000_t75" style='width:233.25pt;
height:176.25pt'>
<v:imagedata src="file:///C:\DOCUME~1\Owner\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtmlclip1\01\clip_image001.png"
o:title=""/>
</v:shape><![endif]--><!--[if !vml]--><!--[endif]--></span></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><!--[if gte vml 1]><v:shapetype
id="_x0000_t75" coordsize="21600,21600" o:spt="75" o:preferrelative="t"
path="m@4@5l@4@11@9@11@9@5xe" filled="f" stroked="f">
<v:stroke joinstyle="miter"/>
<v:formulas>
<v:f eqn="if lineDrawn pixelLineWidth 0"/>
<v:f eqn="sum @0 1 0"/>
<v:f eqn="sum 0 0 @1"/>
<v:f eqn="prod @2 1 2"/>
<v:f eqn="prod @3 21600 pixelWidth"/>
<v:f eqn="prod @3 21600 pixelHeight"/>
<v:f eqn="sum @0 0 1"/>
<v:f eqn="prod @6 1 2"/>
<v:f eqn="prod @7 21600 pixelWidth"/>
<v:f eqn="sum @8 21600 0"/>
<v:f eqn="prod @7 21600 pixelHeight"/>
<v:f eqn="sum @10 21600 0"/>
</v:formulas>
<v:path o:extrusionok="f" gradientshapeok="t" o:connecttype="rect"/>
<o:lock v:ext="edit" aspectratio="t"/>
</v:shapetype><v:shape id="_x0000_i1025" type="#_x0000_t75" style='width:233.25pt;
height:176.25pt'>
<v:imagedata src="file:///C:\DOCUME~1\Owner\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtmlclip1\01\clip_image001.png"
o:title=""/>
</v:shape><![endif]--><!--[if !vml]--><!--[endif]--></span></div>
Christine Ralphhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12293907213971228706noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2504548226725723628.post-2979418529080474262009-08-23T05:11:00.000-07:002009-08-23T05:15:35.939-07:00<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdMrk0FSGEXgetOEVjNBkHXZYfUJR5ehc1xUjj7DCDhFE9vVaK8NqiAIwiJIMrZFtfS6HiNdGKa2bFB8N_onPVbl946kD1BNHElRBahyphenhyphenojttTJfZ8pLrIekWm4dDMvqv9cG3OVd5g1mdA/s1600-h/scan0003.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5373131642756839698" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 238px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdMrk0FSGEXgetOEVjNBkHXZYfUJR5ehc1xUjj7DCDhFE9vVaK8NqiAIwiJIMrZFtfS6HiNdGKa2bFB8N_onPVbl946kD1BNHElRBahyphenhyphenojttTJfZ8pLrIekWm4dDMvqv9cG3OVd5g1mdA/s320/scan0003.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />I was having a busy morning- it was a cold, wet and windy March day and the winter feeding regime was still in full swing. Hay for the ponies, barley, beet and hay for the cattle, ewe rolls and hay to the ewes (most of whom had lambed). There were also the year-round morning jobs – milking the goats, feeding them hay and concentrates, grain for the chickens, geese and ducks, and cats and dogs to be fed. My big treat after this is to make myself a flask of hot coffee, call the dogs, who know my routine backwards, being acute observers of my every action. When I go into the kitchen to cut a slice of bread for the ducks, they know that when I return it will be time to spring into action – racing towards the door, slipping and sliding and hurling themselves at full pelt towards the path to the woods. Then Mac, the red and white collie will suddenly remember that he needs his toy and will race to his secret stash and pick out a toy of the day. I do a quick checklist: two dogs, one toy, flask of hot coffee and a pocket full of peanuts for the bird feeder in the woods, and off we go…<br /><br />As we walk up the hill along the side of the fields I cast an eye over the beasts in the field to make sure all are feeding and behaving normally. This particular day it was nearly normal, but not quite…All the animals were munching away, except the sheep, who always beg for hay then treat it with casual disdain after taking a few mouthfuls, preferring to search in vain for signs of new spring grass. I couldn’t quite put my finger on what was not right, and was distracted from this train of thought by a gentle tap on my knee – Mac was reminding me that I needed to throw his toy for him, I refilled the bird feeder and, like the animals, searched in vain for signs of spring – no swelling buds on the trees, no singing birds, and even the daffodils seemed reluctant to show any enthusiasm.<br /><br />On our return I set about filling the water troughs, thankful that at least the rainy night meant that I wouldn’t have to defrost the hose – one of my least favourite jobs in the winter. As I was going about I noticed that both ponies were standing by the fence which divides their paddock from the sheep field. They were pricking their ears at something next door – if net curtains had been involved they would certainly have been twitching. Thinking that they were coveting the hay left behind by the discerning sheep I didn’t take too much notice. About an hour later, by now soaked by the persistent rain, I looked across and saw that the ponies were still showing an interest in the sheep field and I decided that this merited further investigation. All of the sheep were grazing at the top of the field, and about fifty yards away, in a dip in the ground; a small black shape was flailing around in the mud. As I walked towards it I realised that it was a newborn lamb – but where was mum? All the ewes were pointedly ignoring it, and I quickly checked them for signs of having lambed. I found one; she was hungrily munching grass while looking slyly at me out of the corner of her eyes. I picked up the lamb and walked towards her. She ran as fast as she could in the opposite direction. The poor wee lamb was soaking wet, covered in mud and crying plaintively for its’ feckless mum. I decided that action was needed to ensure it’s future, thinking back to the uneasy feeling I had had during the walk up to the woods I realised that it had been born a couple of hours earlier. I was reluctant to take the lamb away from its mother and reducing the chance of bonding, but that wasn’t about to happen at the moment anyway.<br />I had been waiting three years to put the Rayburn to its’ proper use, dreamt of while living in a small house in London with a clinical white kitchen and gas cooker. The only real point of having a Rayburn was its’ legendary ability to revive hypothermic lambs. The dogs obligingly moved over (probably because of shock at suddenly finding this alien creature in their midst) while I prepared The Full Works for the lamb – towel and hairdryer, ‘Kick Start’- a mixture of molasses and vitamins-, penicillin, iodine and a bottle of colostrum. After all that he refused to obligingly curl up next to the heat, scrambling onto his feet, long bendy legs seeming to go in four different directions at once, determined to follow me everywhere.<br />Storm, as we called him, never did manage to get a feed from mum, so he was hand reared with two rejected goat kids, and is doing very well as an honorary goat. He never did forget the comforts of the kitchen, and on occasion, when the door has been left open, he has been found cuddling up to the Rayburn with the dogs, quite at home…Christine Ralphhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12293907213971228706noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2504548226725723628.post-34137521540975945082009-08-03T09:10:00.000-07:002009-08-23T08:26:28.442-07:00Duck soup<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNzc0Y7gpOeacORCiMUug-OXWEpIyhlL4xGbJ8W0pysRupBX5QnWhirhlQpyMKDqjSPUBw9qcr8gneUgsLedCF_dUTjqpX1qhXL5KLlX1qfnFHTHVY3kVSLetrRgfyIGyfOJ3KGgc_PGo/s1600-h/scan0002.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5365772338642816002" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 223px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNzc0Y7gpOeacORCiMUug-OXWEpIyhlL4xGbJ8W0pysRupBX5QnWhirhlQpyMKDqjSPUBw9qcr8gneUgsLedCF_dUTjqpX1qhXL5KLlX1qfnFHTHVY3kVSLetrRgfyIGyfOJ3KGgc_PGo/s320/scan0002.jpg" border="0" /></a><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">My wellies were full of muddy water, my feet were slipping and sliding in all directions on the slimy bottom of the pond, my arms flailing around, shouting at the top of my voice with no real plan of action in mind. When I saw that </span><st1:place st="on"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Labrador</span></st1:place><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> swimming around the pond with my poor Indian Runner duck in its mouth I just waded in – literally </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">and</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> metaphorically speaking.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: center;font-family:georgia;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I had discovered the two lost dogs on the road outside, after going and investigating the sound of cars screeching to a halt outside – fearing that one of our animals had somehow got out on the road. I didn’t recognise the excited and friendly dogs criss-crossing the road, panting heavily with tongues flapping out of open mouths. They were evidently having an adventure. They had collars but no identity tags, and concerned that an accident would happen, I decided to put them in our barn while I telephoned neighbours to se if they knew where the dogs were from. I had no luck and it was when I returned to check on them that I saw with horror that they had jumped out of the stall, squeezed through the side of a large sliding door which was closed but not locked, and started causing the havoc. One of the dogs was whirling around the edge of the pond in excitement, watching its companion hunting. Chickens, ducks and geese were scarpering in all directions and it took me a couple of seconds to recognise the limp filthy shape in the swimming dog’s mouth as Nick the drake.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><div style="FONT-FAMILY: georgia; TEXT-ALIGN: center"></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: center;font-family:georgia;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I leapt into the pond (fortunately not very deep) shouting at the top of my voice, hoping that this might shock the dog into dropping its prey. This did not work so I gave chase. I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to chase something in a pond while wearing welly boots – but it is not easy. It’s a bit like one of those nightmares when you are trying to run away from something but can only move very slowly. The </span><st1:place st="on"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Labrador</span></st1:place><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> was in his element, I definitely was not. I must have had an adrenalin rush however, because I did manage to grab its collar and haul it out of the pond still holding the duck which I was sure was dead, it certainly wasn’t showing any sign of life. I don’t remember how I got the dog to drop Nick – it may have involved some shaking. I kept a very tight grip on the miscreant’s collar and made a successful lunge at its partner in crime and frogmarched them both back to the barn and locked them in as securely as I could. I felt sick at the thought of what I might find outside. Geese, chickens and more ducks range free in that area – there were also the sheep and lambs in a nearby field – what I might find filled me with trepidation. As far as I could tell after a quick scout around there were no other victims – the sheep were grazing unconcerned, most of the chickens were quaking beneath various bushes, and the geese were ruffled but OK. Feathers had been scattered about the place and with a heavy heart I picked up a spade on my way back to the pond, anticipating grave digging duty. I made a double take when I got to the spot where Nick had been unceremoniously dropped – he wasn’t there! I walked over to where the rest of the Indian Runner ducks were still waddling and quacking around in alarm, and there he was – alive and walking! I could hardly believe my eyes. The ducks – normally friendly and following me around in the hope of bread – wouldn’t let me any where near. From a distance I could see that he did have some injuries, but wasn’t bleeding. Fearing that if I tried to catch him there and then he (and maybe the others) would die of stress after their ordeal I decided to leave them be for the time being. It was nearly closing time at the vet’s so I rang up and explained what had happened and arranged to take Nick in first thing in the morning.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><div style="FONT-FAMILY: georgia; TEXT-ALIGN: center"></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: center;font-family:georgia;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I then telephoned the dog warden. Fortunately she was in the area and picked up the dogs within the hour. I was reassured that if the owner was looking for the dogs then they would be able to find them.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><div style="FONT-FAMILY: georgia; TEXT-ALIGN: center"></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: center;font-family:georgia;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">At bedtime the ducks put themselves into the barn as usual, so it was quite easy to scoop up Nick into a tall cardboard box. and take him for treatment. As the vet remarked, he was surprisingly perky considering his injuries – he had had a couple of good bites taken out of his back end, but the prognosis was good. He needed to be kept at the surgery for a few days, and I took a female duck down to keep him company, having been advised that ducks do not do well on their own. He needed more nursing at home for a week or two after that, but made a full recovery and is still happily waddling around with his harem looking like an animated upside-down hockey stick.. Now when our own dogs are passing nearby the ducks call the alarm and move very smartly in the opposite direction – and who can blame them…</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><div style="FONT-FAMILY: georgia; TEXT-ALIGN: center"></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: center;font-family:georgia;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><div style="FONT-FAMILY: georgia; TEXT-ALIGN: center"></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: center;font-family:georgia;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><div style="FONT-FAMILY: georgia; TEXT-ALIGN: center"></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: center;font-family:georgia;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><div style="FONT-FAMILY: georgia; TEXT-ALIGN: center"></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: center;font-family:georgia;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><div style="FONT-FAMILY: georgia; TEXT-ALIGN: center"></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><span lang="EN-GB"><v:stroke joinstyle="miter"><v:f eqn="if lineDrawn pixelLineWidth 0"><v:f eqn="sum @0 1 0"><v:f eqn="sum 0 0 @1"><v:f eqn="prod @2 1 2"><v:f eqn="prod @3 21600 pixelWidth"><v:f eqn="prod @3 21600 pixelHeight"><v:f eqn="sum @0 0 1"><v:f eqn="prod @6 1 2"><v:f eqn="prod @7 21600 pixelWidth"><v:f eqn="sum @8 21600 0"><v:f eqn="prod @7 21600 pixelHeight"><v:f eqn="sum @10 21600 0"><v:path connecttype="rect" gradientshapeok="t" extrusionok="f"><o:lock aspectratio="t" ext="edit"><v:imagedata title="knock aug illus" src="file:///C:\DOCUME~1\MRSGIB~1\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtml1\01\clip_image001.jpg"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></v:imagedata></o:lock></v:path></v:f></v:f></v:f></v:f></v:f></v:f></v:f></v:f></v:f></v:f></v:f></v:f></v:stroke></span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><v:stroke joinstyle="miter"><v:f eqn="if lineDrawn pixelLineWidth 0"><v:f eqn="sum @0 1 0"><v:f eqn="sum 0 0 @1"><v:f eqn="prod @2 1 2"><v:f eqn="prod @3 21600 pixelWidth"><v:f eqn="prod @3 21600 pixelHeight"><v:f eqn="sum @0 0 1"><v:f eqn="prod @6 1 2"><v:f eqn="prod @7 21600 pixelWidth"><v:f eqn="sum @8 21600 0"><v:f eqn="prod @7 21600 pixelHeight"><v:f eqn="sum @10 21600 0"><v:path connecttype="rect" gradientshapeok="t" extrusionok="f"><o:lock aspectratio="t" ext="edit"><v:imagedata title="knock aug illus" src="file:///C:\DOCUME~1\MRSGIB~1\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtml1\01\clip_image001.jpg"></v:imagedata></o:lock></v:path></v:f></v:f></v:f></v:f></v:f></v:f></v:f></v:f></v:f></v:f></v:f></v:f></v:stroke>Christine Ralphhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12293907213971228706noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2504548226725723628.post-12953504392078128962009-07-31T09:22:00.000-07:002009-07-31T09:29:55.669-07:00The Cow....<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmNCzVXuwtFXZw5UUYnwTEBf4jyw8xpZ5g_USU44hs-uwaoR_kquJSr48dg4yG0vy9Skx2lnCakG68vBf_eRwj60KP0s42blkJtszAkVDjt3myml0TzAzV6kVLSG5FZzGaxDisP24IDNM/s1600-h/scan0002.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmNCzVXuwtFXZw5UUYnwTEBf4jyw8xpZ5g_USU44hs-uwaoR_kquJSr48dg4yG0vy9Skx2lnCakG68vBf_eRwj60KP0s42blkJtszAkVDjt3myml0TzAzV6kVLSG5FZzGaxDisP24IDNM/s320/scan0002.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364661635473103618" border="0" /></a><br />One day I was looking through a little gem of a book about the native breeds of Scotland when my eyes came to a halt at ‘the Clootie Coo’. There was a faded photographic illustration of a stocky, short legged primitive looking beast with compact inwardly curving horns. Apparently the native cow of the Shetlands is also known as the Clootie Coo because of the tradition in the Shetlands of sending a square of cloth cut from an apron away with the cow when it is sold as a reminder to the animal of it’s former keeper and milker. Going all misty eyed at this romantic notion and spurred on by memories of my mother’s tales of hand milking Jersey cows during her time in the Land Army, I resolved that this would be the perfect house cow for me – I might even start wearing an apron….<br />Flowery was bought,– a good cow I was told, former breed champion at Melton Mowbray show, and in calf to a Shetland bull. Delivery was arranged for a couple of day’s time. Meanwhile, this being February, the weather worsened – snow, gales and hail from the north came our way. I assumed that Flowery’s arrival would be delayed due to dire warnings of impassable dangerous roads over most of Scotland. Despite the conditions however, the haulier was on his way. The only gate that we could bring the cow through onto our land was just peeping up through a four foot snow drift, and the field was under nearly 2 foot of snow. There was nothing for it but to start digging. For 3 hours we dug a channel, braving snow and freezing wind, until a pathway for our new acquisition was cleared. The huge haulage lorry arrived about 11.30 am, and the back door opened. I went in with a halter ready to lead my new docile little Shetland cow into her field to join our 2 little Highland heifers. I peered eagerly over the partition and this rather large, skinny cow with shiny, pointed horns looked up at me with an expression of great umbrage, got slowly up and waived her horns at me in a most unfriendly fashion. The halter idea was quickly abandoned as she made it perfectly clear that she was not in a mood to be cooperative. Once invited, she did grudgingly lumber out of the lorry, down the ramp and, ignoring our carefully dug pathway through the snow, began pacing the fences, evidently looking for the shortest route home.<br />Molly, our naughty little Shetland pony had been put at a distance in the top field, but had been watching closely as Flowery arrived. The excitement of the occasion was just too much for her and she just had to get involved. After backing up a few paces with a determined stamping of her back legs, she thundered forwards towards the fence, cleared the 4 foot high obstacle with ease and belted downhill at a gallop to play with the new arrival. Flowery does not do ‘play’. Flowery does dominance and she was obviously having no truck with this cheeky little pony – fellow Shetlander or not. With an evil glint in her eye and a powerful swing of her neck she attempted to wear Molly as a head dress. Fortunately, being a nimble mover, Molly dodged the fearsome horns and trotted off in the huff. Then Flowery’s eyes alighted on her new herd – Deirdre and Leah, the 8 month old Highland heifers who were watching the floorshow with interest. ‘Now this is more like it’ Flowery seemed to say as she marched off towards them like an elderly matron towards her new charges. Having briefly explained to them that the boss had arrived, they meekly formed a little crocodile behind her as she stomped her way through the snow to explore her new territory. Watching in awe I decided that if Flowery did take a piece of me away with her it probably wouldn’t be part of my apron…Christine Ralphhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12293907213971228706noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2504548226725723628.post-5332357626108594452009-07-30T15:46:00.000-07:002009-08-10T02:40:05.720-07:00In the Beginning................<p class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: center;font-family:georgia;" ><span lang="EN-GB">When we first arrived at Christmas Croft in autumn 2003, no animals had been grazing in the fields for quite a while, and we wanted some animals on there to eat the grass and keep it in good heart. Sheep seemed to fit the bill – small, docile and fairly low maintenance. After a bit of research we decided that Jacobs sheep seemed to be a breed that would suit us, they are smallish, hardy, easy lambers that taste good too! I advertised in the local ‘green paper’ and was contacted by two breeders who had excess stock. Some sheep were duly purchased over the phone and the owners kindly agreed to deliver. </span></p><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: center;font-family:georgia;" ><span lang="EN-GB"><?xml:namespace prefix = o /><o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: center;font-family:georgia;" ><span lang="EN-GB">First to arrive were three of that years’ lambs. Once manhandled into their field (the drive being too muddy to even get a light vehicle up), they huddled together, all seeming quite similar in appearance with their horns and brown and cream patches. They went everywhere together – side by side, for all the world like a well rehearsed synchronised swimming team, at one end one would turn, at the same time as the next one and so on. Jacobs have very individual personalities we were soon to realise. Chief among these was ‘Spotty Nose’ who had one gently upwardly curving horn and one that looked as if it had been bent over a sturdy piece of metal. She loved to play, preferably with her sisters, but when they tired and wanted to do sheepy things like lying down to chew the cud; she would happily amuse herself for hours. She would jump on and off hay bales, sometimes trying to beat her own record for distance jumped from the top, she would run down to the fence nearest the barn and house to see what was going on – a look of recognition and anticipation on her face made comical by the large black spot almost covering her nose and side of her mouth. She enjoyed watching the chickens and ducks, but, unable to engage them in play she would run back up to her sisters and paw at them until they got up, then try to engage them in sheepy sport. If they wouldn’t indulge her she would simply resort to chasing them round and round the field.</span></p><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: center;font-family:georgia;" ><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: center;font-family:georgia;" ><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-size:+0;"></span>Spotty Nose’s sisters did not inherit the same personality genes as her. Sparky was eternally suspicious of all other creatures and had an aloof, enigmatic expression and was named after a pop star of the same demeanour. The third new arrival seemed to have little to distinguish her at all, and was duly christened No Name – which was just as well considering her fate (we don’t give names to animals destined for the plate). The following year, after our older ewes had lambed; Spotty Nose and Sparky were sold to a couple further along the Moray coast who wanted some sheep to keep the grass down where they had formerly kept a horse. I was pleased to find such a good home for Spotty Nose – an intelligent, playful and charismatic sheep</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: center" face="georgia"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVdb82Du6AbSWcmyGHYpM1nsOxy07IwuTJfBlCbwUrKiQZ2Snjd7UBF34HeiyazTMHcjFo9E1kYBH9GNxlHws0CAPIDuvS9eUGRCWKLhOiKw1enc5Mh7iijIAZCGfMc3_9EOzQ3ZAfXaE/s1600-h/scan0003.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364390124433169330" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 162px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVdb82Du6AbSWcmyGHYpM1nsOxy07IwuTJfBlCbwUrKiQZ2Snjd7UBF34HeiyazTMHcjFo9E1kYBH9GNxlHws0CAPIDuvS9eUGRCWKLhOiKw1enc5Mh7iijIAZCGfMc3_9EOzQ3ZAfXaE/s320/scan0003.jpg" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: center" face="georgia"><meta content="text/html; charset=utf-8" equiv="Content-Type"><meta content="Word.Document" name="ProgId"><meta content="Microsoft Word 11" name="Generator"><meta content="Microsoft Word 11" name="Originator"><link href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CMRSGIB%7E1%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml" rel="File-List"><link href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CMRSGIB%7E1%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C01%5Cclip_editdata.mso" rel="Edit-Time-Data"><style> v\:* {behavior:url(#default#VML);} o\:* {behavior:url(#default#VML);} w\:* {behavior:url(#default#VML);} .shape {behavior:url(#default#VML);} </style>
<br /><style> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0cm; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:EN-GB;} @page Section1 {size:612.0pt 792.0pt; margin:45.35pt 36.85pt 72.0pt 36.85pt; mso-header-margin:35.45pt; mso-footer-margin:35.45pt; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: center" align="center"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-size:16;">
<br /><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><span lang="EN-GB">Shortly after the arrival of our 3 young Jacob sheep two more mature ewes arrived from the Black Isle.</span></p>
<br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><span lang="EN-GB">One had two large black sturdy horns which straight upwards out of her head – perfect for skewering anyone or anything in her way. She was named Fanny after the Olympic hurdler Fanny Blankers-Coen due to her amazing jumping ability. She could easily clear a gate from a standing start while heavily in lamb. The other ewe we called Four Horns, she had more conventional outwardly curving large horns with two smaller ones at each side. They arrived in lamb and we were advised to ‘watch them’ from January onwards as they had been in with the tup since August. They were duly put in a field which I could easily see from the window, and one cold but clear January afternoon I was doing some paperwork indoors when I glanced out of the window and noticed something unusual seemed to be happening in the field. The three ewe lambs (Spotty Nose, Sparky and No Name) and Fanny were standing around Four Horns, heads tilted to one side looking at her with interest. There also appeared to be a flapping white seagull on the ground. Surely even our sheep wouldn’t turn carnivore I thought. Seconds later I realised that of course it wasn’t a seagull, but a newborn Jacob lamb. Making a mental note to visit the optician soon I grabbed my jacket, heaved on my wellies and joined the crowd. By the time I arrived a second lamb had been born. It was flailing around on the ground attempting to stand while its older twin was already on its feet attempting to feed from mum. Four Horns had a particular look in her eye which ewes seem to have after lambing – one of pride and satisfaction, a feeling that I shared. It was a great feeling to see the first animals born on the croft – lively little black and white Jacobs. </span></p><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><span lang="EN-GB">The weather being cold and wintry at the time I decided to get mother and lambs into the barn. Moving a newly lambed sheep is far easier than moving a sheep at any other time. Ewes generally have a very strong, protective maternal instinct, so all I had to do was to pick up a wee lamb under each arm, start walking, and mum would duly follow. There is only one catch with this cunning plan – mum won’t follow unless she can see the lambs, so the manoeuvre has to be done while walking backwards – not easy when carrying 2 wet and wrggly lambs through the mud in a high wind. I eventually got all three into the shelter of a stall and began applying iodine to the lamb’s navals. From outside I could hear the loud plaintiff wailing of a very unhappy sheep. I was saved the trouble of going to investigate as I witnessed Fanny clearing a series of <span style="font-size:+0;"></span>four foot high hurdles with ease and trotting into the barn to join her friend Four Horns, determined not to be left out of the proceedings. She refused to budge from the barn, and, not to be outdone, produced a fine set of twins three days later.</span></p><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><span lang="EN-GB">Every spring since then both Fanny and Four Horns have produced two or three lambs each and been excellent mothers. They will see out their lives at Christmas Croft, having more than earned a happy, peaceful retirement.</span></p><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUzXmRWy59Ldjt2kTNTyeJxWhKY1j4gkeLHTAkL_h2MDomfAv7ocDzjuh_kWRXXdvU4Ua4TpN9rGkVpw4RF4-oDYeG18mAZDzdlnP1OeGM5g1cthsIpj129XTfVmeLsu08nq5eqridVfs/s1600-h/scan0008.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364390788871407874" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 222px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUzXmRWy59Ldjt2kTNTyeJxWhKY1j4gkeLHTAkL_h2MDomfAv7ocDzjuh_kWRXXdvU4Ua4TpN9rGkVpw4RF4-oDYeG18mAZDzdlnP1OeGM5g1cthsIpj129XTfVmeLsu08nq5eqridVfs/s320/scan0008.jpg" border="0" /></a></p><p></p><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="FONT-FAMILY: georgia; TEXT-ALIGN: center"><meta content="text/html; charset=utf-8" equiv="Content-Type"><meta content="Word.Document" name="ProgId"><meta content="Microsoft Word 11" name="Generator"><meta content="Microsoft Word 11" name="Originator"><link href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CMRSGIB%7E1%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml" rel="File-List"><link href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CMRSGIB%7E1%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C01%5Cclip_editdata.mso" rel="Edit-Time-Data"><style> v\:* {behavior:url(#default#VML);} o\:* {behavior:url(#default#VML);} w\:* {behavior:url(#default#VML);} .shape {behavior:url(#default#VML);} </style>
<br /><style> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0cm; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:EN-GB;} @page Section1 {size:612.0pt 792.0pt; margin:72.0pt 90.0pt 72.0pt 90.0pt; mso-header-margin:36.0pt; mso-footer-margin:36.0pt; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><?xml:namespace prefix = v /><v:stroke joinstyle="miter"><v:f eqn="if lineDrawn pixelLineWidth 0"><v:f eqn="sum @0 1 0"><v:f eqn="sum 0 0 @1"><v:f eqn="prod @2 1 2"><v:f eqn="prod @3 21600 pixelWidth"><v:f eqn="prod @3 21600 pixelHeight"><v:f eqn="sum @0 0 1"><v:f eqn="prod @6 1 2"><v:f eqn="prod @7 21600 pixelWidth"><v:f eqn="sum @8 21600 0"><v:f eqn="prod @7 21600 pixelHeight"><v:f eqn="sum @10 21600 0"><v:path connecttype="rect" gradientshapeok="t" extrusionok="f"><o:lock aspectratio="t" ext="edit"><v:imagedata title="scan0003" src="file:///C:\DOCUME~1\MRSGIB~1\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtml1\01\clip_image001.jpg"></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<br /></v:imagedata></o:lock></v:path></v:f></v:f></v:f></v:f></v:f></v:f></v:f></v:f></v:f></v:f></v:f></v:f></v:stroke>Christine Ralphhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12293907213971228706noreply@blogger.com0