A Cosy Christmas

What I know about Christmas on the farm:

1. Cows still need fed. 
2. Ivie doesn't really switch off. 

"Will you have a lie-in on Christmas Day?" I asked Ivie.

"Probably not," he replied, "I like just getting up and out and then I'll have the rest of the day."

I can see the logic but there's something indulgent about lying there, waking up gradually and talking nonsense. To be fair, we manage to talk nonsense at all other times of the day so maybe it's not a major sacrifice. And since we got the puppy, a lie-in doesn't seem like such a relaxing proposition. 

I'm awake!

This is my first Christmas as an actual Spittal resident so it's made me think about starting our own traditions. Growing up, my Dad used to make us have tea and toast before we were allowed any chocolate on Christmas Day. I still do this (with an ounce of teenage grumbling) and it's a nice little way of remembering him all these years later. 

One of Ivie's suggestions was that we get the stove going in my shed and have a cosy cuppa in there on Christmas morning. Sounds good to me. 

Sunny Shennanton Sawmill Shed

It's not how I thought my Christmases would pan out, to be honest. In a past life, I imagined my future Christmases would be filled with letters to Santa, school concerts and early wake-up calls of, "he's been!". Things didn't turn out that way but, you know, I wouldn't change it for the world. 

I'm a firm believer in everything working itself out in the end and if I'd had a people-carrier full of kids, I wouldn't be living where I do with the wonderful person that I do. We're privileged auntie and uncle to six nieces and one nephew between us aged 8-26, who we love having in our lives. 

I'm sure everyone's 2020 Christmas is a bit different to what was planned. I hope that you're all starting your own wee traditions that will be talked about in years to come. 

Merry Festivities to you all! xxx

Giblin Christmas 1988-ish

Lambing: The Prequel

What I learned last week:

1. High numbers make Ivie happy.
2. I might have to roll my sleeves up in March. 

Last year, I wrote three blogs about lambing (imaginatively entitled Lambing: Part 1, Part 2 and Part 3. I'm nothing if not creative). As time went on, I got more involved but only as much as squirting iodine on newborn lambs' navels and occasionally feeding the pet lambs. I've yet to actually lamb a ewe and, to be fair, I'm not sure I'd be trusted. 

It's a bit of a responsibility as so much can go wrong (and they're also not my animals). The lamb can come out the wrong way round - in lambing terms, you want the front legs first, then the head - or it can get stuck on the way out. It's not all cute lambs gambolling around and bleating, sadly. 

Anyway, one of the things I'd heard a bit about before was scanning percentages. Every year, a man comes with a special ultrasound to find out how many lambs are due in the Spring. I haven't actually seen it in action but I like to think of it as the self-serve counter in the supermarket. 

Each ewe is scanned and the man shouts out the number of lambs - hopefully 1, 2 or 3 - so the ewe can be sprayed with the right colour. And then Ivie hands over his Nectar card. Or something. After all the scans, the machine tots up the numbers and comes up with a percentage.

You want the percentage to be nice and high as that means lots of twins and triplets on the way. This year, the Spittal percentage was 205%, making Ivie and his brother very happy indeed (no, really).

There are 48 sets of triplets due next Spring. This is good as it means lots of lambs but it also means lots of pets. This does not make Ivie and his brother happy. 

Ewes have two teats which means that twins generally fare better than triplets, although ewes with just one lamb can often be persuaded to 'adopt' (more on that in a later blog). 

The maternity ward lambing shed is going to be a busy place with lots of multiple births, adoption hearings and the like. I'm a bit worried that I'm going to have to get a bit more involved than in the past. Hopefully, this will just mean filling water and feed troughs and not getting in the way, rather than scrubbing up and wearing gloves that go up to the shoulder. 

Now I'm wondering if #lambing2021 will require masks. 

A Day at the Salon

 Things I learned this week:

1. It's not just male calves that have horns.
2. Now none of them do. 

Working from home these days means that I'm much more aware of what's happening on a daily basis. Whether it's watching the vet arrive to check out a new calf or a Fallenstock lorry leaving with its load, the sights and sounds of the farm are much more in my face. 

Last week was fairly noisy. Ivie and his brother were de-horning the calves. I must have looked horrified because Ivie explained that removing the horns keeps them from injuring each other when they tussle and also stops them injuring humans when they have to get up close and personal. 

I wondered if having their horns removed was a bit like having a pedicure, except they don't apologise about the state of their feet and wish they'd brought their flip-flops to change into to go home. As you can imagine, it's not quite as simple as that.

It involves moving all of the calves into a pen then taking them one by one down a sort of corridor called a race. The race ends in the crush, a metal contraption that locks as soon as the animal pokes its head through. Imagine a really strong baby seat. With a calf in it. 

Happy Hornless Calves

There are various implements involved, depending on the size of the calves' horns. Little stubby horns are lobbed off with sheers then cauterized with a de-horning iron, which is a big, hot, metal stick. Horny horns are removed with a de-horning wire, which is a hot, twisted cheese wire. A standard trip to the salon then. 

(They all have anaesthetic applied to the top of their heads to make it as painless and stress-free as possible.) 

It's a noisy business - and not just the swearing. The calves make it perfectly clear that they'd quite like to keep their teeny tiny horns, thank you very much. And Ivie and his brother make it perfectly clear that the ******* calves will do as they're ******* well told. 

The swear jar is filling up nicely in time for our Christmas night out. Oh wait...

Wearing it Well

Things you should know:

1. I've never been fashionable (although you've probably guessed that by now). 
2. That's ok. 

I think it was inevitable that I ended up living with a farmer on a farm. The uniform is great and suits me down to the (muddy) ground.

It won't surprise you to know that I've never been a dedicated follower of fashion. Being born in the 70s and having two older brothers means the hand-me-downs were more tomboy than Tammy Girl and that's been pretty much my 'style' (if you can call it that) since then. There was that time circa 1982 that my mum wouldn't let me get a rara skirt but, on reflection, that's maybe no bad thing. 

These days, I'm happiest in jeans and wellies or head-to-toe waterproofs for walkies in the rain. There haven't exactly been many opportunities for getting dressed up this year anyway and that actually suits me fine. Given the choice, it's comfort over style every time, although I haven't quite resorted to working from home in my jammies. 

There has been lots of chat recently about 80s style making a comeback, what with Diana and The Crown and the Quality Street dresses on Strictly. I'm slightly horrified but then I remember that it's unlikely that boiler suits will suddenly have ruffled collars or waterproof leggings will become pleated and high waisted. 

My last blog was all about the uncertainties in farming but I'm reassured by the constancy of some things. 

• There will always be two pairs of muddy wellies and leggings at the door.
• I'll know it's below freezing when Ivie finally gets the thermals out the back of the wardrobe. 
• There will never be a shoulder pad in sight. 

Eat, Sleep, Repeat

What I've been thinking about:

1. It's all about routines. 
2. Except when it isn't. 

It turns out that puppies are hard work. In the run-up to getting ours, wise people nodded sagely and said, "puppies are hard work." It went in one ear and out the other as my toddler brain screamed, "puppy, puppy, puppy!" 

It's now six weeks since we picked up the trembling bundle and brought her home and we're getting into our groove. Or so we like to think. What's actually happening is that we are fitting around the routine that the puppy has set for herself while fooling ourselves that we're the ones in charge. 

Hard at work

Having her has made me notice other people's routines around me. When I take her for her morning walk, I see the same farmer on a quad off to feed cows at the next farm and the same lorries on the way to the ferry. 

There's something quite soothing about routines, especially when the outside world seems a bit out of control. We set our alarm for the time the puppy wants to get up, we make her breakfast while trying to stop her eating our socks and we take her out for a pee as soon as we've sat down for a cuppa. 

 

The point at which the puppy always needs out

Apart from life with a 14 week old puppy, living on a farm is all about different routines, depending on the season. Except when things don't go to plan. Which is every day. 

Today, for example, there is a blocked culvert. This means that Ivie was an hour late coming in for breakfast, we've only seen each other for ten minutes all morning and he's behind on feeding the cows.

Farming is such a strange mix of fixed tasks done at a certain time and the biggest spanners chucked into the works every single day. Farmers seem to need a strong core of dogged determination combined with a heavy dose of flexibility to deal with the demands of the day. 

In my job, if something unexpected happens, I know I can catch up tomorrow but it's not quite the same on the farm. I can't quite imagine Ivie coming in for tea saying, "the digger needed a new part so I didn't get round to feeding the calves today" or us getting to February with no ewes in lamb because a tree needed cleared from the cycle track back in the autumn.  

At least some things are certain - death, taxes and the puppy being just cute enough to avoid eviction. 

Love Local

What I've been thinking about this week: 

• Small businesses and how they make the world go round. 

It all started when I was sitting at my desk looking out the window at the man in a tractor cutting the hedges at the Spittal. I'm getting to know my tractors so I realised straight away it wasn't a Fisher man in a blue tractor; it was a different man in a red tractor. 

Blue Tractor
(New Holland just to prove I know 😉)

It got me thinking about all the businesses that are involved in life on the farm. There are the obvious ones like the farm itself; the contracting business; and the holiday cottages. 

But then there are all the others - the aforementioned hedge cutter; the Hoof GP; the vet practice; Fallenstock (which doesn't deal in surplus stock); the lorry driver that takes animals to or from market; the agronomist (I get extra points for remembering that one); the farm supplies shop (that kept us stocked in flour and sugar when everywhere else had run out); and so on. It doesn't take much to see how important these small businesses are to each other. 

On the other side of the coin, there are the other farms that employ I&A Fisher (mainly to do things that mean I make Ivie take off his boiler suit before coming anywhere near me). 

Clean boiler suits

And it all makes our part of the world go round so that we can spend our money locally, too. You don't need me to tell you about the better service you get by spending your money with the small businesses that actually pay their taxes instead of with the huge corporations that offer bigger, cheaper, faster. 

• When we buy plants at Galloway Heathers, Marcus and Iona know where our garden is so can advise what will fare best. 
• When we buy fish from Ferry Fish, it comes straight to our door only a few hours after being bought at the market. 
• When I buy moisturiser at Imagination, I know that Una will help me choose what's right for my skin.  

The list goes on and you'll have your favourites, too. 

So, this is a shout out to all the small businesses that have supported us during lockdown and need us to keep supporting them as we approach the dreaded C-Word. Our corner of the world is a far richer place for having unique high streets. Let's keep them that way. 

Murder in the Farmyard

What you should know:

1. My brother is great. 
2. He's also a typical big brother.

My brother, David, is ten years older than me. He's one of the main reasons I moved to Dumfries and Galloway. We were about to turn 40 and 50 and I was fed up of saying, "Wouldn't it be good if we lived nearer each other?" So, I handed in my notice, sold my flat and made the move from the big city. 

He's one of my favourite people - despite cutting my hair off when I was three, giving me mashed potato he told me was ice cream and making me take a big spoonful of sherbet that turned out to be bicarb. He regularly makes me laugh until I can't breathe and we have the same views about the important things, like biscuits and scones. 

Here we are at a Halloween Party a few years ago. 

It's probably best not to ask
Photo by Katie

Having said all that, I wouldn't want to work with him, which brings me to the very important farmery question of the day. How do family members work with each other for decades without committing matricide, patricide, fratricide, sororicide (I had to look that one up) or any other type of -cide?

I did think about googling 'farm murders' but thought better of it (my algorithms are in a big enough mess as it is).

I'm sure it won't surprise you to know that Ivie and his brother give each other a cuddle at the start of every day on the farm and finish the day with a very continental peck on each cheek. But there must be days when they disagree about what to name the latest newborn lamb, what colour the new quad bike should be and where to keep the latest tool from Aldi's random aisle (it was a ratchet set last night, since you ask). 

Which all makes me think about all the weapons and pseudo-weapons on a farm. It could be like a new take on Cluedo. Pseudo-Cluedo anyone?

• Farmer Fisher Senior in the top shed with the shotgun
• Farmer Fisher Junior in the old byre with the pinch bar 
• Nephew Fisher in the dairy with the dehorning shears

I always thought living in the country was pretty safe. It's maybe time to start looking in the random aisle for an ice pick to keep under my pillow. 

Kiltin' not Killin'
Photo by Louise

Make a Wish

What you should know:

1. Two of my dreams came true last week. 
2. There was no genie involved. 

I was a bit under the weather last week so didn't have much energy to enjoy two very exciting things that came into my life. The first has four legs and doesn't have an off switch and the second is static and offers respite from the first. 

Meet Rudi. 💜

She's a ten week old cocker spaniel. (She's bonkers and, erm 'enthusiastic' but apparently that's what we ordered.) She was so bonkers and enthusiastic the other night that I asked Ivie if we could trade her in for a cat. Apparently, that's not a thing.

I've wanted a dog for decades but I never seemed to have the right life. Turns out living on a farm during a global pandemic is ideal, especially with a dog-loving adopted family next door. She won't have to be on her own for long and will always have someone around to play with. 

The second thing that happened was my shed! 💜

Since I moved to D&G almost seven years ago, I've fancied my own shed. As a fully paid member of the introvert society, I dreamt about a little space to call my own with a comfy chair and a pile of books. Obviously, this is pure indulgence because:

• I've lived on my own for six of those years.
• Even now, I have the house to myself most of the time. 

I mentioned it casually when Ivie and I were discussing the possibility of us living together this time last year.

What I didn't count on was Ivie Knowing Everyone. You'd think I'd have learned by now. I don't think he realises what a short-cut it is to phone someone up and say, "Hi, it's Ivie. Can you help me with something?"

And so the wonderful Charlie of Shennanton Sawmill sent over pictures of sheds he'd made for other people so I could pick n mix what I liked best. 

As you can see, the end result is a beauty. There are some bits and pieces still to do, including moving my comfy chair and pile of books. The final, final result will probably feature in a future blog. Watch this space. 

In the meantime, wish me luck with the puppy. I'm sure she thinks her middle name is, "No". 

The Greatest Show on Earth?

 What you should know:

1. The Black Face Sheep Sale is a big deal. 
2. It should have been this weekend.
3. It still is. Kinda. 

One of the things I've noticed - especially since I moved to the Spittal and started getting to know more folk involved in farming - is the difference in my Facebook feed. Now, not a day goes by without a sponsored post about a big piece of farm machinery (that I have no interest in) or someone showing off pictures of livestock (that I have no knowledge of). If it wasn't for the occasional advert for niche stationery or the cute dog and cat videos, I'd think that the algorithms were way off. 

I had a vague notion that Something was Happening in black face sheep circles and had it confirmed by a friend the other night. Thanks to Ann Ferguson, I now know that:

• it's the biggest event in the sheep calendar
• it's usually a grand day out for the whole family and
• this year, due to covid restrictions, it's happening in Ayr (instead of nearby Newton Stewart) with only buyers and sellers allowed to attend.

I went to the market at Newton Stewart once when Ivie was selling cattle. We hadn't been together long and I was partly intrigued and partly trying to show willing to make up for my lack of knowledge. 

He walked me in and sat me down towards the back of the ring where I couldn't get in the way. It's a traditional hexagonal building (which is listed, apparently) and once you're inside there's a strange mix of hustle and hush as the sale takes place. 

Newton Stewart Market
Photo by Ros
(The eagle-eyed amongst you might even spot Ivie)

I stuck out like a sore thumb. I wasn't wearing wellies or a boilersuit, I wasn't carrying a crook and I wasn't related to anyone else in the room. I was also slightly wide-eyed as I was terrified of twitching or scratching my nose and going home with more beasts than we'd come with. 

I was aware of a slight flicker of, "who's that with Ivie Fisher?" but then everyone returned to what was happening in the ring. 

It was like the most tightly run circus where everyone had very distinct roles. The auctioneer was clearly the ringmaster and he ruled the roost with an iron gavel. 

I was captivated by the chap in the ring whose only job was to keep the livestock moving so that all the buyers could see; another man was responsible for opening and shutting the same gate all day; a young guy beside the auctioneer took a note of who bought what and passed slips of paper to the women in the office who updated the passports and buying records. 

Longtown Market
Photo by C&D Auction Marts Ltd.

Then it got confusing. I spent ages trying to work out who was bidding and who was winning each lot. I missed it every bloody time. It was like that Three Cup Trick where you have to keep track of which cup has the coin underneath it. 

Dumfries Market
Photo by C&D Auction Marts Ltd.

Ivie sold his cows, relatively happy with how the sale had gone. I'd been promised lunch at the hotel across the road so was getting ready to go (while not twitching or scratching my nose). I noticed Ivie shaking hands with a few men at the edge of the ring. 

He was giving all his buyers a 'luck penny'. Like so many things I've asked about over the last few years, he's never really thought about the whys and wherefores; it's just the done thing. So, as well as getting the cow or sheep or whatever in exchange for what they bid by winking or raising an eyebrow, the buyers also get something back. Depending on the type of animal and its value, it might be a few pounds or a short-term insurance policy. It's a way of saying 'thank you' to a buyer and hopefully means they'll look out for your animals at market again. 

I've just looked up the practice on a farming forum and there seem to be mixed feelings about it. There are those that treat it as a genuine tradition that they'd be sad to lose while in other areas, it's been distorted over the years and become something of a small bribe. I should know better than to look up farming forums. That's my Facebook algorithms buggered for another six months.

A note about the photos:

1. Thanks to a call-out on Facebook, C&D Auction Marts Ltd. kindly gave permission for photos of Dumfries and Longtown Markets to be shared. Please note that both these photos were taken before covid restrictions came into place. (I know they're different markets but for people who've never been it gives a good idea of what it's like.)
2. Thanks also to Ros Francis for the photo of Newton Stewart market. (Who knew she'd be the friend who had such a thing?!) 

Julius Cowser

Things I learned:

1. I wasn't as squeamish as I thought I might be. 
2. A hamster (that well known farm animal) weighs about the same as a packet of crisps. 

We had a bit of excitement here at the Spittal last week. I say 'we'; it was probably only me that found it exciting. Everyone else undoubtedly found it expensive and lengthy. 

Last Monday evening, Ivie mentioned that he was going to check a cow and calf that were up in the pens. The calf had been born the day before and hadn't quite got the hang of sooking. Ivie wanted to make sure it was up on its feet and getting enough milk so that it could go out into the field the next day. 

Obviously, I take any opportunity to don my boiler suit and nosey at a baby animal (it'll wear off, I'm sure). Five minutes later, Ivie's brother, sister-in-law and nephew arrived down with a cow that was in calf. I was instructed to stand well back as they brought it into the crush for closer inspection. 

Apparently, the cow was 'in the notion' of calving but nothing had happened yet. I've heard this phrase bandied around from time to time and, from what I can make out, when a cow is near to calving she starts wandering around a bit more and taking herself away from other cows. This one was a heifer (which you'll remember from a previous blog means that this is her first calf, not that she's grossly overweight) so Ivie's brother thought she might need a bit of a hand. Up to the elbow.

After a bit of grappling, two big hooves appeared. I was looking forward to seeing my first calving so got into a good viewing spot. The big hooves disappeared back in. Time to phone the vet apparently. 

View from the Spittal
(cos I didn't have my phone when the vet was here)

It was starting to get dark so headtorches were fetched while we waited for the vet to arrive, as were buckets of hot water (I thought that was only on TV but evidently not). The vet arrived and informed us that her previous patient, a hamster, was 29g. A bit of a contrast then. 

It wasn't quite what I was expecting for a few reasons:

• The cow remained standing for the duration and didn't appear to be in any distress. 
• It was a hugely physical job with Ivie and his brother both called in to help lift the calf out at the right moment. 
• The cow should be able to have more calves in the future. Yay! 

Ivie's brother was instructed to hold the wound shut while the vet stitched it up and Ivie had the job of making sure the calf didn't die was ok. (Obviously, I stood with my hands in my pockets, resolutely not volunteering for anything responsible.)

The massive calf lay lifeless with his tongue hanging out for a few moments then began to rasp and wheeze. He was too heavy for Ivie to swing about like he might a newborn lamb so he lifted its body and offered, ahem, 'gentle encouragement' (and £1.50 for the swear jar).

Julius (as I'd now named him) coughed a few times and lifted his head. Then he started trying to get to his feet. Hail Caesar! 

Julius on walkabout the next morning

How many ewes can a top tup tup?

 Things I have learned:

1. It doesn't take long.
2. The ewes probably prefer it that way. 

This week has been a bit of an eye opener, if I'm honest. Ivie was watching This Farming Life the other night (because, obviously, when he's not farming he's thinking about farming or watching other people farming). There was a segment all about tupping. 

[There's something quite pleasing about a noun that's also a verb. For example, a tup tups. And I'm told that a bull bulls. It doesn't work for all animals, though. An elephant doesn't elephant. But I digress...]

So, anyway I watched in slight horror as the tup on TV was let loose in a field of ewes and proceeded to do the deed. Or tup. Now, obviously I didn't expect him to take each ewe out to dinner, send her a bunch of roses and send flirtatious texts before getting to know her better but I did expect each 'interaction' to last longer than a couple of seconds. 

Form an orderly queue, ladies

One thing I did know about before this year was the rather fetching harness a tup wears during tupping season. (Think lederhosen from the Sound of Music crossed with the Village People). I was pretty confused the first time Ivie told me he was off to change the crayon.

For the uninitiated, a tup wears a harness when he's tupping. It has a coloured crayon attached to the front that marks a ewe's rear end when it's been on a date. It serves two purposes: firstly, it lets Ivie see how many are still left to 'do'; and secondly it lets him see when the lambs will be due, as each batch will have a different colour. 

Closer to lambing time, the ewes are scanned and get another colour sprayed on them, depending on how many lambs they're carrying. It makes the lambing shed full of coats of many colours and now I'm wondering what happens if you're a colour blind farmer... 

I was curious about how many ewes a tup can tup. Let's do the maths:

Number of ewes	220
Number of tups	7
Ewes per tup	30+

Jim Smith puts it better than I ever could....

You take the high road

 Things I know:

• Detours in Wigtownshire are l-o-n-g
• Local knowledge definitely helps

On Wednesday we had a huge amount of rain. Our neighbour's rain gauge recorded 2 inches in 24 hours. For various reasons, we decided that Wednesday was a good day for us to drive an 80-mile round trip to Dumfries to collect a second hand wood burner. 

[For clarity, when I say 'we' decided, I mean 'I' and for 'us' to drive I mean 'Ivie'. But you probably knew that already.]

On the way there, we took it steady and passed through a couple of major puddles\minor rivers. We spent less than ten minutes in Dumfries (it would have been two and a half if we haven't driven past the right house three times...) then set off for home. 

We got about 12 miles from the Spittal and were discussing what to have for tea when we drove into a wall of water just before Gatehouse. Thankfully we were in the pick-up so powered through it. (Ivie's so calm that it wasn't until afterwards that I realised it was probably a bit dicey.) Anyway, we got to the bottom of the hill and could see flashing lights in the distance. And a long line of lorries going nowhere. 

For those unfamiliar with the delights of the A75, it's the main route from the border to the Ireland and Northern Ireland ferries at Cairnryan. As it goes through Wigtownshire it follows the coast. Which is a problem when there are accidents or hold-ups. Or lorries stuck in flood water in this case. 

When we spoke to the police officer at the Road Closed sign (who was 12 because we're officially middle aged), we realised that we had a Wigtownshire detour ahead of us.

"Can we go up to the Glen road?" asked Ivie. 

The youngster shook his head, "It's really bad, there's no way past."

"But we could turn off and follow the road over the hill,"

"No, it's all blocked."

"We're going to have to go via Gatehouse Station aren't we?"

"'Fraid so."

 

Oh joy. 

The thing about Gatehouse Station is that a) it's bloody miles from Gatehouse b) there's no station and c) it's on pretty much a single track road. Up a hill. 

On a good day the views are spectacular. On a bad day with biblical rain and a big lorry in a big puddle, it is full of other locals going in both directions with limited passing places and mixed reversing ability. 

Big Water of Fleet Viaduct on a good day
(Near Gatehouse Station)
Photo by Ivie

It sounds like I'm moaning but without Ivie's knowledge of the back roads, I'd have been sitting in a queue of traffic for a few hours. Luckily, we only added an extra half hour on to our journey, got home safe and dry and had pizza for tea. I'm just glad we actually bought the stove. But more of that in a future blog...

Looking towards Gatehouse Station
Photo by Ivie

A rose by any other name

 What I've been thinking about this week. 

1. Some farm animals have names.
2. I don't know what the rules are. 

I was used to the idea that pets have names and livestock doesn't. But I've realised that's not always the case. 

Some of the simmentals at the Spittal have names and their offspring appear to be given names beginning with the same letter. Livestock 'Literation, if you like. 

Here's Lily and Lupy. When Lupy was born, Lily was endless, kicking her when she went in to feed and generally not paying much attention to her beautiful new baby. 

Lily and Lupy

I felt quite sorry for Lupy and now when I go with Ivie to check cows, I keep a look out so I can say hello and give her a wee noogie on the head. She's used to human interaction as there was a fair bit when she was born to make sure she got enough milk in those first few days. 

Lupy last month
(I was equally chuffed and disturbed that I recognised her from the photo)

It's all made me wonder if we somehow have more feelings about the animals with names, like being sympathetic towards them, imagining they're pleased to see us or giving them credit for deeper thoughts than, "Am I hungry? Am I in immediate danger?".

There's even a word for it: anthropomorphise: attribute human characteristics to a god, animal or object.

(I've just been in a Google black hole that was starting to get a bit scientific before being balanced out by pictures of Disney characters).

As I say I haven't quite worked out which animals get names and which don't and why. And whether farmers are softer about the animals with names or equally unmoved by all of them. 

Mind you, no-one feels soppy about the bulls as far as I can make out. They seem to be treated a bit like farm machinery that's only worth its keep if it keeps up its end of the deal. As it were. 

Their official names are all double-barrelled and wouldn't be out of place in the Kennel Club. The bulls themselves would be out of place, right enough. That would make Crufts a very different proposition. The only one I can remember is Gretnahouse Black Bat (see here for Mairi's great photo being used in a feed ad). (He's the one I call William, but that's another story). 

So, after all this ramble, I'm none the wiser. Answers on a postcard, please. 

I just hope Lupy doesn't get upset when she finds out I've been talking about her behind her back...

What a load of bull

What I have learned:

1. Ivie is laid-back 99.9% of the time.
2. You can take a pun too far. 

Living on a farm isn't as quiet as you'd think. I regularly wake up to a strange noise - that in my half-asleep state sounds like the alarm on my phone - only to realise (again) that it's a bellowing bull. 

They're noisy creatures and it seems like they're often disgruntled. Not in that story book rampaging through a china shop way. They're much more more slow moving and tend to be focused on one or two fairly basic needs - food and a bit of cow action. 

I found out the other day that it's called 'running with cows' when a bull is let loose in a field with cows that are in season. It sounds like a euphemism an elderly aunt would use like when they ask teenagers if they're 'stepping out' with anyone. 

This bull knows his place

Anyway, the other morning I was getting ready for work. During lockdown, this has mostly entailed putting on clean(ish) clothes and brushing my hair (if I've got a Zoom call that day). I happened to look out of the bedroom window and I saw one of the bulls where he ought not to be. As I had been paying attention during my lesson on field names, I could phone Ivie and tell him where the offending bull wasn't. 

What followed was a Benny Hill-esque rampage by Ivie as he tried to persuade the bull back into the field. The bull was having none of it, keeping focussed on the cow that had so coquetishly caught his attention. Or something like that. 

Ivie's so laid-back most of the time but unco-operative animals in the wrong place really raise his blood pressure and I could see his face getting redder and redder. I kept an eye on him, partly to check that he didn't keel over but mainly because it was bloody hilarious. 

Eventually, the bull reluctantly returned to the house field and Ivie rapidly returned to what he'd been doing before the delightful animal went for a detour. 

It made me think of the town of Bulls in New Zealand. I passed through it a couple of times when I lived in Wellington many moons ago. I like a good pun but the residents of Bulls have taken it to a whole new level. As you drive through, you start to notice a theme to all the shop names. The antique shop? Collect-a-bull. The library? Read-a-bull. I do have a soft spot for the police station, mind you - Const-a-bull. 

Pity the angus didn't take note. He's not exactly in-escapa-a-bull. 

Photo from not-australia.co.nz

They're all going on a summer holiday

Things I've learned

1. Farmers are adept at diversification. 
2. I like salted caramel ice cream. I was pretty sure of that already but it's always good to check these things. 

I've been thinking a lot about holidays this week. It's partly the weather - which has been scorchio - and partly the increase in traffic on the roads. 

Dumfries and Galloway is a region that relies heavily on tourism. According to Visit Scotland, British travellers alone made over 750,000 overnight trips to the region in 2018, spending 2.5 million nights and £141 million. 

Of course, this is a mixed blessing. It means that when we have visitors ourselves, there are plenty of places and events to take them to. But we've also all come across drivers either braking for every bend (or puddle, which was my particular favourite) or going far too fast on single track roads and overtaking on blind corners on the A75. 

It's not quite the onslaught that Edinburgh usually has every year. When I lived there, I really enjoyed the fact that I passed Edinburgh Castle on my morning bus route and that I could walk to some of the best art galleries in the world but it made going about my day to day life in August absolute hell. It's certainly experiencing a quieter summer this year due to covid cancellations and, although that has a massive impact on businesses that rely on festival audiences, I'm sure there are many that are breathing a sigh of relief and enjoying the quieter streets. 

Gallery of Modern Art, Edinburgh

Which brings me back to D&G and the farm. Before I lived here, the tourism sector was something I only really thought about in a work setting. Having worked for Spring Fling and the Wigtown Book Festival in the past, I've been involved in a lot of audience surveys, reports to funders and the like but it all felt a bit more abstract. 

Spittal Sunset
Photo by Ivie

Now the view from my bedroom window includes the two holiday cottages on the farm and if I'm sitting outside I can hear people on the cycle path and the gates opening and closing. 

I really like it. I love living somewhere that other people want to come and visit and it stops me taking these glorious views for granted. A friend of mine came to visit last week from Wiltshire and stayed in a nearby AirBnB (Spittal Cottages were both booked!). Her and her children arrived one drizzly, overcast afternoon and woke up the next day surrounded by the Galloway Hills and Galloway Forest Park. They were all captivated by the views, the wildlife and the peace and quiet. It was great to see the place through their eyes and it made me fall in love with D&G a little bit more, if that's possible. 

Photo by Julia

While they were here, we went to Cream o' Galloway on a sunny Saturday. It was my first major trip into the outside world since mid-March so it was all slightly strange. But as numbers were limited to enable social distancing it meant that it was quiet, we barely had to queue for ice cream (salted caramel since you ask) and the kids could explore the adventure playground and go karts till their heart's content. 

It reminded us of a previous visit around six years ago when they'd come to Auchencairn to stay with me. As we waited for the tractor ride (little did I know I'd be able to do that every day if I wanted in a few year's time), the chap said, "now remember that we'll be driving through a working farm. There will be machinery and equipment lying around." We thought he meant from a health and safety point of view and keeping the children safe. "We've had complaints from visitors that the place looks untidy." I'm not often speechless...

Living with an Extrovert

 Things you should know:

1. I am an introvert.
2. Ivie is not.
3. There's more than one sweeping generalisation coming up.

There are lots of definitions of introverts and extroverts out there. Without getting too detailed, one of the main differences is how they recharge their batteries: introverts get their energy back from being on their own; extroverts by being surrounded by people. 

It's one of the reasons that I enjoyed the time that I lived on my own so much and thought I'd never want to live with anyone Ever Again. 

In some ways, being an introvert farmer's WAG is the perfect set-up, though. I have the house to myself for hours at a time and am (just about) ready for company when Ivie gets home. This is what usually happens:

In Ivie's case, it involves putting on the radio, wandering to his desk, scrolling through Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Snapchat and WhatsApp on his phone while watching tractor porn on the computer all at the same time. I whimper quietly while switching off the radio, shutting the kitchen door and just about coping with the noise of the kettle. 

One of the ways this difference shows up between us is when we're socialising. Those of you that know Ivie will know that he's usually the last to leave any party. You know when they 'subtly' turn on the lights and wash the floor? Ivie will still be chatting away to someone he's known for 30 years or 30 minutes and having the time of his life. I'll have peaked early and retreated hours ago and will also be having a grand old time. And a cuppa. 

Rock n roll introvert style

It doesn't mean I didn't enjoy myself or that I didn't like the people I met, it's just that I ran out of steam before he did. And Ivie gets it. He doesn't try to change me or make me feel guilty for always being pretty much the first to leave. 

Anyway, Ivie's best mate had a big birthday this week (yes, Marcus turned 21). For various reasons, I managed to miss both of his celebrations but it meant that Ivie could see everyone he'd missed during lockdown all in one go - extroverts are very efficient in this way. 

While lockdown and shielding wasn't too bad for me because of my introvert tendencies, it does mean that getting out into the outside world is taking me a bit longer. It's a noisy, overwhelming place for someone who only saw people with the surname Fisher for four-and-a-half months. Great as they are, I'm looking forward to broadening my socialising horizons over the coming weeks and months. See you there.

PS thanks to the people I haven't met yet who are regular readers 😊

Everybody was Multi-tasking

What I've learned:

1. Everyone around here has more than one skill
2. Farmers' skills involve hitting things with a hammer

We've been having our bathroom refitted this week. It's been a long time coming. We started talking about it before Christmas then finally got round to ordering everything in March. Then lockdown happened. And shielding was extended. So, we've now got a beautiful, almost finished bathroom. 

Work in progress

We've been really lucky with the guy that's doing it for us. Technically, he's a joiner but he's done the plumbing, plastering, as well as the joinery work and fitting the new window. I know everyone knows everyone around here but it makes things so much easier because you're not just opening the Yellow Pages (yes, I'm showing my age) and choosing someone random that a) might turn up when they say they're going to and b) might do a good job. 

You're allowed to be excited about new windows when you're over 40

Along the way, I've learned that farmers are also mult-talented. I've mentioned before that I didn't really know what Ivie did all day. Aside from complicated mental arithmetic, Ivie spends his day problem-solving and fixing things. His days rarely finish up as planned due to any number of unforeseen circumstances involving the weather, temperamental machinery, animals escaping, animals dying, animals giving birth, or any combination thereof. In a lot of cases - animals notwithstanding - these circumstances are 'moulded' with the aid of a heavy object and a lot of force. 

Talking of multi-tasking, something I noticed when I first moved to Dumfries and Galloway is that a lot of people have more than one job. Their week might be made up of two or three part-time jobs or they might make money from their arts and crafts skills over and above the 9-5. In some circles, it would be called a 'portfolio career' but for normal people, it's just life. Before I lived here, I'd always worked full-time without questioning it and it was the norm amongst my friends. In fact, the people I knew who didn't work full-time outside the home generally had small children. 

As I've got older, I've really appreciated time over almost everything else and, aside from a six-month blip in a job that wasn't right for me, I've worked part-time since December 2013, often made up of two or more contracts. It was a great way to get to know more people, too. My first part-time contracts were with Spring Fling and Wigtown Book Festival, two of my favourite D&G cultural icons. I got to know a lot of people who are now close friends and I might have bumped into someone special at the 2017 book festival opening party...

Going back to the bathroom, I did get slightly confused by the multi-talented joiner earlier in the week. He mentioned that he would only be there the next morning as he had a funeral in the afternoon. I made my, "oh I'm sorry" face but didn't have time to say anything else as he had already moved on to telling me what else he still had to do. Later, as I watched the van leave down the farm road, I saw the tell-tale words on the back doors, "Ian Broll. Joiners and Funeral Directors". 

A Time and a Place

Things you should know:

1. I'm learning
2. You've got to have a strong stomach for this lark

Yesterday, Ivie had to calf a cow. For those unfamiliar with cows, they're usually pretty good at getting on with it themselves but sometimes they need a bit of extra help. This one was a heifer (which means it was its first calf*), and sometimes they need quite a lot of... let's call it intervention. 

Mind you, I'm getting the hang of asking the right questions at the appropriate time:

• is the calf up on its feet?
• is the cow letting it sook?
• did they have to milk the cow and bottle feed the calf? 

Yesterday was a new one on me, though. Without going into too much detail - partly because I can't remember all the ins and outs (as it were) and partly cos it's a bit brutal - this birth involved a lot of jiggery pokery and something called a calving jack to get the wee blighter out. 

Protective Mama

Ivie, on the other hand, did remember all the details and thought the lunch table was a good time and place to recount them all. I wasn't so sure, especially as it was followed by a chat about a dung spreading machine that Ivie and his brother were going to look at that afternoon. 

If someone had told me three years ago that these would be topics of conversation with my significant other I don't think I'd have believed them. Other recent topics include:

• why some farms wrap their bales 4 times and others 6 
• sperm testing of bulls
• the merits of owning vs hiring farm machinery

Bales wrapped 4 times

Sometimes I like lunchtimes when we just talk about what's for tea.

* I haven't quite worked out how the word 'heifer' has entered normal day language to describe someone who's overweight. Suggestions welcome.