Ho, Ho, Ho

What I've been thinking about this week:

1. Winter schedules

2. The 'C' word

In theory, I should see a bit more of Ivie at this time of year. (By which I mean I should see him more often, not that I should see more bits of him. What with the thermals and extra layers not much of our pasty, celtic flesh is seeing the light of day at the moment.)

But the thing about living with a sporty farmer is that once the busy summer is out the way, it's time for the winter sports - touch rugby and curling, rather than ice hockey and figure skating, just in case you were wondering. 

Sport at a safe distance

It doesn't seem to have been as noticeable this year, though, as this is the first December since I moved to the Spittal that life has been a bit more normal. It's coming up to our third living-together-aversary and I don't need to tell anyone how far from normal December 2020 and 21 were. 

Which brings me to that 'C' word (if you'd like to watch a seasonal, sweary song that includes a few mentions of the other 'C' word, you can click here).

Ivie and I are both a little bah humbug about the festivities. We both enjoy eating more cheese and drinking more port than usual and blaming it on Christmas, obviously, but that's not quite the same as embracing the tinsel. Besides, our first date involved a bottle of port and cheese on toast and I'm all about preserving traditions.

Cheers!

To be fair, I love seeing other people's trees and decorations all lit up and I do enjoy a rousing rendition of O Come All Ye Faithful in the village on Christmas Eve. Part of my reticence is that in a past life a fully decorated house was used to paper over the cracks in an unhappy household and I haven't quite had enough therapy to dissociate the two. Freud would, indeed, have a field day, just before handing me a Santa hat and a singing reindeer. 

Being out of the house more often at carol concerts and Christmas afternoon teas means that things are a bit more evened out and I feel less like a rugby and curling widow compared with previous years. My Christmas tree earrings have even seen a few outings with a few more to come before December is out. 

I'm sure that deep down we're not as bah humbug as we like to present to the world. After all, we managed to inadvertently name our dog after one of Santa's reindeer. I'm sure Freud would enjoy that, too, as we try to persuade him that she's actually named after a Specials song (no sweary words in this one).  

Stop your messing around

There's no place like home

What I've been thinking about:

1. Writing
2. My own bed

Last week, I was lucky enough to attend a writing retreat run by Write South West Scotland. I pootled along the A75 to Brig o Dee, met fellow writers IN REAL LIFE, ate lots of food, star gazed at Threave, ate more food, swam at Mossyard and, you guessed it, ate more food. (By lunchtime on the second day, I had changed into my baggy jeans). 

So far, so good. After four days of listening to amazing writing and a chance to share a bit of mine*, I was planning to pootle back along the A75 and be home well before Saturday lunchtime. But dastardly covid had other ideas. 

Ivie succumbed for the first time and, due to my dodgy immune system, it made sense to stay away. Thankfully, the tutor let me stay for another three days (she came to the Spittal for tea a couple of weeks ago and I think it was Ivie's cheesecake that swung it) so we ate leftovers and caught up with Bake Off and Strictly. 

I thought about my new friends and the gigs, plays and exhibitions they'd talked about going to recently and felt a bit jealous. It can be easy to feel that some things pass us by in Dumfries and Galloway. 

But one of the great things about the week was the chance to see our corner of the world through their eyes. 

• I tend to take a dark, starry sky for granted - others had never seen a shooting star before. 
• I live ten minutes' drive from a lovely, little beach - and most of the time there's no-one else there. 
• I regularly see deer and kites on my morning dog walk - some of my new pals got up early every day in the hope of spotting wildlife. 

I finally got home on Tuesday evening to an enthusiastic spaniel and nearly healthy farmer. I didn't think I'd miss the mud and bellowing bulls but there was something reassuring about the familiar sights and sounds of home (the jury's out on the familiar smells). 

Today included a chat with Lupy while I took a rubbish photo of a rainbow and a walk with Isa and Rudi in the swirling wind. It was a good reminder that there's no place like home, even if I am sleeping in the spare room until Ivie gets around to changing the sheets. I might start taking it personally if he hasn't changed the sheets by this time next week.... 

* One of the stories I wrote was about a tight farmer. They do say write what you know.

New Socks Please, We're British

What I've been thinking about this week:

• Excellent purchases

What I haven't been thinking about this week:

• Socks

One of the things I've found about middle age is how excited I get about buying things that my younger self would have been horrified by. I've never been particularly 'spendy' but there's nothing wrong with simple pleasures. 

This week has been particularly good for online, middle-aged purchases*

• a heated blanket I put over my legs like a Nana when I'm working (so we don't have to put the heating on during the day). 
• an old school paper diary from Germany (it's worth it, honest).
• an old school paper calendar from a small business in Edinburgh (are you detecting a theme here?) 

There have been a few deliveries for the farm this week, too, as Ivie et al get some maintenance done between the summer madness and the winter. Although I asked all the right questions, I'm not sure I could tell you what they've been up to, other than the concreting up by the pens - and that's mainly cos I walk past it with the dog every morning (on the lead so that there are no little pawprints left as a lasting legacy🐾).

A rare moment of calm

I've got used to the couriers arriving in between all the other vehicles coming and going during the day. They're pretty good at delivering farm parcels to the steading, rather than to either of the houses so I didn't pay too much attention to the one that drove past just before lunchtime. I saw the driver open the back door to the van and hand Ivie a package. I assumed it was another sprocket, widget or tractor part so carried on trying to persuade the dog to be calm for five bloody minutes while I heated up the soup. 

Ivie has excellent timing, so he appeared back just as the toast was popping with said package in his hand. It contained socks. Not just one or two pairs, mind you. Twelve pairs of new, heavy duty, promise-not-to-wear-through socks.

Ivie is not spendy: Exhibit A

As we all know, Ivie is even less spendy than I am so there has been a lot of deliberation about these socks. He has mentioned buying new ones on a fairly regular basis for the past month and, I have to say, my interest was waning. 

Here's hoping it's a while before he has to buy something major. Like wellies. 

* It's important to support our local businesses, too, especially in the run-up to the 'C' word. Check out this blog from 2020 that lists some of my favourites. And check out one of my new local favourites, Nest Galloway.

Tales of Wigtownshire and Beyond

What I’ve been thinking about this week:

1. My weak will. 
2. Not telling tales. 

Last week, Ivie and I were in Glasgow for a couple of nights. He’s just turned 28 (I know, I’m such a cradle snatcher) so we had a wee jaunt with some very vague plans, mostly revolving around food. 

We had booked a Japanese restaurant for Friday night where we had to reign in our enthusiasm and not order one of everything. We were fairly smug about our chopsticks technique, even under the influence and went back to our hotel merry and with full stomachs.

Teppanyaki drama

 Our plan for Saturday was to pop into Kelvingrove on the way to watching Newton Stewart play Glasgow Accies then head for Thai food in the evening. 

• Kelvingrove – yep, walked in just as an organ recital was beginning, which included some Very Serious Music. And Star Wars. 
• Rugby – yep, although we got stuck in the bar before the match as the after-lunch speaker was blocking the doorway WHILE SLAGGING OFF SELKIRK WOMEN! 
• Thai food – not a chance. 

It turns out I’m very easily led. By which I mean, the conversation at kick-off (and every conversation thereafter) went something like this:

Lorna/Jo/Lorraine/Ivie/Russell/everyone else: “Would you like a drink?”

Me: “No thanks, I’m a lightweight.”

“One won’t do you any harm.”

“Oh, go on then.”

Evil

The wine and conversation both flowed pretty well and there was a wee chat about my blog. It’s always nice to get a compliment (thank you) and I did my best to reassure the travelling support that I won’t share everything they say or do. The blog mainly exists to take the mick out of Ivie and me, to be fair, and I’m not into throwing anyone else under the bus. Unless they’ve slagged off Selkirk women, obviously. 

Turns out John McNeillie wasn’t quite as concerned about throwing people under the bus. Or Clydesdale. I’ve just finished reading his book, Wigtown Ploughman, which upset folk in the Machars when it was published in the 30s. He didn’t shy away from the harsh realities of rural life or concern himself with changing the names of the farms or the families that ran them. No-one escapes the violent temper of the main character and there was little heed of the notion of consent, although it did lead to changes in the law to protect agricultural labourers. So, not all bad then….

Bit of light reading

Thankfully, my own modern(ish) ploughman has very little in common with Andy Walker, except perhaps his love of the land and satisfaction in a job well done. 

And I doubt I’ll have 40 books under my belt unless I do nothing else but write from now until eternity. But at least most folk in the Machars will still be talking to me. 

No Direction

What I’ve been thinking about this week:
1. My sense of direction.
2. Only joking! I haven’t got one.

The good thing about having no sense of direction is that I never worry about getting lost. 

I’m sure my poor Dad wouldn’t have been impressed to read that last sentence. He was in the Tweed Valley Mountain Rescue Team so could read a map in the pissing rain while looking for some daft sod who’d gone hillwalking in flip flops. 

Me n me Dad, 1989

I got many of his genes but not that one.

Luckily, I have friends who seem to understand where in the world they are, even if I haven’t the foggiest. 

Yesterday Rudi and I went for a walk at Kirroughtree with one such friend. She has an OS app on her phone so I immediately relinquished all responsibility for figuring out where we were at any given moment. 

Kirroughtree is just along the road from us and is part of Galloway Forest Park. It has fantastic walking and mountain bike trails and is used for lots of outdoorsy competitions and events. 

A past visit. I may have been on this path yesterday. Or maybe not....

A few years ago I volunteered to marshal at the Hillbilly Duathlon at Kirroughtree. (Ivie’s brother is one of the organisers and I was trying to get his family to like me. I’ll let you know how that goes.) I was dropped off somewhere in the forest with a hi-vis vest and an excellent packed lunch and instructed to direct the runners to turn left at the bottom of the slope. 

After the last runner had passed, I realised I had no idea where I was (you saw that one coming, didn’t you) and no phone battery. Unphased, I set off in the direction that I’d sent the runners. Who knows whether I took the most direct route (probably not) but I figured if I kept going downhill I’d get back eventually (I did). 

Kirroughtree, in particular, messes with my brain. I’ve never done the same walk twice (although, who knows) and I can never quite figure out which direction I’m facing. I did have a glimmer of recognition yesterday when I spotted the cemetery at Minnigaff in the distance and my friend’s map app informed us we were on Larg Hill. 

Happy dogs 
Photo by Catriona

We went back to the Spittal to have a cuppa in the sunshine. Ivie returned from being very busy and important and asked us how our walk had gone. I said we’d been on Larg Hill and we’d seen a farm in the dip below. 

“Yep, that’s Larg Farm,” Ivie said.

“But that’s different from The Larg (a farm in the opposite direction that Ivie often does work at),” I said. 

“Yep.”

Sigh. 

There’s really no hope for me and my sense of direction but at least it doesn’t bother me not to know where I am. Mind you, if I said ‘Larg’ I’d have a decent chance of being right. 

Lights Off

What you should know: 

• Being from the Borders doesn’t automatically make you a collie. 

• You’d think I’d learn. (Or maybe not, based on past experience.) 

I’ve had a farmery couple of weeks by my standards. July was a bit of a write-off what with having covid and all (I’ve now stopped having toddler naps in the afternoon, which is progress) but I was put to work almost as soon as I tested negative. 

It was already an unusual Saturday, in that we were going out to an Actual Thing later that afternoon. Jim Smith was in Dumfries and we were off to see him with some pals. For those who haven’t heard of him, he’s a stand-up who’s also a farmer. Or a farmer who’s also a stand-up. We saw him at the end of 2019 and I got almost all the jokes. Fast forward to summer 2022 and I got Every. Single. One. Disturbed or proud? I haven’t decided yet. 

I was trying to conserve my energy for chatting on the way to Dumfries and then laughing once I got there so I’d had a lie-in and taken the dog for a fairly short walk. Then Ivie uttered those dreaded words: “Could you come and help me with something?” 

I’d agreed before having the sense to ask what the something was, which Ivie was probably counting on. 

Not invited

Earlier in the week, the ewes and lambs had been separated into different fields. The lambs are getting too big to get underneath the ewes to feed and don’t need the extra nutrition any longer. 

Later in the week, the ewes and lambs had reunited in the same field. Our job was to un-unite them. 

“Shall we take Isa (the border collie)?” I asked, hopefully. 

“Naw, it’ll be easier without her.” 

What I should have said at this point was, “Easier for who?” (or ‘whom’ if I was feeling all fancy). 

Not running gear

The short version of events is: 

• Ivie drove around on the quad. 
• I ran around in (not just) my wellies. 
• He should have told me to wear a sports bra. 
• Sheep are endless and stupid. 
• They ended up back in the same field later that night anyway so we shouldn’t have bloody bothered. 

Thankfully, the animals stayed where they should at Wigtown Show last Wednesday (the four-legged variety in any case). 

Peggyslea Clydesdales

It was a grand day out, and after two years of no show because of lockdown, it was great to catch up with so many people. It’s a very efficient way of seeing farmery folk (and Ivie’s relatives) all in one place but come 3 o’clock, my post-covid batteries ran down and I was ready for home. As you can imagine, Ivie was not quite ready for home so I told him I’d pick him up any time before 10pm when both my phone and my light would be going off. 

Guess how many people Ivie asked for a lift between 10.01pm and midnight? Nope, he's no idea either.

On With the Shows

What I’ve been thinking about this week:

• Agricultural Shows.

• Fitting in.

Although I wasn’t at last week’s Highland Show, it has got me thinking about the three agricultural shows I’ve been to in my life. 

Around 1985 I attended the Yarrow Show in my Selkirk High School Band debut. That's me on second horn. I was very proud. 

Some 20 years later, I went to the Highland Show, which I’ve now been to twice. They were very different experiences. 

The first time was with my mum. It was a grand day out, with men shimmying up poles very quickly, sheep and cows with rosettes and impressive caber tossing. And a life-sized haggis…

Fast forward to 2019 and it was a completely different kind of grand day out. I’d just arrived back from a week in Majorca and was wondering how easy it would be to wheel my suitcase the mile or so from the airport to the showfield. Luckily, Ivie surprised me at Arrivals so we got there much quicker than if I’d had to find my own way. 

I have an appalling sense of direction, which is deeply ingrained in my DNA. There is much family folklore of Giblins being in the very wrong place at the wrong time but those are for another day. Suffice to say, I was once in Ohio when I thought I was in Pennsylvania. 

Anyway, we Ivie found the car with no trouble, I dumped my suitcase and in we went to the Show. 

Well, nothing had prepared me for being at an agricultural show with an actual farmer. I had assumed that he would want to have a close look at machinery at some point but I hadn’t bargained on going to each stand and being plied with free booze. They sure know their audience.

And then there’s the bumping into people. Obviously, I’m used to us bumping into someone Ivie knows wherever we go (including Tokyo, for goodness’ sake) but this was on a much larger scale. We couldn’t walk 50 yards without stopping to talk to someone about machinery, spread rates or something else farmery. There also seemed to be a lot of jokes without punchlines. 

Entrance to the market where we heard, "Hey, Ivie!" 🙄🙄🙄

Knowing people or in some cases, being related to them, also meant being led what felt like ‘backstage’. It was a whole new world of people rushing backwards and forwards while huge Clydesdales awaited their turn in the ring. I was hastily introduced to lots of people and handed another glass of wine. And then asked where I was from. 

There was some initial confusion that I wasn’t from a farm or from Wigtownshire but no-one seemed to mind and I kept being handed alcohol. (I may also have suggested that Ivie had exhausted his romantic opportunities locally so was forced to look outside the Shire for his next attachment…).

The story was much the same at Wigtown Show on the couple of occasions I’ve been - meet people, look at tractors and drink. It’s Ivie’s perfect day out, really, and these days, I don’t feel I have to stick around when the chat gets too farmery.

I even joined Wigtown Agricultural Society this week. I’m not entirely sure what it entails, to be honest, other than I won’t have to buy a ticket on the day. And now when people ask where I’m from, I can say The Spittal and they’ll know exactly where I fit into the world. 

Not Such a Perfect Day

What I've been thinking about this week:

• Teamwork

Ivie and I are pretty similar in a lot of ways. We're both a bit lazy about housework, neither of us is bad cop when it comes to puppy training and we find each other hilarious (thankfully). 

Who's in charge here? I'll give you one guess....

I can't imagine being with someone that a. I don't find hilarious and b. Doesn't find me hilarious (as in funny haha, not funny peculiar). Laughing every day makes my world go round. 

World events sometimes make it hard to find something to laugh at but our little world usually provides good comedy fodder. The punchlines often involve shite and are delivered during meal times but I'm getting used to adapting my description of a dirty joke. 

Of course, there are lots of ways we differ, too, such as our tolerance to cow shite on our clothes, skin and soft furnishings, as well as our ability to reverse large piece of machinery in small spaces (I don't need to try to know that I would cause thousands of pounds worth of damage).

These similarities and differences do mean that we make a pretty good team, though. 

Yesterday's team task in glorious sunshine involved me holding the dog and proffering treats and encouragement while Ivie clipped her fur. It's not quite up to Crufts standard but it's better than it was. 

Gratuitous puppy pic

Today's weather has taken a turn for the worse and it feels more like February than the end of June. The wind is howling and the rain is coming down in sheets, making it Ivie's least favourite kind of day. Why's that, I hear you ask. Well, because it's the perfect day for doing bills. 

Here's how much Ivie enjoys it. 

11.08am   We start doing the first bill. 

11:16am   Ivie: Is it time for a break yet? 
                 Me: We've been doing this for 8 minutes.
                 Ivie (with petted lip): It feels like 8 hours. 

Not Ivie's Happy Place

So, the kitchen is a bit of a tip and the dog is running rings round us but at least the money will come in and we'll still be laughing at our own jokes. 

Bye, Bye Birdy

What I've been thinking about this week:

1. Bravery
2. Lack thereof

I’m not a naturally brave person. In fact, I’d say I’m a naturally feardy person. My idea of taking part in an extreme sport is playing Scrabble outside. It’s hardly adrenaline racing stuff.

Extreme Sport

This week I’ve had to put my big girl pants on a couple of times (to be fair, post-lockdown all my pants are for big girls but you catch my drift).

I’ve been lucky to have a few days off here and there over the last couple of weeks. And there’s nothing I like more than to spend them in my shed reading or writing.

View from the shed

Last Tuesday I took my laptop, the book I was reading and a cuppa to the shed and made myself comfortable. This mainly involved lighting a candle, switching on the fairy lights and settling in under a cosy blanket (all permitted under the heading of ‘I am 48’).

I’d just opened my book (Sorrow and Bliss by Meg Mason, highly recommended) when there was a fluttering from the wood burner. I ignored it and carried on reading. There was another, louder flutter.

At this point I should mention that I’m not very good with fluttery birds. I have no problem with creepy crawlies and quite happily ignore spiders around the house, letting them get on with whatever it is they do all day after they’ve made the web and had breakfast.

Living with Ivie has made me even less good with fluttery birds. I’ve become too keen to play the damsel in distress card and let him deal with them when they turn up in the stove in the house, tap-tapping on the glass asking politely to be released from captivity.

But last Tuesday Ivie was at silage at the top of the farm. Being at silage means he does not like being interrupted or any suggestion that he should do anything except continue to be at silage until he’s finished.

Another boring view? I couldn't possibly comment.

Let me give you an example. Last Wednesday I took the dog out for her mid-afternoon pee in between meetings. We strolled up to the steading where I could hear an almighty racket coming from the pen inside the shed. The sun streaming in meant I could only see the silhouette of a young bull battering the gate but that was enough to send me walking briskly back to the house and phoning Ivie.

The conversation went something like this.

Me: But what if it gets out?
Ivie: Go and shut the gates to stop them getting up the hill and then shut the ones near the house. It’ll be fine.
Me: But what if it’s already out when I go back up to shut the gate?
Ivie: Just keep out its way.
Me: I’m too scared.
Ivie: Well, I can’t come down. I’m up the top. Phone Kerr. He’s in the bottom field.
Me: But he might come and it’ll have stopped and he’ll think I’m stupid.
Ivie: Well phone Jane.
Me: OK.

Thankfully Jane was much more sympathetic, told me to shut the gates near the house and keep away from the bull which she described as a ‘lot of beast’. Crisis – and need for bravery – averted.

Back to the birds.

I gave myself a pep talk, reminding myself that I once removed a mouse from my bath that my cat had kindly gifted me just before a friend came to visit in Auchencairn, not to mention that I once moved 100 miles with no job and no plan - and that’s working out quite well so far.

So, I put up the hood of my hoodie, donned my fire gloves and opened the double doors of the shed (I’m quite glad everyone else at The Spittal was busy and couldn’t see my very attractive get-up).

PPE

I tip-toed towards the burner, opened the door then legged it outside as fast as I could. Not one but two starlings cheeped loudly, flew to the windowsill, cheeped again and flew past me, no doubt off to tell their pals about the wild adventure they’d just had.

Thank goodness that’s over (or words to that effect), I thought to myself.

And obviously I’ve just had to stop writing this to go and release another starling from my burner. Word’s obviously getting round about the middle-aged woman with the fire gloves and now they all want a look at the eejit.

Ice, Ice Baby

 What I’ve been thinking about this week:

• Socialising

What I haven’t been thinking about:

• Fertiliser prices

Over the last few weeks, it feels like that world has started to open up a lot more. I’ve gone from being a bit anxious about leaving the farm to looking forward to seeing other people. I’ve still got some anti-social tendencies but they’re more personality-related than covid-related. 

For the last couple of years, we’ve all been making our own entertainment at home. Being middle-aged, ours has revolved around drinking wine, eating salty snacks and laughing at our own jokes. Now that we’re comfortable being out and about much more, I’m cutting down on the frazzles so that my going out clothes still fit but I’ll hold on to the vino and hilarity if you don’t mind.

Last week, we were at a curling club dinner to celebrate 50 years of the local ice rink. (There’s a sentence I never thought I’d type.)

Over 300 people were packed on to the iceless ice rink for dinner, drinks and a lot of speeches. It was a good night, catching up with people we hadn’t seen for a long time and being in the same room as a lot of Olympians and shiny medals. There was a shout-out to all the clubs represented and I was more than a little disappointed that ‘curling widows’ wasn’t a recognised group in its own right. 

What I’d forgotten about socialising in the outside world with Ivie was the topics of conversation. There’s a lot of crossover between the curling and farming communities so inevitably the chat around our table turned to lambing, silaging and fertiliser prices. In fact, one couple even had to leave early because a cow was calving at home. Another sentence I never thought I’d type. 

Very expensive, apparently

I like to think I can hold my own a bit more these days when it comes to farming chat. Gone are the days when I didn’t recognise anything or anyone being discussed and drifted off in my own head, circling back when we got to more familiar ground (or asking really, really stupid questions). Having said that, there was the party where the men I was standing with got on to different brands of wellies and which cattle breeds were their favourites to cross. Even I couldn’t fake interest in that. 

What’s changed, though, is that I know more people and I can go off and find someone who wants to talk about the important things in life. Like Sewing Bee, the age spaniels finally calm the **** down and how long it’ll be before we’ll need varifocals. I told you I was middle-aged. 

Ambitious stick carrying

The End is Nigh

What I've been thinking about this week:

1. Training courses.
2. Lambs. 

When I worked in the university sector, I was always being sent on training courses. You know the kind of thing - building resilience (aka 'how to deal with a sociopathic boss'); writing reports (that was one of the few useful ones); and teamwork.

The teamwork one involved filling in a questionnaire to find out what your Belbin role is. Raymond Belbin is a researcher who came up with a way of categorising team members according to their strengths and weaknesses. It's supposed to be a way of knowing yourself and your colleagues better so that you can make the most of what you're all good at and not get too irate when Bob can't make up his mind about anything. 

They have fancy names like shaper, monitor evaluator and plant. I usually came out as resource investigator, which means I'm really good at starting things but can lose interest after the initial enthusiasm (that's why I'm on week 9 of Couch to 5k for the fifth time). 

More my comfort zone

One of the less common - and most useful - roles is completer finisher. They're the person on your team who makes sure that the i's are dotted, the t's are crossed and no-one goes to the pub until the deadline is met. 

This is all very well in a desk job but not very useful when it comes to an industry like farming. I mean, you can't just leave the last dozen ewes left to lamb because you've found something new and shiny to get excited about. 

Posing pets

Although we're reaching the end of lambing at The Spittal, the ones left will probably string it out until the end of the month. Ivie and the team have no choice but to be completer finishers while also getting ready for whatever's next. 

I've seen very few lambs being born this year, mainly because I try not to get in the way. I'm not sure I'll progress from, 'oh cute lambs,' and that's not particularly useful in the whole scheme of things. I have managed a bit of bottle feeding and cuddling the pet lambs (don't tell anyone) but, other than that, I've let the experts get on with it. 

I don't think anyone will argue if I keep hold of my desk job for now. 

Luncheon is Served

What I've been thinking about:

1. My stomach (for a change).
2. Mismatched expectations.

There are many reasons Ivie and I are a pretty good match:

• we're both quite tight.
• we're both hilarious (a matter of opinion, I know).
• we both like our food.

During lambing, it can be hard for Ivie and me to have any quality time together. He's either working, sleeping or eating (washing, not so much) and my sleeping and eating don't always coincide with his. He's just popped in to inform me, however, that his nephew has kindly agreed to do the nightshift (thank you, Drew) so this evening we'll get a takeaway and attempt a conversation about something other than lambs, slurry and water troughs (it's been quite a rock n roll week, let me tell you).

I'm a creature of habit and already know what I'll be ordering from the Indian* (saag paneer) so all that remains for me to do is make sure we've enough crockery out for the many and varied accompaniments and wait for Ivie to finish whatever it is he's doing (unloading something, somewhere, but I'm a bit sketchy on the details. For a change).

We're trying to get better at making time for going out for tea or even just getting a takeaway. Otherwise, there's a danger that lambing consists of Ivie being too tired to speak to me for 7 weeks then reappearing at the end of March wondering why I'm a bit grumpy.

Gratuitous cute lamb (farmers look away now)

Anyway, a couple of weeks ago we went to Carlisle to get Ivie's car serviced. I know, it's a long way to go but we get nice coffee at the showroom and I was promised lunch on the way.

I was a bit disappointed when we pulled into Tarff. Those in the know will realise that my disappointment was ill-placed. Those not in the know will understand why I was slightly underwhelmed to be stopping at an agricultural store by a roundabout.

Tarff is an Aladdin's Cave for those who actually live on farms. You know those movies where the city slicker moves to the country with designer sunglasses, a bike with a basket on the front and no waterproofs? Tarff is the opposite of what she would expect to find in a farm store. No merino welly socks or artisan sausages here.

It has - at first glance - a random selection of stock from animal feed, baking tins and footwear to pet food, horse blankets and greetings cards. But it's actually all very practical (apart from the fancy tweed jackets that I secretly covet but wouldn't be able to keep clean).

Needless to say, lunch was delicious. And cheaper than the fancy farm shop next to the other roundabout that does sell fancy sausages and eye-wateringly expensive pies (I told you we were tight).

The next day, lunch at home consisted of soup, bread and rehanging a 15 foot gate. It would seem that things are rarely what you expect when it comes to lunch around here.

* DISASTER! The Indian is closed. Off to rummage in the drawer for more menus... 

Gold!

What I've been thinking about this week:

1. Gold medals. 
2. Keyboard warriors.

It seems like there's only one thing on anyone's mind today: curling. A quick scan of Facebook tells me that lots of people stayed up late to watch Team GB women's curling team win gold. 

I have to admit that I find the rules a bit confusing and there's a lot of vocabulary involved. I've picked up bits here and there but I know enough to know that there's levels of tactics going on that I couldn't even imagine. It feels a bit like when someone tells you The Magic Roundabout has got layers of meaning and you just find a cow called Ermintrude amusing.  

Lambing gave Ivie an excuse to stay up late and watch some of it last night then get up early and watch the highlights. I left him to it and swooped in at the last minute when I knew the game was won and I wouldn't have to ask so many questions or sit quietly wondering what a four foot was or how Steve Cram could tell a particular stone had a lot of weight. 

First Spittal lambs of 2022

Thanks to Storm Eunice this week it's been hard to remember what it's like to have calm, dry days. It was so windy, rainy and generally grim today that a day in my shed was called for. 

It's such a treat to get the log burner going, settle under a blanket and read a good book in the shelter of my shed. It's a cosy haven where I'm in control of who or what is allowed - no dogs, no aimless scrolling, and not too much noise. (Ssshhh). 

Ivie popped in just before lunch and before he even opened his mouth I knew what he'd been up to. 

One of the many things I enjoy about living with Ivie is that he's pretty laid back and there's never much to grumble about, even when he's sleep-deprived during lambing. I relish the calm atmosphere and Ivie's easy going nature about pretty much everything. Except below-the-line comments. 

He can't help himself. He reads an article then instead of stopping at the end and thinking to himself, "that was interesting. Time for a coffee," he keeps reading.

Practising for 2026

What had got his goat this morning was people commenting on the curling. Some people were very upset indeed that the team was called Team GB when Scotland was the only nation represented in the team; others were questioning whether the 'G' should feature in the name at all. And I'm sure others still were making inappropriate comments about the relative attractiveness of each of the curlers. 

I feel like having two older brothers is good practice for keyboard warriors. My eldest brother, in particular, knows what buttons to press and presses them often. Sometimes my inner voice whispering, "don't react, don't react, don't react," wins and I smile sweetly while ignoring whatever he's said. Ivie's problem is that he is the big brother so hasn't had enough practice of dealing with sibling goading. Or with Brian from Wolverhampton ignoring the fact that today, on the last day of Beijing 2022, Team GB finally won Gold.

The Shortest Month?!

What you should know:

1. This is not how I thought my life would be. 
2. That's not always a bad thing. 

I used to really struggle through February. I couldn't believe the shortest month on paper took the longest to trudge through. In the city, February was dark, cold and antisocial. I went to work in the dark, came home in the dark and every day felt like it ended at 4pm. 

Now the start of February looks like this: 

Those of you who are regular readers will know that I am a stationery lover (that's completely different from someone who just lies there and thinks of Scotland. That's a stationary lover). I've just looked it up and apparently I'm a papyrophiliac. Sounds painful. 

I especially love new notebooks, diaries and calendars that haven't been written on yet. There's just so much possibility waiting to unfold. Now that I've found a calendar I love, I order the same one every autumn. And I am still in search of the perfect diary. You know some people go through life looking for the perfect lipstick? That's me with diaries and notebooks. It may be a lifelong quest. Can't wait... 

This could be the one.

Those of you who know Ivie will know that organisation isn't really his thing. He tends to rely on his charm and fluttery eyelashes to get around deadlines he's just missed or birthday cards that are a few days late. It also means that he doesn't have to buy his calendar and diary in October because he gets freebies with pictures of farm machinery on them. Needless to say, my diary doesn't include a space to record rainfall or adverts for 'impressive brassica weed control'.  

What I have realised, though, is that I no longer dread February (despite this month's picture of a tractor, which if you ask me, looks remarkably like last month's picture of a tractor. I know, no one asked me). The drudge has been replaced by anticipation. 

How the lambing shed will look in a week or two

Lambing at the Spittal is just around the corner, which means that Ivie spends a lot of time thinking about the logistics of it all like:

• moving hunners of straw bales out of the lambing shed to make room for the pens, which all still have to be put together.
• getting supplies in like colostrum and iodine.
• setting up equipment like the shepherdess for feeding the pets (and hoping it won't get any use).

It gives February a different flavour, even for me, who is next to useless during lambing except for baking, making soup and trying to say the right thing at the right time. At least I know that, "I hope you have LOADS of pets" is the wrong thing at any time... 

Maybe just the one? 

Glorious Mud

Things you should know:

1. None of my clothes are clean.
2. I don't really mind. 

I was doing a work project recently that involved having Zoom calls with a few people around the region. Most were people I hadn't met before but one was someone I've crossed paths with through various jobs over the years. 

I hadn't spoken to her for a while so we had a bit of a catch up before I started asking her my Very Important work questions. We had a chat about me living at the farm and she said she thought it sounded idyllic. She fancied the idea of being surrounded by animals but was put off by the dirt, she said. 

Magnificent beasts

"You don't know the half of it," I thought to myself. My dog eats sh*te and my boyfriend routinely comes in with it on his head. It certainly puts a different spin on having a dirty weekend... 

On Friday night we went to a friend's for dinner. There were to be three couples, including one Ivie and I hadn't met. Our host set up a group chat to confirm the details. You know the kind of thing: who was still doing Dry January (0/6); who had a negative lateral flow test (6/6); and what not to wear (anything we didn't mind getting covered in dog hair). 

I typed, "I live on a farm. None of my clothes stay clean for longer than five minutes* (not entirely the farm's fault)."
The woman I was yet to meet replied, "I spill food."

I knew then that we'd all get along and that we'd have a great night. I'm pleased to report that I was right on both counts. 

*[I should say at this point that I know this isn't the case for everyone who lives on a farm. I know lots of people who look very well turned out all the time. Dirt has a habit of jumping out on me, though. I could live in a hermetically sealed box and still have toothpaste on my top and mud on my jeans. In fact, I inadvertently went to my last kidney check-up in just that outfit.]

My natural state

Although I'm beyond delighted that parts of life are returning to normal where we can go to each other's houses for dinner and meet up with other like-minded souls, I do have to remind myself that:

1. Real life is not a Zoom call.
2. More than my head and shoulders are on show when I leave the house.
3. Not everyone is immune to farm aromas. 

Still, at least I can't be put on mute in the real world...