I'll be there for ewe

What I've been thinking about this week: 

1. Education, education, education
2. Crisps

This morning the cupboard was a bit bare. There was no bread and no cheese, which everyone knows does not equal a tasty lunch. 

Hunter Gatherer Fisher went on a quest to the village shop and came back with the lunch of champions: Heinz tomato soup, Simpsons morning rolls and Cheesy XL crisps.

As you'd imagine from the name they are very much up my fromagey street but they're not widely known beyond Dumfries & Galloway and Cumbria. I happened to mention to Ivie that I hadn't tasted them before I started going out with him. He nodded sagely in between bites  and said, "your education continues". 

It got me thinking about what else I've learned over the past six years. It's most apparent when it comes to farm matters. I'm no expert but I can follow more conversations about livestock than I used to and the other day I even actively sought out a video about sheep. 

Not any old sheep, mind you. This was Fiona - who in the past week has become hot property, appearing on everything from This Morning and Landward to Gogglebox and the Last Leg. 

Not a famous sheep but quite a cute one

She's put our corner of the world on the map, with lots of people hearing about Dumfries for the first time. And maybe a few more people are getting an insight into farming and animal welfare. But that's another story for someone more serious and knowledgeable than me. 

It's made me wonder who would win in a fight for most famous Scottish sheep. In the blue corner, Dolly, who now resides in a glass case in the National Museum of Scotland being ogled by people sniggering at how she got her name. And in the red, Fiona, who is very much alive at Dalscone Farm receiving 5-star treatment and visits from Dougie Vipond. 

Mary's little lamb doesn't even get a look in. 

Numbers Game

What I've been thinking about this week:

1. Rocks
2. Paper
3. Scissors

Usually by October, things have quietened down on the farm and Ivie and I get to have more meals at the same time in the same place. We get into our autumn routine, eating breakfast together, stopping work for lunch and having tea at tea time. Obsessed with food, us? 

Ivie and I have been like ships that pass in the night this week, though. He's been doing a job along the road that involves shifting 10,000 tonnes of rock from one part of a farm to another. And I had a rare 5 day working week (yes, I'm a part-timer; no, I'm not ashamed). 

10,000 is a big number. I had it in my head that he'd said 10 tonnes but, on reflection, that doesn't make sense when bulls can weigh a tonne or more each. Although I'm pretty good with numbers, I'm not very good at picturing them out in the real world. 

Put together a three year budget for a charity? Easy peasy.

Visualise an acre, tonne or even a metre? Not a chance. 

How heavy are these? No idea. 

Anyway, my extra day of work wasn't exactly onerous. It involved a trip to Glasgow to take part in an art workshop for one of my work projects. I got to make part of a paper chain, take a line for a walk on a piece of paper and sit on the floor cutting words and phrases out of magazines. To be fair, getting back off the floor was the most onerous part. 

Thinking about it, though, I'm not sure that would have been Ivie's comfort zone. 

Drive a massive tractor and trailer along single track roads? No bother. 

Work on a giant collage with a group of strangers? No thank you. 

Doodle Priceless artwork

We have different skills and that's one of the things that makes us such a good team, along with laughing at each other's stupid jokes and being pretty laid back about the state of the house. 

Friday evening was the longest we'd spent together all week (naturally, spent shouting at a rugby match on TV). It made a change from Ivie rushing out the door as I got back from walking the dog in the morning and arriving home just after I'd walked the dog in the evening. Now I come to think of it, maybe it was 10 tonnes and he's just been hiding out in a layby till it's time to come home...

We could be heroes

What I've been thinking about:

• The Scunner Campbell
• Scotland Rugby Fans

I know you'll find it hard to believe (because we're so young) but Ivie and I have a Great Nephew (as well as a great nephew, of course). Since he could sit on a lap and 'steer' he's taken great joy in anything with wheels. Luckily for him Great Uncle Ivie drives a tractor and last time he came to The Spittal he had a seat in the cab of a New Holland. I have it on good authority that when he's not visiting he talks about tractors non-stop and considers Ivie his hero. 

This got me thinking about heroes and their many guises. For Scots my age, there is only one superhero. 

Is there nothing that she cannae do? 

Some Scots (including Ivie) are hoping that Jamie Ritchie and the rest of the Scotland Rugby Squad will prove to be heroes tomorrow night. I admire their optimism. The thing is, it's not the team that are the real heroes. It's the poor bloody buggering fans that have spent a lifetime travelling near and far to have their hopes dashed time and time again. 

Ivie, Neil and Scrawn, Nice, 2023

Ivie is very proud of the fact that he's been to every Rugby World Cup since 1991. That's thousands of air miles, gallons of beer and lifelong friends made all over the world. I tend to take a less committed approach to it all, accompanying Ivie to World Cup destinations and sampling the other delights on offer. 

12-storey stationery store, Tokyo, 2019

Tarte au citron, Trevoux, 2023

I'd like to think that this time tomorrow, we'll be celebrating an historic win and Scotland's progress to the quarter finals. If not, we'll lick our wounds (again) and start making plans for Oz in 2027. Perhaps being a rugby fan isn't so bad after all. 

Celebrate Good Times

What I've been thinking about:

1. Birth Days
2. Gnocchi

This morning's Facebook memories tell me that six years ago I was visiting friends near Stockholm. Highlights included staying on a hostel that was a boat (or was it a boat that was a hostel?), spotting a gigantic elk from the bus (and no one else batting an eyelid) and time with some of my favourite people. 

Den Röda Båten

This time last year, Ivie and I were in Glasgow which meant that, in a break from the norm, we spent his birthday day together. I've long since accepted that red letter days at home are only marginally different from other days. We generally manage food related fun in the evening but bales still need stacked, machinery still needs tinkered with and stock still needs checked.  

Which brings me to yesterday. Ivie turned 45 (+VAT) and we had arranged dinner at The Pheasant Sorbie with Doug and Marie. We'd last seen Doug in Japan in 2019 and I'd never met Marie so we were really looking forward to it. 

Ivie was washed, shaved and about to put on clean clothes (exciting for me in itself) when it emerged that there was a cow calving. When Kerr and Drew weren't home. And the calf was coming backwards.

There was at least a tenner for the swear jar as Ivie put his working clothes back on. I got changed out of my glad rags to show moral support, secretly hoping that my offers of help would be turned down. It's not that I'm unwilling exactly but have you seen the size and temperament of cows? Especially pregnant ones with little hooves sticking out of them. 

I stood well back while Ivie persuaded her into the crush and breathed a sigh of relief when I saw Drew arrive. The swearing subsided as Ivie and Drew worked together calmly to try and get more than the hooves out. No further progress had been made when Kerr appeared and we were able to make a sharp exit to Sorbie. 

We had surprise main courses that Doug and Marie had ordered and Andrea had held off on cooking, and delicious desserts thanks to Morag. (Seriously, if you haven't been to The Pheasant, get yourselves down there.)

This morning, the wee calf (born via caesarean eventually) has its head up but hasn't got to its feet yet. I'm hoping that it rallies and ends up as mighty as this little Caesar. Looks like an Italian restaurant was just the place to celebrate its birth...
EDIT: I can report that the calf is on its feet! 

Remember this little guy? 

Farm of Destiny

What I've been thinking about:

1. Sonic the Hedgehog
2. Rudi the Spaniel

The short version of my adult life pre-dog ownership goes like this: 

I want a dog but I live in a flat - I want a dog but I work in an office 9-5 - I want a dog but I like going away last minute - I want a dog but my boyfriend is a farmer so I have to drive to his place if I want to see him - I want a dog but... nothing! - I've got a dog!!!! Look at my dog!!! 

Said dog turned 3 last week. She has no idea, though, mainly because we forgot until Ivie's niece (who owns Rudi's brother) posted a picture of Dougal having a birthday cupcake. That's just under three years of daily chaos and puppy dog eyes (and that's just Ivie). 

I was thinking about the bedlam on this morning's walk and it made me think of a Nintendo game from the 90s. No sooner have I stopped her rolling in dung that I'm watching her like a hawk to make sure she doesn't go in search of rabbits. As soon as those disasters are averted, she jumps in a ditch that is reminiscent of a First World War trench. And all before 8am. 

Unfortunately, I was never really into gaming so I am ill-equipped to deal with this level of brain activity at any time of day. Besides, there doesn't seem to be a trophy for getting your dog home clean (unless you count not having to bathe her in special shampoo before breakfast). 

You'll be unsurprised to hear that I was more of the geeky choose-your-own-adventure type, although I'm not sure anyone under 45 will have any idea what I'm talking about. For the uninitiated, these were books where each page ended with a choice along the lines of, 'If you open the gate, turn to page 17'. If you walk past the gate towards the oak tree, turn to page 23'. Adrenalin-fuelled stuff.

It clearly didn't prepare me for actual gate opening 

Maybe it's time for me to launch a reboot where the choices are things like, 'if your dog disappears and comes back smelling worse than you knew was possible, go home and cry' or, 'if your dog obeys your every command, pinch yourself because it was all a dream'. Not exactly escapist fantasy but they do say write what you know. 

Surprise, Surprise

What I've been thinking about: 

1. Cows.
2. Yes, really. 

There aren't many surprises at my age. Not that I'm tired of life or anything but I usually know how my days and weeks are going to pan out. And then Ivie asks me at Friday teatime if I want to go to a stock judging. 

Those in the know will understand exactly what that is. Here's what I thought it was before I went. 

You go to a farm where the local Young Farmers group has organised a lighthearted competition involving some animals, a judge and a few folk trying to guess what order he or she has ranked them in. 

Now I realise that, while that's the general gist, the stakes are a bit higher. For a start, I'd forgotten how competitive those in farming can be (remember this blog?). I also didn't know that there would be prizes (more on this later). 

The judging was at a dairy farm just a long the road from The Spittal. For once, this was true, rather than the vague notion of 'next door' which can mean a farm eight miles away. There were cars and pick-ups in every available space - I'm not usually a fan of personalised number plates but I am amused by COO and RAM on farm vehicles. As we walked to a big shed, Ivie pointed out other big sheds and I struggled to say anything relevant. 

I was initially reluctant when Ivie suggested a look around but this is a very high tech dairy farm with robots that do the milking. (Not in a Metal Mickey kind of way, that would be weird.) Basically, each cow decides when she wants to be milked and wanders into a stand where spinning brushes wash her teats (yes, it did remind me of a car wash for nipples). A laser pinpoints where the 'suckers' go and the cow has a nice snack while the robot does the work. 

After my tour, we talked to the judge (a distant cousin of Ivie's obviously) and somehow managed to skip the lengthy queue to pay our fivers and get a judging card. A fellow Fisher gave me her top tip (thank you, Lynn): "I always go for the eye lashes," then added that statistically a monkey would get 50% right. 

Cue a stupid question from Giblin: "Are there 134 cows?!"

When things were ready to kick off, I got myself ready in front of Ivie and his brother with pen in hand. What I wasn't prepared for was the cows being released untethered into the shed we were standing in. These beasts were HUGE and clearly used to human interaction. They trotted up and down, sometimes at speed and occasionally licked a sleeve. For classes 2-6, I stood behind Ivie and his brother, much happier to put some distance between the cows and my sleeves.  

The only thing I know about stock judging is that animals with straight backs are good. I made a snap judgement based on that alone (forgetting all about their eyelashes) and jotted down my answers. I looked up, expecting everyone else to have done the same but there were people walking up and down with serious faces, others patting the cows to get them to turn around and some were even on their hunkers to get a better look at their teats (the cows', not their own). 

At one point, a woman next to us said, "Turn round girls so we can see your arses," to which Ivie replied, "I'd get a slap for saying that!". 

There were six classes of four cows, so 24 chances to get the same answer as the judge. For the first five classes, I got half of them right (beating both Ivie and his brother). I decided to really concentrate for the last class as there were hints I might be up for a prize. And you've guessed it. I got zero. Still, a 40% success rate when you know nothing ain't bad (although still worse than a monkey). 

There was beer, burgers and chat to be had afterwards. And here is where I learned that I wasn't too bothered that I wouldn't be getting a prize. A friend's sister had been at a stock judging where she was presented with bull semen as a prize. Even I wouldn't be able to hide my surprise at that. 

All things bright and beautiful?

What I've been thinking about:

1. Chironomida
2. (It's not an STD)

One of the things I notice when I'm walking the dog at this time of year is the abundance of flora and fauna. Pink and blue flowers are dotted along the edge of the cycle track in between the nettles and sticky willy and swallows dip over my head on their way to feed their chirruping young in nests under the eaves. 

I'm unable to name most of the wildlife around here (although I'd probably be evicted if I couldn't recognise a sheep or cow by now). But there's one that any Scot knows in their first list of animals, along with being able to point at kittens, doggies and horses. And that's the aforementioned chironomida. 

Look, doggies! 

That's right, it's the wee biting b*****d that is the midge. 

In true Presbyterian fashion, we can't have blazing, uninterrupted sunshine for over a week and just enjoy it. Oh no, we have to suffer lest we enjoy life in all its glory. (As if burning within five minutes of leaving the house wasn't enough).

Factor Duffle Coat

This year's midge is more keen than usual, buzzing about for far longer than is acceptable. For those lucky enough to be unfamiliar with the little blighter, it usually appears early in the morning and later in the evening but leaves us to enjoy the bulk of the day uninterrupted. Not this year. The 2023 edition has decided that it is mounting a hostile takeover for daytime as well. 

I imagine them in their small but mighty midge army strategising about which watch each platoon will take to ensure maximum coverage (Ultravox playing in the background, naturally). When they're not sleeping (do midges sleep?) or biting, they're sharpening their weapons until they glisten in the light, ready for the next crusade. 

A youngster flies into the officers' mess with news of casualties, squashed on a boilersuit by a hand bigger than any of them can imagine. The more experienced among them don't miss a beat (it means nothing to them). The new recruits will one day be that hardened, barely registering the daily reports of losses. They remain focused on one goal and one goal only: domination. 

Anyone would think that the wee biting b******s are starting to affect my sanity. But I know the truth. 

Our Saviour

On Balance

What I've been thinking about:

You've got to take the rough with the smooth. 

There are many things that happen in the country that wouldn't even be on your radar in the city, some good, some not so good. 

• We all know that we regularly have to travel a fair distance to join in with something - but when we get there, we'll likely get a warm welcome and bump into one or two people we know (or 17, if you're Ivie). 

• We sometimes don't get to see the high profile exhibitions that go to big city galleries - but we are surrounded by first class artists and makers (don't forget Spring Fling this weekend).

• We don't always get the big blockbuster films the first weekend they come out - but we do sometimes get special premieres before anyone else. 

There's no shortage of good stuff. At the weekend, we pootled along the road in the van and 45 minutes later were set up in Portpatrick ready for wine, sunburn and lie-ins (thanks to Eilidh for minding the dog). A short cliff walk later past the Grand Designs house (that looks like a nuclear bunker) and we were at a beach that would have been hoaching if it wasn't in our secret corner of the world. And it's all pretty much on our doorstep.

Perfect peace

We've been taking the dog swimming on our doorstep recently too (not in the local pool, you understand, that would just be silly). After getting a fright when she was wee, Rudi hasn't been the keenest of swimmers but has been getting a bit more confident lately and throwing herself into the Bruntis. More often than not we have the place to ourselves, which is just as well given how enthusiastically we cheer when Rudi retrieves a stick. 

The Bruntis at Kirroughtree

The whole reason I started thinking about this rough and smooth thing today was that I had to rewash my washing when it was nearly dry because there was a distinctly unfresh aroma in the air (or fresh, depending on what definition of the word you favour). I muttered away to myself that I'd never had to do that in Leith and then I remembered the basement flat I lived in, in Bristol where my clothes were fousty and ready to go in the wash again by the time they'd actually dried. 

It all balanced out though as we finished the day with home-made venison burgers, given to Ivie last week when he was working nearby. I didn't get that in Leith either. Maybe, it's not so rough around here after all. 

Burning Ambition

What I've been thinking about this week:

1. Films
2. Fame

Ivie had a tractor on loan this week, which made me think that there's probably room for a farmery take on The Terminator franchise. 

He invited me along for a tractor date (how lucky am I...), which was pretty good because the extra seat in the cab was actually comfortable and I didn't ask too many stupid questions (except why tractors aren't allowed at raves - see below 😜).

The other film I've been thinking about is The Wicker Man since this week sees the 50th anniversary of its original release. The first time I saw it was in my friend Naomi's living room in Leith and it was a lot less gory and much more weird than I was expecting.

Fast forward to 2019 and Ivie and I went to a showing in the Isle of Whithorn (a few miles from where poor PC Howie met his end at Burrowhead). It was a whole other experience watching it with someone who knew all the nearby locations and even recognised a few extras in The Green Man/Ellangowan. 

That was topped by a special showing on Sunday night at Newton Stewart Cinema (and more my idea of a date). The audience fell into two main camps:

1. The superfans (including someone who had flown in from France especially) who were interested in rumoured lost footage and identifying the filming location of every single frame. 
2. The locals like us who whispered, 'that's the Tolbooth' and nudged each other when the graveyard in Anwoth appeared.

(My personal highlight was the guide dog in the row behind who leaned in for a cuddle halfway through the film.)

All this got me thinking about whether I had any claims to fame. I've never appeared in a major motion picture (or a minor one for that matter) but I have met a few famous folk along the way. None of them were particularly memorable (for me or them) but I do remember Robert Peston trying to hand me his coat to hang up at a University of Edinburgh event. You'll guess how that went.... 

Obviously, I met a few authors when I worked at Wigtown Book Festival where I allowed myself one moment of being starstruck per festival. In 2015, this was Bill Drummond of KLF fame. He asked me where the toilets were and borrowed my sellotape!! Swoon. 

I suppose that, these days, it's the local heroes I meet through work who are most impressive, the ones making the least noise and just getting on with making a difference (and also not burning a million pounds. Or a policeman in a wicker effigy). 

Camper Van Dreams

What I've been thinking about this every week:

1. Tea.
2. Books.

Over lunch today, I suggested to Ivie that it's just as well that we got together when we did. It's not just that we started seeing each other in a November - any other month and Ivie would have been far too busy working - but that I was far too boring in my 20s or 30s for Ivie to have paid me any attention. Now that I'm nearing 50, I can put it down to middle age, rather than my actual personality. 

Unlike Ivie, I've never been the life and soul of the party. Even as a student, I was quite happy to be tucked up in bed long before my flatmates crashed home in the wee small hours, singing and burning toast.

There are times I look back and think I wasted the student experience but the reality is, I've always been a fairly solitary creature who can manage a little bit of socialising before needing a nice cup of tea, a sit down and a good book. 

I saw this online the other day. 

We might not be - or have any plans ever to be - married (been there, done that, binned the t-shirt) but the principle still stands. It's funny because it's true. 
 

Anyway, all this is by way of introduction to the realisation that we came to at the weekend. The signs have been there for a while and we've ignored them as best we can. But it's time to face the truth. The fact is, we're officially MIDDLE-AGED.

As I say, there have been clues along the way:

• we co-own a dog.
• we co-own a camper van. 
• we do the crossword online every lunchtime. 

The clincher involved something neither of us knew existed. You know how motorcyclists nod at each other when they see each other on the road? Well, this is the less cool version for middle-aged camper van drivers - they wave at each other, even from the other side of the motorway! Imagine how many times Ivie had to wave along the A75, M74, M80 and A9 before we got to my auntie's at Dunkeld. And then all the way home again. On the Easter Weekend. It was A LOT. 

Dog in a camper van

Suffice to say, if there was a Ministry of Funny Waves, Ivie would have been a fully fledged Senior Minister by the time we got home on Sunday night. I'm now wondering if there's a French version for when we head there in September or whether we'll just have to perfect a nonchalant shrug. 

Mmmm, Biscuits

What I've been thinking about this week:

• Books

What Ivie has been thinking about this week:

• The end of lambing

Those of you who are regular readers (thanks, by the way) will know that I've got an over-imaginative immune system. At the first sign of trouble, it over-reacts and sends me to bed for a few days. Obviously, I'm very glad of my suppressed immunity because it means that I get to keep my kidney but it can be a pain in the bahookie sometimes. 

Last week my immune system went into overdrive over a tickly sore throat and whacked my batteries down to zero for a good three days. Ivie did a brilliant job of looking after me in amongst everything else on his to-do-list and, by Saturday, I was fit enough to sit up, watch three games of rugby back-to-back and channel my inner Ian Morton*. 

Thankfully, I had enough energy for reading and managed to polish off three books (including When I First Held You by Anstey Harris, who lives in Brig of Dee - check out her other books). It was a real luxury and made me appreciate my quiet little life. 

Ivie has had less time on his hands as you can imagine and his lack of patience with the pup tells me that the end of broken sleep and lambing is in sight. He's now down to single figures, which is great, but it does mean that activity in the shed slows down considerably. 

At the end of February, the days flew by for Ivie and the rest of the Fishers getting stuck in. There were multiple multiple births and the momentum kept Ivie's spirits up. For the last few nights, though, it's taken longer for Ivie to get his boiler suit, wellies and waterproofs on than it has to trail up to the shed, see there's nothing happening and trail back down again. 

I like to think I am very helpful during lambing

On the plus side, lambing at the Spittal will be finished before many others have even started. As usual at this time of year, lots of conversations while we've been out and about have centred around start and end dates, numbers of ewes and other such details. I have noticed that I understand more of these farmery conversations as the years go on and I can even make the occasional helpful contribution. They're so occasional, though, that I can't think of an example right now.... 

I have to admit I switched off when the conversation turned to grass the other night in Aldi (sorry, Stuart) but at least we were in the biscuit aisle and I could eye up some unplanned purchases. It turns out that lambing is a great excuse for buying treats that aren't on the list, even if typing is the only exercise I get all day. 

Spotted during conversation about grass (thanks, Stuart)

*For those of you not lucky enough to know Mr Morton Snr, his style of rugby support involves a lot of shouting and sweary words. I think Ivie is his trainee....

The Sweet Smell of Success

What I've been thinking about this week:

1. Immunity
2. Persil

Lambing is well underway at The Spittal. I'm told there are around 40 ewes left to lamb but that they'll probably string it out until the end of the month. I'm looking forward to the end of the month because a. I'll be 49 (the nerdy bit of my brain likes that it's 7x7) and b. we're having a wee trip away to Peggyslea Clydesdales (more in a future blog, I'm sure). 

Ivie is on nightshift duty, which means he dozes on the sofa in between reruns of Death in Paradise (the music is the only good bit if you ask me) and comes to bed between 2am and 3am after swearing at some ewes. 

The other thing that happens at this time of year is that Ivie needs more reminders to change his working clothes. (Usually, Ivie changes his working clothes every week, which is a compromise since I'd prefer him to change them every day and he wouldn't.)

During lambing, the frequency of wash cycles increases slightly since Ivie is in his working clothes for around 18 hours a day, wrestling ewes to the ground (not for fun, you understand) and helping lambs make their way into the world. 

Looking back at the blog I've just linked to about wash cycles, it seems that not much has changed in three years. I'm not sure whether to be depressed that we're still having the same conversation about the washing machine or relieved that we haven't any major disagreements to sort out (other than, "I won't be long," being the biggest fib ever). 

Off down the mine to the lambing shed

I thought my immunity to farm smells was at full strength but apparently not. This morning I had to insist Ivie lower his arm in case I passed out before I'd even got out of bed. And then remind him that he'd promised to change his clothes yesterday. His immunity is obviously far more advanced than mine. 

Luckily we went out for lunch today, which I've discovered is motivation for Ivie to wash, shave and put on clean clothes. I like to think that it's a general sense of pride, rather than an attempt to pull at the Brigend Pantry. 

It could end up quite an expensive way of having a fresh smelling boyfriend but it might just be worth it. 

Old Habits Die Hard

What I've been thinking about this week:

1. Tea
2. Naps

You might remember that I went on a writing course back in October (I wrote about it in this blog). Well, I've just been on another one. 

In the run-up - as well as looking forward to spending a whole weekend writing and chatting to other people about their writing - one of the things I was most looking forward to was having a slower start to my day. Usually, I'm up, dressed and out with the dog before my eyes are fully open and my body is fully upright. 

Pre-dog, I'd shuffle about in my jammies for a bit, make a cuppa and then think about the day ahead. What joy it would be to relive those days! 

Except what I actually did was wake up at my usual time, get dressed quickly and wonder if the tutor's puppy would like to go for a walk. Even when she didn't, I was out strolling around Brig o Dee before 8am* and thinking about my first cup of tea of the day. 

I've never smoked (except in a pub one night in Cupar, which just left me with a sore throat and sore chest. The fact that the smoking took place inside tells you how long ago it was). However, I imagine the first cigarette of the day is very much like the first cup of tea: nothing else hits that high and you spend the rest of the day trying to recreate it. (A tea problem, me? Absolutely not. I could give up any time I like; I just choose not to.)

I got back from the weekend tired but happy. I'd learned loads and met some great new friends but what I hadn't done was sleep a lot. Despite a ludicrously big bed all to myself, my brain had been too busy to switch off and I arrived home in need of a nap. 

I already know that I am always going to be lazy compared with Ivie (I wrote about it in this blog) and this week I remembered that I can never, ever mention that I am tired. 

Luckily, Ivie is very relaxed about the different paces of our lives. A busy weekend for me is meeting friends for lunch, a rummage in Wigtown Community Shop and a dog walk with a friend (which also includes lunch). A busy weekend for Ivie involves a full day of work, lambing three ewes at 1am, coming to bed just after 2 and and then doing it all again. 

He rarely complains so I definitely don't feel I can moan about being tired when I was basically being force fed cake and laughing till I cried at (true) stories of hamsters and firemen. (It's a bit like the unspoken rule of not mentioning you got less than your usual 8 hours to new parents of a tiny human.)

Thanks to Drew, Ivie has had a couple of nights off from the nightshift so we're managing to go to bed at the same time, something we take for granted the rest of the year. His alarm will still go off before mine as I tell myself that if only I could have a day off from walking the dog, I'd be having a lie in with a cuppa. It seems you can't teach an old dog new tricks after all. 

* I know this is mid-afternoon by farm standards.

Let's Face the Music

What I've been thinking about this week:

1. Love and Romance
2. Don't be ridiculous, of course I haven't! 

What I've really been thinking about:

1. Crabbit and thrawn farmer(s).
2. Glitter balls and disco lights. 

I can't believe we're halfway through February already. The first few weeks of the year have flown by and I can just about see Spring at the end of the tunnel that is a Scottish winter. 

Of course, for some people halfway through February means only one thing - posting on Facebook/Twitter/Insta how much they love their significant other/best friend/dog (when the rest of the year all they post is what a pain they are). 

💖(I'm not really hard hearted)

At least at the Spittal we're consistent - we moan about each other 365 days a year we rub along day to day, laughing at each other's jokes and the absurdity of life, and getting on pretty well. To be fair, I think I'm harder to live with than Ivie is (and, as Kenny at the Creebridge told me the other night, I should be happy with my lot since I'm punching above my weight as it is).

As well as not winning the pony club quiz at the Creebridge last weekend, I had a night in Glasgow with some friends to watch Strictly. In the car on the way home, we were discussing Scottish words that are common in the North of England (where the friends I was with have both spent time living). They'd heard of crabbit but thrawn was a new one for them both. But more of that later. 

The other thing that marks mid-February at the Spittal is the start of lambing. It's started a wee bit early this year but, so far, Ivie's still getting a full night's sleep and is more or less on an even keel. Except one night last week when the dog was particularly unenthusiastic about carrying out her last ablutions and getting the **** to bed. 

First lambs of 2023

Let me tell you the secret for getting the dog to do what she needs to do. All you have to say is, "Let's go disco!" and she'll perform (it's a long story which basically involves my reluctance to stand outside shouting "pees" and the flashing light setting on my head torch. Don't judge me. Sometimes I have to make my own entertainment). 

• Guess how keen Ivie is to stand outside going, "Let's go disco!" 
• And have a guess as to how long he will stand outside in the dark and cold while the dog sniffs every blade of grass instead. 

I think you can guess the answer to both of those questions, as well as seeing how well 

they illustrate the definitions of crabbit and thrawn. And we're barely at the start of lambing; it's only going to get worse. 

Unhealthy and Unsafely

What I’ve been thinking about this week:

1. Lambing
2. Health and Safety

Here we are again. The end of January is in sight and February marks the beginning of lambing. There are a couple of weeks before it all kicks off but this time of year always makes me think about how little I’ll see Ivie and how best to deal with that. 

I have to say, it’s not such a daunting prospect this year: partly because life feels more normal than it has done for the last three years so my own life away from the farm is busier; and partly because I know what to expect. 

I’m not big on big gestures (just as well, eh) and I don’t need expensive presents in my life (ditto) but one of the things that makes me feel happy in a relationship is uninterrupted, quality time. 

This can be a challenge in amongst farm life. We can be like ships that pass in the night and, as you can imagine, this is even more so during lambing when Ivie spends his evenings snoozing on the sofa and I get used to not stirring when he comes to bed in the wee small hours.  

We’ve tried to take a more proactive approach this year, frontloading some time together before the insanity kicks in. We had a night away in a hotel this weekend where we ate, drank and were merry (Ivie greatly so) and had a visit to the Devil’s Porridge Museum at Eastriggs. 

It tells the story of the cordite factory that spread across 9 miles at Gretna and Eastriggs during the First World War. At its peak, it employed 30,000 people and produced 11,000 tonnes of the stuff a week. Health and Safety wasn’t really a thing and the young women who worked there (most of whom were under 18) were known as Canary Girls because of the yellow hue of their skin. It’s well worth a visit if you’re passing by on the way to the M6. 

I know it’s easy to talk about Health and Safety gone mad and all that but we’ve come a long way in the 100 years or so since the end of WWI. I was a bit alarmed when I discovered that farming is one of the most dangerous industries in the country but it makes sense when you think about it. Let’s face it, I’d have to be going some to sustain an injury in my job. Health and safety really would have to go mad for me to have to enter ‘paper cut’ or ‘stabbed myself with a staple’ into an accident book. 

Which brings me to the sight I saw before me this afternoon. Ivie and I came out to the shed to have a cuppa before I started writing. He finished his coffee and announced he was off to chop kindling and get the fire going in the house. 

As he walked across the grass, I happened to notice that he was wearing his slippers. TO GO AND CHOP WOOD! 

It makes me wonder if the statistics about farmers hurting themselves actually involve farming or just plain stupidity. Answers on a postcard (but watch you don’t cut yourself on the sharp corners).