Laddie Come Home

What I've been thinking about:

1. Dogs 
2. Holidays Wee calves (gettit?)

Ivie is fairly competitive when it comes to sporting endeavours. He'd rather score that try at touch rugby and not be able to walk the next day than shrug and save his joints. I'm pretty much the opposite in that I've never risked myself physically for anything (unless elbowing my way to the front at Bombskare gigs counts). 

Brain stretching is more my cup of tea. I get a certain sense of satisfaction from a busy day at work writing reports, planning events and managing projects. Or a good quiz. 

On Saturday night, Ivie and I went to a quiz at Rhonehouse Village Hall with some friends (I know, Ivie left the Shire. He will repent). Our strengths included fictional Scots and airport codes but we were let down by our lack of knowledge about Doctor Who's assistants and Beatles album covers. Our best fluke was guessing the price of a first class stamp (£1.35). 

Photo by Anstey

There was a whole round about dogs, including a question about Lassie's exact breed. Luckily one of our team mates knew the answer (rough collie) and the overall result was we were second. This is where my lack of competitiveness is shown to be a massive sham but I'd drunk too much wine to be disappointed for long. 

Fast forward to today and Ivie was in need of a rough collie. Sometimes wee calves go on wee adventures, you see, and become separated from their mums. Ivie and his brother spent the morning looking for a little Angus calf in amongst whin bushes, which meant Ivie was tired and grumpy by lunchtime and not particularly interested in a dog walk. 

Who's a good dog? 

Guess what the dog found five minutes into the walk? 

Ivie wasn't quite as happy as you might expect that Rudi had saved him from an afternoon of tramping through gorse. Maybe he was just crabbit that he'd missed out on lifting another first prize this week. 

Hope Springs Eternal

What I've been thinking about:

• Well timed long weekends 
• Hope over experience

I like to think that I'm pretty optimistic. I'm a glass half-full type of person with a healthy dose of realism thrown in. During lambing, Ivie tends towards the blind optimism. 

You might remember that lambing got off to an early start at The Spittal. Ivie convinced himself that this would equate to an early finish. Now, I know very little about very little when it comes to farming but even I know that's not a thing. Regardless of start date, things are usually winding up around the end of March, which is just as well because that's when my birthday is. 

This year was a big birthday and was beautifully timed around Easter weekend. Lambing had been a bit of a slog (for Ivie) and my work had been incredibly busy so four days off (my) work was very welcome indeed. 

There was a time when I wasn't sure I'd make it this far. Kidney doctors are very reluctant to make promises about how long your new kidney will last so I never thought too far into the future. A few years ago, though, they said that if you're 15 years post-transplant, that's a good indicator that the kidney will outlast the patient. I'm not sure it will be recycle-able by then but it'll have had a good innings.

Sales pitch: Home | Organ Donation Scotland

There's something about big birthdays that makes me contemplative. When I turned 40, I'd not long landed in D&G. I had a very part-time job at what is now Upland and was trying to figure out how to make a living so I could stay in this special corner of the world. Two weeks later, I received a call from Wigtown Book Festival asking if I'd like a temporary contract. Fast forward another six years and I bumped into a farmer I hadn't seen for a while at the opening party. The rest, as they say, is history. 

Now, at half a century, I have a job, a farmer and a life I love. I couldn't imagine that this is how it would turn out but I've lucked out all round. 

Anyway, back to the long weekend. We had our first night in the campervan since Nice in September. It was almost as warm in Sandhead and the dog was living her best life, tearing up and down the beach. We bumped into someone we knew (obviously) and I wondered how to explain that we're sort of related (my partner's brother's wife's brother - prizes for anyone who can figure that one out). 

It all makes me feel pretty rooted in D&G and at The Spittal. I remain optimistic that Ivie will keep me around for another birthday or two. 

The Lambing Report

What I've been thinking about:

1. FOMO
2. Niche Googling

Lambing is in the fullest swing at The Spittal. The ewes seem to want to get on with it and enjoy the start of Spring with their lambs dawdling along behind on unsteady legs. 

Ivie is on the nightshift, which is made easier this year with the addition of a camera in the lambing sheds. It's great. He can keep an eye on things from the comfort of the sofa, only having to get all his gear on when he's actually needed. 

Pre-camera, there were times when it took longer to get his wellies and waterproofs on and off than to glance into the shed and see there was nothing happening. This makes for a happy Ivie. And a happier me, knowing that he can doze a bit more and be better rested when he gets up and drives big machines near heavy beasts in the morning. 

That's the theory anyway. You know how they say that dogs and their owners end up looking alike? Well, in Ivie and Rudi's case they share a personality trait instead: Fear of Missing Out. I've watched the dog fight sleep on many an occasion, worried that she'll miss the party of the century if she gives in. It turns out that Ivie is exactly the same. 

Definitely not tired.

I've always known that Ivie is a screaming extrovert (remember this blog?) but I didn't realise that would get in the way of him getting as much sleep as possible during lambing. Last night it was the World Athletics Indoor Championships on telly he didn't want to miss. He couldn't possibly snooze through the women's 3000m or the men's 60m hurdles. And the women's pole vault? Front row seats for Fisher! 

I have resigned myself to the fact that Ivie would rather drag himself around like a zombie during the day than miss out on anything. All I can do is be supportive and not expect too riveting a conversation (no change there, I hear you say 😉).

I am constantly torn between wanting to be more helpful during lambing and not wanting to get in the way. As a result, I've only had one night-time visit to the lambing shed so far this year. I moved newborn lambs into a pen and sprayed iodine on their navels. And I watched as Ivie lambed two other ewes in quick succession, healthy twins and triplets the end result. 

I'd forgotten my gloves so the next day woke up to a mahogany right hand and tarnished looking rings. Thankfully, I found a tin of Brasso under the sink before I had to Google 'removing iodine from silver'. 

[My curiosity has just got the better of me and I've Googled it now. There are all sorts of complicated instructions from American websites involving silver foil, salt water and ammonia. It makes me slightly worried / in awe about what's in Brasso that it took it off no bother.]

🕱🕱🕱🕱🕱🕱🕱🕱

My hand still looks a bit like it belongs to Pinocchio, which could be an interesting talking point at the training course I'm going on this week. Which reminds me, I'll have to change my usual March topics of conversation. I'm not sure they'll be that interested in how many pets there are or receptive to me encouraging them to have a little nap. 

A whiff of victory

What I've been thinking about this week:

1. Smells
2. Narrow margins 

One of the things I learned early on about living with Ivie is that if I want to carve out quality time with him, I have to encourage him to leave the farm. A snatched cup of coffee here and chat over breakfast is all well and good. But sometimes uninterrupted time to hang out and talk about more than what's for our next meal (much as I enjoy that as a hobby) does us good. 

In case we forget who we are mid-cuppa
(thanks to Mairi Secret Santa)

As we're now fully paid up members of middle age, last week we went to the same hotel we went to last year for our pre-lambing 24 hour getaway. We already knew that the joys of Hetland Hall are many and varied:

• It's not far from home.
• They have good dinner, bed and breakfast deals in January and February. 
• We can both have a drink and not worry about getting home. 

Last Friday we added another plus to the list:

• They sort out any problems very quickly. 

They do say that if you have bad customer service, you tell one person, and if you have good customer service, you tell ten... 

Upon checking in we noticed that our room smelled a bit funny. As you can imagine, we've got a pretty high tolerance for less than rosy aromas. We opened the window, gave it five minutes but it didn't fix the problem. A quick chat with reception and we were instantly upgraded to a HUGE room with a HUGE bed and lovely views. As Ivie said, we didn't care how that one smelled, we were staying. 

It seems we got away just in time as we came back the next day to two lambs that had been born that morning. A quick turnaround and we were off out again for an actual night out with other people. 

Lorna and Dolly got engaged and were having a wee get together to coincide with Wales-Scotland in the Six Nations. You've met them in a previous blog here. There were quite a few farmery boots at the bar with farmery aromas but, as we've established, I can cope with farmers and their unique bouquet. 

Emotions were high (due to rugby rather than engagements) and the one point victory left many of us broken men and women, despite the fact that we were on the winning side. I've written before about the heroic efforts of Scotland rugby fans but this was a whole new level of torture. Luckily, more delicious food reduced the stress levels and reinstated some hope for the next game against France. 

So, now we're into lambing and rugby season where Ivie takes turns to shout at:

• endless sheep.
• endless referees.
• endless Gregor Townsend. 

While Ivie's blood pressure reaches dangerous levels, I'll be over here pretending I'm useful during lambing and daydreaming about king sized beds. 

Everybody Needs Good Neighbours

What I've been thinking about: 

• Doors.

The other day, Ivie happened to mention that he'd been working next door. Past experience told me not to assume I knew what he meant by this. I ran through the possibilities in my head:

• The farmhouse less than a minutes' walk from our front door. 
• The house a few minutes' walk along the cycle track in the other direction. 
• The 'next door' farm on the way into the village. 

It was none of these places. It was, in fact, the farm on the opposite side of the A75. Obviously. 

It's not the only confusing door in my life. The one that we use 99.99% of the time is our back door and the one that is the background to my online meetings is the front door. My brain has found this hard to grasp and regularly mixes them up. 

It made me think of other instances where what we say isn't quite what we mean. There's the definition of 'not long', for example (see this blog) or 'no dogs on the sofa'. 

Not spoiled at all....

At least I seem to understand more of the farmery conversations that take place around me than I did at the beginning. It was all a bit like being abroad and picking out the odd word of schoolday French in amongst incoherent babbling. I'd concentrate really hard but lose the will to listen when it got to sheep prices at the local mart or decisions around spread rates. 

La vache

Nowadays, I recognise a lot more names and places I didn't know before and I usually understand what Ivie has been up to when I ask him at lunchtime how the morning has gone. I'm still not massively interested in spread rates, to be fair, but I like to think of myself as a work in progress. 

It made me wonder whether Ivie had learned anything from me since we got together. "I know more about equality and stationery," he replied. Two very important topics, I'm sure you'd agree. 

I might not know where next door is or whether my back door is my front door but it's good to know there's still things to learn about the world and each other six years down the line. 

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....