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

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

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.

Rain, Rain Come Away In

Things you should know:

1. Farmers like it when it rains

2. You're unlikely to go on a date with a farmer on a sunny day

As I write these points above it makes me realise that the chances of actually going on a date with a farmer at all are pretty slim. Even when we're not in isolation. 

Throughout the year, Ivie and I joke that we'll see each other in November - it's no coincidence that we got together one November. Our first date was crammed in between curling fixtures and car maintenance but we made it. Just. 

So, we've just had some of the warmest, driest weeks on record. It's been great for someone like me who's been shielding since mid-March as I've been able to sit outside and drink tea, go for walks (within the confines of the farm) and top up my vitamin D. 

Not so great for farmers or their cows. Cows drink a HUGE amount of water every day. I've just googled it to try and get a definitive answer but answers varied between 3 and 70 gallons so we'll just leave it at A Lot. 

                   

Ivie has spent an inordinate amount of time guddling about with water, topping up troughs that the cows empty as soon as he can fill them and shaking his head at the low levels in the hydro pond. 

Aside from having an impact on the water needed for cows, the rain (or lack thereof) also affects every single other bloody thing that Ivie does. I don't pretend to understand what conditions are required for each job but it's along the lines of:

"I hope the wind dies down/picks up, the rain starts/stops and the sun shines/doesn't so that I can spray/spread/cut/disc/roll...."

Remember the old cliche of British Rail and the wrong sort of leaves on the line...?

Anyway, this week the dry spell has ended and we've had almost enough rain. Ivie's as happy as Larry, whoever Larry was. 

I've just googled that, too, and got a more satisfactory answer than to cows' capacity for drink:

It originates from an Australian boxer called Larry Foley in the 1890s, who never lost a fight. He retired at 32 and collected a purse of £1,000 for his final fight. 

Thank you, google.

Tuesday morning was the happiest I'd seen Ivie in weeks. He came in for breakfast head to toe in waterproofs, dripping wet and beaming from ear to ear. I half expected him to shake himself like a dog all over the kitchen floor before lying in front of the fire for the rest of the day.

Suffice to say, I'm looking forward to our second date in November 2021. 

Sporting Life

Things you should know:
1. In general, farmers are good at most sporting endeavours and are more than a little competitive.
2. I am neither of those things. 

I spent last weekend at sporting events – rugby on Saturday and curling on Sunday. 

Saturday was the annual Spice Cup, a local derby between Newtown Stewart RFC (based near Wigtown) and Wigtownshire RFC (based in Stranraer). Confused? Yep, me too... 

The venue alternates between the two and this year we were back at NSRFC. This is good because:

• I can drive home when the chat becomes dominated by 'Rugby games we have known and loved' and 'Here's a story that lacks a beginning, middle and end but I'll expect you to follow it even though you haven't had 8 pints in the last three hours’. 
• I know lots of people so don't need babysat. 
• I know who to ask when I want a cup of tea rather than alcohol. 

A lot of Ivie's farmery friends are fellow players from a golden age. From what I can gather, scrums were properly contested, only the captain could address the ref and you could tell what position someone played by their, ahem, physique. (“Aye, the good old days,” says Ivie).  

They all have amazing memories for games from 30 years ago, who they were up against, who took their clothes off on the bus home and, perhaps most importantly, who started the fights. I'm missing this competitive gene so I'm slightly bemused by all this but I'm really glad other people possess it otherwise rugby matches wouldn't be very interesting.

So, Saturday was fairly straightforward as all I had to do was spectate, wear my NSRFC bobble hat and go back to collect Ivie six and a half hours after I’d left him at the bar.

Sunday was a different matter entirely. I’ve somehow become involved with an entire family that is sporty and competitive (I refer you to the top of the page…). They choose to take part in sport for their Christmas get together! Sporty and coordinated people don’t quite understand how intimidating this can be. It’s a bit like me suggesting we do a page of algebra before Christmas Dinner since I was good at maths at school. 

Until about three weeks ago, I hadn’t tried curling before. Here’s how I got on…. 

Sunday was slightly better as I decided to stay still rather than try and glide. It’s quite hard when everyone else started curling at age 10, as opposed to 45 and it’s a popular sport in the farming community as, in theory, the winter is less busy. 

To be fair, everyone was very encouraging and I did really enjoy myself as we weren’t keeping score and expectations were low. I don’t think curling is my sport, though, so this will be my view from now on.