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

Sweet Dreams

Things I know:

• Ivie rarely has insomnia. 
• He is much less crabbit than I am.

Last week we were staying up a bit later than usual. With the warmer weather and lighter nights, it felt like those days in the summer holidays where you didn't want to go to bed and would rather play outside for another three and a half hours.

Midge Repellent Firepit

But cows still need fed. So, Ivie gets up at the usual time and I roll over and have another forty winks.

I've been lucky that during lockdown I've been able to work from home. My commute into the village is only usually three minutes, to be fair, but working from a desk in the hallway means that my hair doesn't need to be brushed (or washed for that matter...), my top and bottom halves don't have to match and I can be as smart or as scruffy as I like. But let's be honest, even my smart edges towards other people's scruffy...

Giblin HQ

Since Ivie has been getting less sleep than usual, he's been having the odd nap on the sofa. He has the remarkable ability of falling asleep within a breath and a half. At lambing time, it's even less. Towards the end of lambing we were watching TV and he said, "I think I'll have a nap". Before I'd even had time to turn round and acknowledge him, he was sleeping soundly. (And that was during Countryfile so he must have been tired.)

If I've had less than my eight hours, I get a bit crabbit and oversensitive. At peak lambing, Ivie comes to bed at 3am, gets up again at 7am and never complains. I'm not quite sure how he does it. 

Just another reason that it's a good thing I work in an office and not on the farm. 

Patting Pat

Things you should know:
1. Ivie is terrible at taking compliments
2. Pat is a bull

I know these two things seem unrelated but bear with me.

There are lots of things I like and admire about Ivie but he won't hear a word of it. Any attempts at giving him a compliment are met with, "Steady!" or "Be wise" and other such phrases.

On one of my first visits to the farm, Ivie asked if I'd like to go with him on the quad bike to check the cows (that's 'coos' for anyone from Wigtownshire). This involved me sitting side saddle and trying not to slide off as we went round corners or across steep slopes (an excellent alternative to sit-ups for strengthening my core).

There we were at the top of the farm when he said, "I'm going to take you to meet Pat and Henry". It took me a moment to realise that Pat and Henry must be animals and then it dawned on me. "Are they bulls?" I asked quietly, really hoping for the opposite of the answer I knew was coming.

The thing is, I'm a big feardy. My brain knows that the story book version of bulls stamping the ground and running towards anything red isn't reality. They're big and heavy and only really motivated to move when there's food or a bit of action with a cow on the menu. But my brain also tells me that I'm supposed to be scared of bulls. Let's just say, I'm a work in progress.

Eilidh is not a big feardy

So we made a pact. I'd pat Pat when Ivie took a compliment. A Pat Pact if you like.

Henry

All this is a preamble to what happened this week. Ivie mentioned over lunch that a man was coming to trim one of the bull's hooves. Not Pat. I think it was called Geezer or Geiser or something. Some of them have what I'd consider old man names (like Pat and Henry) and others have odd names like Horton and Batman. Although I had a dream about Batman where he was called William so that's what I call him now. That was my Dad's Sunday name so I won't be pursuing any Freudian analysis on that one...

I digress. So, after lunch this shiny pick-up arrived with what looked like a mobile disco on a trailer (I'm in my late 40s, permitting me to use the phrase 'mobile disco'). I didn't go and spectate because I'm a big feardy I was working but Ivie took a video of The Hoof GP*, explaining to him about my blog. This guy has thousands of followers on social media from all over the world, mainly in cities. I think people are fascinated by things that are outside their everyday life and this is outside most people's everyday life.

The contraption on the back of the trailer is like a cross between an electic chair and those stirrups doctor's offices in movies have. It shackles and tips the animal so that it can be worked on safely, making it swift and painless for everyone concerned.

Ivie came back into the house to show me the clip and tell me all about it.

"Thanks, that was really thoughtful."
"Ah, away with you."

I think I'm safe from the Pat Pact for a while yet.

The Hoof GP in action

PS
Here's my favourite Pat joke:
What do you call Postman Pat when he's retired?
Pat.

*The Hoof GP
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