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? 

There's no place like home

What I've been thinking about:

1. Writing
2. My own bed

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tales of Wigtownshire and Beyond

What I’ve been thinking about this week:

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

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

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

Teppanyaki drama

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

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

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

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

Me: “No thanks, I’m a lightweight.”

“One won’t do you any harm.”

“Oh, go on then.”

Evil

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

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

Bit of light reading

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

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

Luncheon is Served

What I've been thinking about:

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gratuitous cute lamb (farmers look away now)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lunch Break

What you should know:

1. Picnics are one of my favourite ways to eat. 
2. I'm easily duped. 

I know you'll find this hard to believe but when I was wee, I didn't have much of an appetite. I picked at my food like a bird and never felt much like eating. At lunchtimes, my mum would make me up a plate with a little bit of this and a little bit of that to try and encourage me. I don't even remember having a favourite food. 

Fast forward 40+ years and I've got what you would describe as a healthy appetite. Pretty much everything is my favourite food but especially chocolate, noodles, halloumi, hummus, all cheese, peanut M&Ms, cheese and onion pasties, scones and Doritos. But not all on the same plate because that would be weird. 

Scones! 

Even now, I like a picnicy lunch or tea when you put tasty treats on the table and keep picking at them until nobody can move. The trouble is, Ivie knows this and used this knowledge for nefarious purposes. 

I don't work Fridays and I often just pootle about drinking tea, reading and playing with the puppy. Ivie also knows this. One Friday a couple of weeks ago, Ivie was going to row up silage at the next door farm. As he was getting ready to leave, he said, "maybe we could have a picnic for lunch."

"What a great idea," I thought to myself, "I'll see how the drinking tea/reading/puppy entertaining is going and decide at lunchtime." Ivie exited stage left. 

After he'd gone, I noticed his lunch box on the table. Sans lunch. 

What Ivie said: "maybe we could have a picnic for lunch." 

What Ivie meant: "I haven't actually made any lunch for myself and if you don't make me any I won't have anything to eat today. Oh woe is me. So, you'll have to make me lunch, walk along the cycle path, through a couple of fields (uphill) in the midday sun and I'll take a 15 minute break to eat it with you. Then you can come home again."

And because I'm such a good girlfriend that's what I did. And Ivie's sister in law did the same for his brother, who I'm sure was much more direct. We set off with two picnics and two dogs and had a grand outing. And luckily for Ivie, it was a pretty good view.