What's Got Three Wheels?

What I've been thinking about:

1. The weather. 
2. Dad jokes. 

I know us Scots think and talk about the weather more than most but it's at least double that for farmers. Sometimes it seems that Ivie endures Countryfile with his arms folded just so he can listen to the forecast at the end. 

This May has been a bit damper and colder than usual - Countryfile shared the exact stats last night but those of you who know me will know that I'm not really a details person. Suffice to say, it's been cold and wet for May and Ivie has been a bit crabbit and grumpy for May. 

He usually has a rough idea of how his week is going to pan out. Inevitably, that changes as the week goes on and it rains more (or less) or part of a machine needs taken off (or put back on) or something else happens (or doesn't). It seems that this past week has changed by the hour, though, as has the jigsaw of all the jobs that need doing. 

Ivie and Rudi going off to work

As it's dry this evening Ivie is catching up on a job that was postponed yesterday due to unexpected showers. One of the things that I'm getting used to is that if it's a nice evening, I'll probably spend it alone. (That suits my introvert tendencies but sometimes it would be nice to go to the Brigend Pantry for an ice cream together and not have to wear scarf, gloves or hat.)

I was thinking of making a cuppa and sitting outside my shed to admire the view and get some more vitamin D. There's only one problem...

I can cope with most aromas on the farm (including Ivie) but this is a bit ripe, even for me. So, I've settled for an indoor cuppa and admiring the view from the window (still spectacular, no nose peg required). 

All this reminds me of my Dad's favourite joke:

What's got three wheels and rings like a bell?

A barrowload of DUNG! 

(Insert eye roll here.)

Still, it means I'm in sole charge of the remote control. I'm off to find the Weather Channel so I can plan my next 99.

*** BREAKING NEWS ***

I've just gone online so that I could link to a definition of the 99 to anyone not familiar and the UK IS FACING A SHORTAGE!!! Never mind the Weather Channel, I need a lie down! 

International Rescue

(I thought I'd better take back control of my blog, making 1800 Hours great again and all that.)

Here's what I've been thinking about this week:

1. Sheep are endless. 
2. Maybe I'll stay out of it in future. 

The silence of the lambs is not a thing. They make a wide variety of sounds, some surprising and some annoying. 

You rarely hear, "baa," but they do occasionally sound like those old-fashioned cylindrical toys that make animal noises when you turn them upside down. 

Not endless - yet

I was thinking about all this while walking the dog one day last week. It's taken me a while to get used to the fact that now and then lambs sound like newborn (human) babies in distresss. It was quite disturbing the first few times until my brain moved from, "Panic! Babies in danger!" to, "oh lambs."

On this particular morning, I was aware of one that sounded like an 86 year old who had been smoking 60 a day since she was 10. "Meh!" It sounded a bit angry but I suppose I would be, too, if I was a lamb in a field in Scotland in the rain. 

The dog and I continued our walk, waking up slowly (me, not her), chasing sticks (her, not me) and enjoying a quiet start to the day (neither of us is very good at playing well with others until at least after breakfast). 

Morning companion

Our usual walk is a 'there and back' so we passed the same field on the way home. 

"Meh!" I heard from the same spot in the same field from, presumably, the same lamb, "MEH!" I looked through the trees and saw a head sticking through the fence. The lamb looked less than impressed, as if to say, "you heard me on the way out and you're only just having a look now?!" 

Sheep with a better understanding of fences

After a quick phone call to Ivie - for encouragement/permission to approach the lamb - and tying up the dog, I skipped elegantly nearly made it over the soggy ditch. Grabbing an overhanging branch and scrambling up a small bank covered in briars, I got up close to the detainee. It took one look at me, cocked its head and stepped backwards in one move. I could have sworn it looked smugly over its shoulder as it skipped elegantly back to its mother. 

You can imagine the reception I got when I phoned Ivie back to explain what had happened. In between guffaws, he said, "aye, that's sheep for you."

"Meh," I replied. 

It's a Dog's Life

 Here's what I've been thinking about:

1. There hasn't been a blog for a while. 
2. How hard can it be? 

I've only lived at the Spittal for about 7 months and I already know more about how this farming malarkey works than that blonde piece. 

I have quite a good life here and it didn't take me long to set the ground rules. 

Every day starts roughly the same with the ginger one letting me out. He doesn't say much but that's because he's thinking hard about the day ahead. 

My best side

The blonde one comes through next and I make sure I jump all over her while she's putting her boots on so she knows how enthusiastic I am about our morning constitutional. As far as I can make out, the length of our walk depends on a few different things:

• how much of that special juice they've drunk the night before that makes the pair of them laugh at nothing and talk even more sh**e than usual;
• whether she'll be spending the rest of the day tapping on her keyboard;
• and whether she'll be looking at anyone else on her screen and needs a hair wash.

I also love stationery

If it's her work day I sit quietly in the kitchen, whimpering from time to time to remind her I'm her real boss. If it's my work day, I get to go in the tractor or the loadall or sometimes I just get to run around the steading sniffing all the new smells that have appeared since yesterday.

My first day at work in the tractor

The smells are many and varied and largely unappreciated by the humans. Often the smells are so glorious I have to taste them and that's when one of them shouts, "Rudi, no! Stop eating the silage/calf scour/sh**e!" (delete as applicable). 

Sometimes in the afternoons I get to run around with the other boss, Isa. (Dot's the big boss but she's so important we don't see her much.) So, Isa and I mainly organise our own workloads. My job description is to run after Isa, sniff what she sniffs and taste anything she tastes. We wag our tails a lot. 

Afternoon break

At the end of the day, I get to sit on the sofa between my humans, even though I heard that before I lived here they said, "Absolutely No Dogs On The Sofa". They're hilarious. 

Hopefully, the blonde one will start taking her blog writing a bit more seriously because this took ages, what with my big, clumsy paws and my tail deleting words left, right and

Gory Stories

 What you should know:

1. I've started laughing at sheep related content online. 
2. There's no going back. 

Last night, I watched two videos online about sheep. There's a sentence I never thought I'd type. Anyone involved in lambing will already have seen them. The first showed lambs running around a field with a soundtrack reminiscent of the Grand National, basically outlining all the ways lambs can find to die. 

*Spoiler Alert* Because I Could wins the race after shrugging off the competition, including Ringworm and Fantastic Mr Fox. 

The second showed a sheep being rescued from a ditch before running away and jumping straight back into the same ditch a few feet away. Not the sharpest knife in the drawer. 

They were a welcome antidote after a week of horror stories about lambing and farming in general. Rest assured, there will be no gory details because:

1. Those involved in farming will shrug and say, "yep, been there, seen that."
2. Those not involved in farming will be horrified. 
3. I am a delicate flower. 

Delicate flowers

Like many people, our social lives have been a bit lacking lately. Luckily Galloway Heathers is open again with the addition of the Moo Bar, which serves delicious hot chocolate and tray bakes (try the millionaire's shortbread if you haven't already. Seriously). It's become a bit of a weekly treat for us and, it would seem, lots of others around here, too. 

Last week we bumped into a friend who is very well-versed in all things lambing. Let's call her Ann. Because that's her name. She started regaling a story about nasty things that happen to vulnerable lambs out on the hill. I said, "I don't think I'm hardy enough to hear stories like this." So she told five more. 

I was feeling a little queasy to say the least as we bumped into someone else who asked Ivie how lambing had gone and told another couple of ghastly stories. I can't even remember the content now, I've repressed it so far down in my brain. 

Happy, healthy sheep

I don't even think any of these stories are embellished. They don't have to be, they're so awful in the first place. 

I thought we were over the worst of it but then I remembered that farming is basically the most dangerous industry you can work in. A quick Google tells me that about 360,000 people work in agriculture, or 1% of the total workforce, yet the sector is responsible for 20% of all fatal accidents at work (source: BBC).

Anyway, we had a bit of a jaunt yesterday. It did finish at the garden centre with hot chocolate and mini doughnuts but that's by the by. We took a bit of a circuitous route home, mainly so that Ivie could look at fields and show me where he's cut silage*. And tell me about farm workers' injuries. 

I'm struggling to find something to say about this

So, as you can see, it's been a week. From now on, I only want to hear about thriving animals, farmers with all their limbs intact and cake. Not too much to ask now is it. 

* If anyone can tell me the most suitable response to, "I've cut silage in that field," I would be most appreciative. I'm not sure I'm showing the requisite amount of interest and enthusiasm. 

Step away from the caramel wafers

Things you should know: 

1. I'm not a natural athlete.
2. I really like biscuits. 

The end of March/beginning of April is a bit of a calorie-fest in our family. My brother and I have birthdays two days apart, we're both sugar fiends and, often, Easter is thrown into the (batter) mix as well. 

Birthday cake baked by Ivie

Recently, I've been trying to get back into running to offset the choco liebniz. So far, so slowly. Almost 30 years after leaving school, I still carry that self-consciousness of being picked last for every team and the memories of sporty kids sniggering. I've ditched the 'all the gear, no idea' neon in favour of all black and, although I look like I'm off to deliver a box of Milk Tray, I feel much more comfortable shuffling and puffing my way along the cycle path. 

I think about lots of unrelated things as I shuffle along. Like how I used to have lie-ins before we got a puppy and how Ivie and I used to go to bed at the same time before lambing. (It hasn't escaped me that many of these thoughts are sleep related...)

"Lie-ins? Pah!"

I also wonder about farmers and sport:

• Are they genetically predisposed to enjoy - and excel at - sport?
• Are they automatically competitive or is it instilled into them at Young Farmers?
• Does it matter that I'm from a different mould? 

I'm not sure about the answers to the first two and I know that the answer to the third should be 'no'.  

I learned early on to stay away from anything other than spectator sports in the farming community (you might remember my lack of success at curling). It's all down to an ill-judged evening at the sidelines of a hockey match. 

Like so many things, I'd said 'yes' before really thinking about it. I'd not long done a 10k (slowly but without stopping) so was fairly fit and thought I might have, say, a 30% chance of hitting the ball. It might be a bit of a laugh and a good way to meet some of Ivie's friends. 

I watched the first game with fear and awe as the players whacked the ball from one end of the hall to the other, while simultaneously cackling and sprinting. This wasn't sport, it was torture! Ivie ended up on the floor at one point after trying to intercept a flying ball. Proof, if any was needed, that I'm definitely from a different mould.

Ball just out of reach? Oh well, I might get it next time. Not the attitude that's called for apparently. 

I prefer a nice cup of tea and a sit down

So, I watched from the side, feeling slightly daft in my kit whilst pressed up against the wall for safety. It was obvious to everyone that I had no intention of actually joining in but at least I went home bruise-free. 

I guess everyone's definition of sporting success is different. 

Lambing Report

 What you should know:

1. I am traumatised.
2. I might always be a softie. 

We're almost, almost at the end of lambing. (I say 'we' but I've really had very little to do with it all.)

The extent of my involvement

There is one ewe left to lamb. She's really stringing it out, enjoying the spa treatment of the lambing shed, that includes daily feeding and watering and regular staring, swearing and shaking fists from anyone named Fisher. 

"I'm just enjoying some me time"

She's expecting a single lamb. This would have been handy at the start of the week as there were a couple of unexpected lambs. Sometimes at the tail end of lambing there are triplets when twins were expected as they were too small to be seen during scanning (see this blog post for a bit more about scanning). 

I've mentioned in previous blogs that twins tend to fare better than triplets but haven't gone into detail. Mainly because it's quite hard to explain. Let's start with the easy bit. 

1. Ewes have two teats so twins always have a ready supply of milk. 
2. Often the third triplet is quite small so has trouble muscling in on the other two. 
3. This is where 'twinning on' comes in. 

Twinning on involves persuading a ewe with a single lamb that she had a second lamb that she just hadn't noticed. It can be done in a number of ways and to varying degrees of success. 

• The lamb is put in beside her in her pen and everyone just crosses their fingers. 
• The lamb is covered in her afterbirth (or 'cleaning' as I learned it was called the other day) so that it smells like her own lamb and she licks it clean.

Those of a sensitive disposition, look away now. 

• The lamb is covered in the skin and fleece of her dead lamb like a little chichi jacket and the ewe is none the wiser. 

You can come back now.

Thankfully here, one of the first two ways tends to be used as I'm not sure I could handle the third. 

"Me? Been here all the time."

All this reduces the likelihood of having pet lambs that have to be bottle fed and kept close by before they're strong enough to go out into the field unaccompanied. 

There are no pet lambs here this year. They've either been twinned on, twinned themselves on by wandering into a neighbouring pen and pretending they were there all along or not quite made it. And other ewes have kept all three lambs as they had enough milk to make all of the triplets strong. 

Hearty twins

I'm too traumatised to tell you the story of the lamb that went to another farm the other night to be twinned on elsewhere. Maybe next year when I've toughened up a bit after another orbit round the sun. It seems unlikely, though, doesn't it. 

Not my forte

Things you should know:
1. Ivie suffers from triskaidekaphobia. 
2. It's not as painful as it sounds. 

Last weekend, it felt like Spring was in the air for many of us. The sun shone, thermals were (prematurely) shed and daffodils were starting to make an appearance. 

It was also time to make a start on a job that I'd been slightly procrastinating about. Not because I'm lazy but because I lack the precision gene. Add to that shaky hands passed down from my Dad and it's safe to say that doing things neatly is not my forte. 

I'm much more aligned to the F*** it, it'll do school of thought or as Ivie and I frequently observe, 'it's better than it was'. This is a very adaptable phrase that is useful for many household situations. 

• Washed the kitchen floor but the puppy has already scattered her food over it? It's better than it was. 
• Cleaned the car but couldn't quite reach the top of the roof? It's better than it was. 
• Made the bed but it's not quite hotel standard? It's better than it was. 

I'm not like this with everything, though; just practical tasks. Once at my old house, my brother cut the hedge and suggested (strongly) that I sweep up the debris. I got bored quite quickly and started kicking bits back under the hedge where they couldn't be seen. 

I didn't notice I'd been noticed until my brother yelled, "Pretend it's a spreadsheet!". It's a source of great disappointment that those closest to me do not share my ability to see the beauty in a neat, well-designed spreadsheet. But I digress. 

Back to the job (almost) in hand: painting my shed. Painting the inside is beyond my clumsy and trembling capabilities but I figured I could probably tackle the outside without too many issues. (Basically I'm tight and wanted to make sure my shed wouldn't rot in the rain. Can you see why Ivie and I are so well suited...?).

I managed better than I expected before I had to draft in the big boys to reach the parts smaller women can't. I was very glad to have Ivie and Drew on hand to paint the higher sections. We won't talk about who got on the roof - and how - to paint the apex. 

There was a ladder propped up against the back of the shed and I ducked underneath it from time to time to touch up some of the spots I'd missed. I wondered aloud if anyone was superstitious about it (they weren't) and I carried on. Then we started discussing phobias and superstitions more generally. 

Neat decking...

The scores are in and it's Drew - 0; me - 1 (new shoes on the table, yikes!); Ivie - many and varied, including the aforementioned triskaidekaphobia (also known as extreme superstition regarding the number thirteen). 

It turns out that Ivie is really quite serious about his feelings for the number 13. There are no lambs with number 13 sprayed on them - they go straight from 12 to 14; he doesn't relax fully until we're down to 12 ewes left to lamb; and he doesn't much care for the volume on his car radio being at 13. 

Tidying up also not my forte

As of this afternoon, we're down to 12 ewes which pleases Ivie for a couple of reasons. Partly, it's not 13 and partly, the end is in sight. Although I've learned enough about lambing over the last couple of years to know that this last dozen will really string it out, probably for another fortnight. 

Still, it's better than it was.