Glorious Mud

Things you should know:

1. None of my clothes are clean.
2. I don't really mind. 

I was doing a work project recently that involved having Zoom calls with a few people around the region. Most were people I hadn't met before but one was someone I've crossed paths with through various jobs over the years. 

I hadn't spoken to her for a while so we had a bit of a catch up before I started asking her my Very Important work questions. We had a chat about me living at the farm and she said she thought it sounded idyllic. She fancied the idea of being surrounded by animals but was put off by the dirt, she said. 

Magnificent beasts

"You don't know the half of it," I thought to myself. My dog eats sh*te and my boyfriend routinely comes in with it on his head. It certainly puts a different spin on having a dirty weekend... 

On Friday night we went to a friend's for dinner. There were to be three couples, including one Ivie and I hadn't met. Our host set up a group chat to confirm the details. You know the kind of thing: who was still doing Dry January (0/6); who had a negative lateral flow test (6/6); and what not to wear (anything we didn't mind getting covered in dog hair). 

I typed, "I live on a farm. None of my clothes stay clean for longer than five minutes* (not entirely the farm's fault)."
The woman I was yet to meet replied, "I spill food."

I knew then that we'd all get along and that we'd have a great night. I'm pleased to report that I was right on both counts. 

*[I should say at this point that I know this isn't the case for everyone who lives on a farm. I know lots of people who look very well turned out all the time. Dirt has a habit of jumping out on me, though. I could live in a hermetically sealed box and still have toothpaste on my top and mud on my jeans. In fact, I inadvertently went to my last kidney check-up in just that outfit.]

My natural state

Although I'm beyond delighted that parts of life are returning to normal where we can go to each other's houses for dinner and meet up with other like-minded souls, I do have to remind myself that:

1. Real life is not a Zoom call.
2. More than my head and shoulders are on show when I leave the house.
3. Not everyone is immune to farm aromas. 

Still, at least I can't be put on mute in the real world... 

Here's Tae Us

What I've been thinking about this week: 

1. 2021
2. 2022

Let's face it, Christmas and New Year haven't quite been what we're used to or expected. Without getting too maudlin, I think we all figured we'd had our Asda Smart Price version in 2020/21 and this year would be more Tesco Finest. Still, we're here and that's the main thing. 

For the last few years, I've done a review of my year. My friend sent me this link in late 2014 after my first full year in Dumfries and Galloway and I've answered the questions every year since. Yesterday, I spent a day in my shed thinking about questions, such as 'what was your favourite compliment?' (that people laugh at my blog) and 'what did you do for the first time this year?' (lambed a ewe). 

It's also quite interesting looking back at how things have changed (for example, from 2018 when Ivie and I were Never Living With Anyone Ever Again). 

Any excuse for coloured pens

To be honest, I was enjoying being on my own without the puppy bringing me her new favourite toy to play with or Ivie asking me what was for tea. 

Rudi and Ted (thank you, Fishers)

Sometime in the afternoon, Ivie appeared at the door of the shed. I was about to grumble to leave me alone when I saw that he had a bottle of gin in his hand. Not just any gin either. Delicious local gin, Hills and Harbour, which is distilled just along the road. 

I welcomed him with open arms. (It was a bit too early for open glasses but it was a start.)

Unopened. For now. 

If you're a regular reader (thank you), one of the things you might have noticed is that there have been fewer blogs in 2021 than 2020 (21 vs 44). Sometimes it can feel like the same things are happening on the farm as in the previous year (I know, no sh*t, Sherlock). But then something surprising happens...

I wondered aloud where Ivie had come across a bottle of Hills and Harbour at 2pm on a Monday afternoon in January. What I actually said was, "How have you got that?!" in a slightly accusatory manner. 

It turns out that a nearby farmer had borrowed a tup to introduce some new blood into his flock. He'd returned the tup and two bottles of H&H. Thankfully, that allayed my fears that there was only one bottle and we'd have to drink it all before anyone mentioned it to Ivie's brother. It would have been quite a challenge but we'd have faced it head on. At least until we were face down. 

Twisted Firestarter

What I've been thinking about this week:
1. Log burners
2. Nicknames

Wednesday is Rugby Night. Not for me, obviously, because that would be ridiculous. It's a source of great regret that, due to my kidney transplant, rugby is completely out of the question. (Phew!).

Anyway, at this time of year I get the house to myself on a Wednesday evening while Ivie goes and touches rugby players plays touch rugby. 

Proof that Ivie can score a try

One of the things I'd never done before moving to the Spittal was set a fire. Those of you who grew up in a house with an open fire will scoff and wonder what the fuss is about but it's a bit of a daunting prospect if you haven't done it before. Ivie's a calm teacher, though, and after a few attempts I'm now more hit than miss. 

My experience with the fire has made me realise I'm my father's daughter, even more than I thought. Since I'm often in the house by myself during the day, I'd much sooner put another jumper on than switch on the heating or light a fire. If you know Ivie, you'll realise why we're so well matched (for those of you who don't, farmers are notoriously tight and Ivie likes to take it to a whole new level). 

This was the conversation when Ivie got in from touch last Wednesday (dummies: 2; tries: 0; missed try scoring opportunities: at least 1):

Ivie: Dolly and I were talking about how you and Lorna can't look after fires.

Me: Oh?
Ivie: Yeah, you turn it down too low and keep your jumper on and Lorna lets it go out. 
Me: Hmph. 
Ivie: I was telling them how you're too mean to keep the fire going when you're in yourself. That's my girl! 

Me: Them?

Ivie: Yeah, Junkie was there, too. 

Proof that I can light a fire

Let me tell you about some of Ivie's friend's nicknames. 

When we started seeing each other, it took me ages to keep track of everyone's nicknames. Here are but a few: Snudge; Cub: Spaceman; Weed; Bugsy; Wee Yin; Dipster; Parp; Dorky. So, many of our conversations began, "Who's so and so? And why are they called that?". 

But Junkie and Dolly are my favourite stories. I was a bit nervous about asking why Junkie was called Junkie if I'm honest. The reason? He once had conjunctivitis. I know, I was speechless, too. 

And Dolly? Well, he's a clone of his brother. And here's me thinking it's cos he just works nine to five... 

It's all relative

What I've been thinking about this week:
1. Names
2. Relatives

I am endlessly fascinated by names: new names; old names; made up names. Although I suppose all names were made up once upon a time. 

Names tell stories. After I was born, my mum was on the phone and looking at the bookcase. She saw a book by Rebecca West and my name was decided. My middle name came from both my grannies (and I've also got an extra middle name I crammed in pretentiously after I got divorced. But that's another story). 

One of my favourite stories about names comes from my Dad's Mum's family. There was a tradition to call the first daughter Anne then add all the previous maiden names as middle names. My Gran's full name was Anne Black Macrae Wood Hanning Giblin. Thankfully she put a stop to it, otherwise my cousin Shelagh would have been Anne Black Macrae Wood Hanning Giblin Page Johnson. She'd never have been able to fit that on a form. 

"Enough is enough!"

And obviously, Ivie's name is a conversation starter. I've listened to him explain to lots of people where it comes from and that no, it's not short for anything. He's as patient as if it was the first time he's been asked and always says how well having an unusual name has served him over the years. 

He's the reason I've been thinking about names, really. As you'll know, I'm not a details person so often ask the same question more than once. I asked Ivie if his middle name was after someone in his family and he said (with slightly less patience than if someone else had asked him about his first name), "Yes (sigh). My Uncle."

Me: "Have I met him?"

Him: "No (sigh). You met his widow at the wedding reception."

Let me tell you about the wedding reception. It took place a couple of years ago and was for one of Ivie's many cousins' many children. The following weekend, we were invited to a 21st for one of Ivie's many cousins' many children on the other side of the family. 

This called for a tractor date, notebook and pencil and an attempt to:

1. understand Ivie's family tree; and

2. draw it whilst in a shoogly tractor. 

Gratuitous stationery shot

I thought I was doing quite well keeping up until Ivie dropped what I like to call the Barbara Bombshell. Barbara (who we met in Not a WAG), has two sisters - one is married to a Fisher cousin and the other is engaged to a cousin on the other side of the family. You can see why this is so complicated and why it's just as well that none of my cousins live in Wigtownshire. 

It's also just as well that we've only had the responsibility of naming a dog. Even then we managed to - inadvertently - name her after Trump's lawyer. Sigh.

Rudolph William Louis Giuliani Rudi

On the Road Again

What I've been thinking about this week:

• Time off
• Technology (again)

As you'll probably remember, I work part-time. It's a privileged existence, having the option to choose time over money and being able to do pretty much what I please most of the time. 

This is in stark contrast to Ivie who, given the choice, works every day he's at home. Sometimes it can be difficult to feel that I fit in with someone who can't sit still when I manage that pretty well, thanks very much. 

Covid has had an impact on our ability to have days out, weekends away and proper holidays over the past 18 months or so. But November is a quieter time on the farm so it's easier to lure Ivie away. I like to think that I'm an alluring siren on the rocks rather than a harpie stamping her feet but you'd have to ask Ivie. On second thoughts.... 

Last week we headed away for a few days. We had a mix of AirBnBs in the middle of nowhere and drinking bottles of wine, and visiting a couple of friends and drinking bottles of wine.

Blue skies in Norfolk

It was a really relaxing break but it reminded me of all the little things that we miss out on doing together that I'd normally have taken for granted. (Getting up at 8am at weekends is considered a lie-in for goodness' sake.)

• Having a cuppa in bed and reading the paper (Ivie's first cuppa is after he's fed beasts). 
• Sitting around in your pyjamas and easing into the day (no chance). 
• Having uninterrupted time together that isn't puncuated by something giving birth, dying, being in the wrong field (or all of the above).

It sounds like I'm moaning but it actually made me appreciate our time away even more. There was a lot of driving involved so I put my big girl pants on and took a turn in the driver's seat.  

What you should know about Ivie's car:

• My car would fit in the boot. 
• It is far too fancy for its own good. 
• I secretly like it (heated seats, anyone?).

I won't bore you with all the things it can do at the touch of a button but suffice to say my luddite tendencies have been getting quite a workout recently. 

I'm making a concerted effort to practise driving it, though, so that I don't become one of those people that expects to be chauffeur driven everywhere and then forgets how to work windscreen wipers. 

It's so much more comfortable than my own car that I'm in danger of becoming like a teenager who has just passed their test and wants to drive everyone everywhere. It might cut down on those bottles of wine, mind you. 

Computer Says 'No'

What I've been thinking about this week:

• Technology

Remember when the only phones we had were landlines? It was great. We had to wait till after 6pm until our Dads would let us phone anyone; the whole family could listen in to your conversation (especially when extra handsets elsewhere in the house became a thing); and we never knew who was phoning until we picked it up and said our number out loud.

My sophisticated neighbours, The Murrays, had a trim phone

From 1978-1992, my phone number was 20602. Nowadays I can't remember what I ate for my last meal. Or the password for anything. 

Which brings me to this week's struggle which, incidentally, is real. 

I had to get a new phone. I didn't want a new phone. I was quite happy with the one that I'd had for the last four and a half years. 

• I'd worked out how to stop it pinging every time a butterfly flapped its wings on the other side of the world. 
• My most used phone numbers were shortcuts on my front screen so I didn't have to spend an extra ten seconds scrolling when I wanted to ask Ivie why he wasn't home four hours after he said he wouldn't be long. 
• I'd adjusted the alarm sound to the equivalent of someone saying my name gently and stroking my cheek, rather than an electronic rooster strutting about the bedroom being a dick.

But the time had come. Rather like myself, my phone was taking longer to complete routine tasks. It had also started switching itself off mid-conversation when my friend and I were deep in discussion about Strictly. You can see why it had to go. 

Gratuitous Alijaz shot

After much swearing yesterday afternoon (and evening, to be fair) my new phone is set up and we're slowly becoming friends. 

It did make me think about how we're all at the mercy of technology, though, and how more and more of life needs an inkling of techy knowledge to be able to take part. It seems that it's the same in the farming world. 

A large section of Ivie's tractor cab is taken up by the GPS system and other gubbins that work out flow and spread rates and sums that Ivie still does in his head anyway for good measure. 

We were driving into town yesterday - to look at carpet samples, we're so rock n roll - and passed a field that had recently had a new crop planted in it. 

"Look at those nice straight lines," I said, feeling pleased that I'd said something vaguely relevant. 
"Aye, that's been done with a tractor with auto-steer, mind you," was the response. 

Partly, I was disappointed that my contribution had been slightly top-trumped but mainly I was relieved that I'll never have that level of farming knowledge. 

Wham, Bam, Thank You Ram

What I've been trying not to think about this week:

1. Tups' love life. 

I'm pretty used to strange lunchtime conversations. There are often updates on hatches and dispatches, machinery issues and what jobs are coming up later that day. I think Ivie finds my job updates quite boring in comparison.  

Today, Ivie casually mentioned that they'd been getting the tups ready. My basic knowledge told me that this was them getting smartened up for their big dates. 

I can't decide if they live the life of Riley or a bit of a dull existence. One way of looking at it is that they get free bed and board for 46 weeks of the year in return for six weeks' 'work'; the other is that they wander around a field for 46 weeks and only get a month and a half to play. 

My mum's not sure who my Dad is.

I wondered aloud what getting them ready actually entailed. 

Ivie: we check their teeth.

Me: what, do they get their teeth cleaned ready to impress the ladeez?

Ivie: sigh. No. 

Me: what else do you do?

Ivie: check their feet.

Me: so they can chase the lucky gals?

Ivie: sort of. 

Me: do they get a wee scoosh of Lynx Africa?

Ivie: Naw!

It turns out that they get two weeks to chase them around and bring them into season, the ewes shake their bums and then about 4 seconds later it's all over and done with. There are two tups per field of 50 ewes and apparently that's plenty to be getting along with. 

I then wondered aloud if this knowledge informed Ivie's teens and 20s till someone told him it wasn't like this for humans. Guffaw. 

Meantime, I'm sure the ewes are all discussing the latest fleece-styles and how to lose the lockdown lard. Or is that just me? 

Here Doreen, is that one of thon Brazilians?