No Direction

What I’ve been thinking about this week:
1. My sense of direction.
2. Only joking! I haven’t got one.

The good thing about having no sense of direction is that I never worry about getting lost. 

I’m sure my poor Dad wouldn’t have been impressed to read that last sentence. He was in the Tweed Valley Mountain Rescue Team so could read a map in the pissing rain while looking for some daft sod who’d gone hillwalking in flip flops. 

Me n me Dad, 1989

I got many of his genes but not that one.

Luckily, I have friends who seem to understand where in the world they are, even if I haven’t the foggiest. 

Yesterday Rudi and I went for a walk at Kirroughtree with one such friend. She has an OS app on her phone so I immediately relinquished all responsibility for figuring out where we were at any given moment. 

Kirroughtree is just along the road from us and is part of Galloway Forest Park. It has fantastic walking and mountain bike trails and is used for lots of outdoorsy competitions and events. 

A past visit. I may have been on this path yesterday. Or maybe not....

A few years ago I volunteered to marshal at the Hillbilly Duathlon at Kirroughtree. (Ivie’s brother is one of the organisers and I was trying to get his family to like me. I’ll let you know how that goes.) I was dropped off somewhere in the forest with a hi-vis vest and an excellent packed lunch and instructed to direct the runners to turn left at the bottom of the slope. 

After the last runner had passed, I realised I had no idea where I was (you saw that one coming, didn’t you) and no phone battery. Unphased, I set off in the direction that I’d sent the runners. Who knows whether I took the most direct route (probably not) but I figured if I kept going downhill I’d get back eventually (I did). 

Kirroughtree, in particular, messes with my brain. I’ve never done the same walk twice (although, who knows) and I can never quite figure out which direction I’m facing. I did have a glimmer of recognition yesterday when I spotted the cemetery at Minnigaff in the distance and my friend’s map app informed us we were on Larg Hill. 

Happy dogs 
Photo by Catriona

We went back to the Spittal to have a cuppa in the sunshine. Ivie returned from being very busy and important and asked us how our walk had gone. I said we’d been on Larg Hill and we’d seen a farm in the dip below. 

“Yep, that’s Larg Farm,” Ivie said.

“But that’s different from The Larg (a farm in the opposite direction that Ivie often does work at),” I said. 

“Yep.”

Sigh. 

There’s really no hope for me and my sense of direction but at least it doesn’t bother me not to know where I am. Mind you, if I said ‘Larg’ I’d have a decent chance of being right. 

Lights Off

What you should know: 

• Being from the Borders doesn’t automatically make you a collie. 

• You’d think I’d learn. (Or maybe not, based on past experience.) 

I’ve had a farmery couple of weeks by my standards. July was a bit of a write-off what with having covid and all (I’ve now stopped having toddler naps in the afternoon, which is progress) but I was put to work almost as soon as I tested negative. 

It was already an unusual Saturday, in that we were going out to an Actual Thing later that afternoon. Jim Smith was in Dumfries and we were off to see him with some pals. For those who haven’t heard of him, he’s a stand-up who’s also a farmer. Or a farmer who’s also a stand-up. We saw him at the end of 2019 and I got almost all the jokes. Fast forward to summer 2022 and I got Every. Single. One. Disturbed or proud? I haven’t decided yet. 

I was trying to conserve my energy for chatting on the way to Dumfries and then laughing once I got there so I’d had a lie-in and taken the dog for a fairly short walk. Then Ivie uttered those dreaded words: “Could you come and help me with something?” 

I’d agreed before having the sense to ask what the something was, which Ivie was probably counting on. 

Not invited

Earlier in the week, the ewes and lambs had been separated into different fields. The lambs are getting too big to get underneath the ewes to feed and don’t need the extra nutrition any longer. 

Later in the week, the ewes and lambs had reunited in the same field. Our job was to un-unite them. 

“Shall we take Isa (the border collie)?” I asked, hopefully. 

“Naw, it’ll be easier without her.” 

What I should have said at this point was, “Easier for who?” (or ‘whom’ if I was feeling all fancy). 

Not running gear

The short version of events is: 

• Ivie drove around on the quad. 
• I ran around in (not just) my wellies. 
• He should have told me to wear a sports bra. 
• Sheep are endless and stupid. 
• They ended up back in the same field later that night anyway so we shouldn’t have bloody bothered. 

Thankfully, the animals stayed where they should at Wigtown Show last Wednesday (the four-legged variety in any case). 

Peggyslea Clydesdales

It was a grand day out, and after two years of no show because of lockdown, it was great to catch up with so many people. It’s a very efficient way of seeing farmery folk (and Ivie’s relatives) all in one place but come 3 o’clock, my post-covid batteries ran down and I was ready for home. As you can imagine, Ivie was not quite ready for home so I told him I’d pick him up any time before 10pm when both my phone and my light would be going off. 

Guess how many people Ivie asked for a lift between 10.01pm and midnight? Nope, he's no idea either.

On With the Shows

What I’ve been thinking about this week:

• Agricultural Shows.

• Fitting in.

Although I wasn’t at last week’s Highland Show, it has got me thinking about the three agricultural shows I’ve been to in my life. 

Around 1985 I attended the Yarrow Show in my Selkirk High School Band debut. That's me on second horn. I was very proud. 

Some 20 years later, I went to the Highland Show, which I’ve now been to twice. They were very different experiences. 

The first time was with my mum. It was a grand day out, with men shimmying up poles very quickly, sheep and cows with rosettes and impressive caber tossing. And a life-sized haggis…

Fast forward to 2019 and it was a completely different kind of grand day out. I’d just arrived back from a week in Majorca and was wondering how easy it would be to wheel my suitcase the mile or so from the airport to the showfield. Luckily, Ivie surprised me at Arrivals so we got there much quicker than if I’d had to find my own way. 

I have an appalling sense of direction, which is deeply ingrained in my DNA. There is much family folklore of Giblins being in the very wrong place at the wrong time but those are for another day. Suffice to say, I was once in Ohio when I thought I was in Pennsylvania. 

Anyway, we Ivie found the car with no trouble, I dumped my suitcase and in we went to the Show. 

Well, nothing had prepared me for being at an agricultural show with an actual farmer. I had assumed that he would want to have a close look at machinery at some point but I hadn’t bargained on going to each stand and being plied with free booze. They sure know their audience.

And then there’s the bumping into people. Obviously, I’m used to us bumping into someone Ivie knows wherever we go (including Tokyo, for goodness’ sake) but this was on a much larger scale. We couldn’t walk 50 yards without stopping to talk to someone about machinery, spread rates or something else farmery. There also seemed to be a lot of jokes without punchlines. 

Entrance to the market where we heard, "Hey, Ivie!" 🙄🙄🙄

Knowing people or in some cases, being related to them, also meant being led what felt like ‘backstage’. It was a whole new world of people rushing backwards and forwards while huge Clydesdales awaited their turn in the ring. I was hastily introduced to lots of people and handed another glass of wine. And then asked where I was from. 

There was some initial confusion that I wasn’t from a farm or from Wigtownshire but no-one seemed to mind and I kept being handed alcohol. (I may also have suggested that Ivie had exhausted his romantic opportunities locally so was forced to look outside the Shire for his next attachment…).

The story was much the same at Wigtown Show on the couple of occasions I’ve been - meet people, look at tractors and drink. It’s Ivie’s perfect day out, really, and these days, I don’t feel I have to stick around when the chat gets too farmery.

I even joined Wigtown Agricultural Society this week. I’m not entirely sure what it entails, to be honest, other than I won’t have to buy a ticket on the day. And now when people ask where I’m from, I can say The Spittal and they’ll know exactly where I fit into the world. 

Not Such a Perfect Day

What I've been thinking about this week:

• Teamwork

Ivie and I are pretty similar in a lot of ways. We're both a bit lazy about housework, neither of us is bad cop when it comes to puppy training and we find each other hilarious (thankfully). 

Who's in charge here? I'll give you one guess....

I can't imagine being with someone that a. I don't find hilarious and b. Doesn't find me hilarious (as in funny haha, not funny peculiar). Laughing every day makes my world go round. 

World events sometimes make it hard to find something to laugh at but our little world usually provides good comedy fodder. The punchlines often involve shite and are delivered during meal times but I'm getting used to adapting my description of a dirty joke. 

Of course, there are lots of ways we differ, too, such as our tolerance to cow shite on our clothes, skin and soft furnishings, as well as our ability to reverse large piece of machinery in small spaces (I don't need to try to know that I would cause thousands of pounds worth of damage).

These similarities and differences do mean that we make a pretty good team, though. 

Yesterday's team task in glorious sunshine involved me holding the dog and proffering treats and encouragement while Ivie clipped her fur. It's not quite up to Crufts standard but it's better than it was. 

Gratuitous puppy pic

Today's weather has taken a turn for the worse and it feels more like February than the end of June. The wind is howling and the rain is coming down in sheets, making it Ivie's least favourite kind of day. Why's that, I hear you ask. Well, because it's the perfect day for doing bills. 

Here's how much Ivie enjoys it. 

11.08am   We start doing the first bill. 

11:16am   Ivie: Is it time for a break yet? 
                 Me: We've been doing this for 8 minutes.
                 Ivie (with petted lip): It feels like 8 hours. 

Not Ivie's Happy Place

So, the kitchen is a bit of a tip and the dog is running rings round us but at least the money will come in and we'll still be laughing at our own jokes. 

Bye, Bye Birdy

What I've been thinking about this week:

1. Bravery
2. Lack thereof

I’m not a naturally brave person. In fact, I’d say I’m a naturally feardy person. My idea of taking part in an extreme sport is playing Scrabble outside. It’s hardly adrenaline racing stuff.

Extreme Sport

This week I’ve had to put my big girl pants on a couple of times (to be fair, post-lockdown all my pants are for big girls but you catch my drift).

I’ve been lucky to have a few days off here and there over the last couple of weeks. And there’s nothing I like more than to spend them in my shed reading or writing.

View from the shed

Last Tuesday I took my laptop, the book I was reading and a cuppa to the shed and made myself comfortable. This mainly involved lighting a candle, switching on the fairy lights and settling in under a cosy blanket (all permitted under the heading of ‘I am 48’).

I’d just opened my book (Sorrow and Bliss by Meg Mason, highly recommended) when there was a fluttering from the wood burner. I ignored it and carried on reading. There was another, louder flutter.

At this point I should mention that I’m not very good with fluttery birds. I have no problem with creepy crawlies and quite happily ignore spiders around the house, letting them get on with whatever it is they do all day after they’ve made the web and had breakfast.

Living with Ivie has made me even less good with fluttery birds. I’ve become too keen to play the damsel in distress card and let him deal with them when they turn up in the stove in the house, tap-tapping on the glass asking politely to be released from captivity.

But last Tuesday Ivie was at silage at the top of the farm. Being at silage means he does not like being interrupted or any suggestion that he should do anything except continue to be at silage until he’s finished.

Another boring view? I couldn't possibly comment.

Let me give you an example. Last Wednesday I took the dog out for her mid-afternoon pee in between meetings. We strolled up to the steading where I could hear an almighty racket coming from the pen inside the shed. The sun streaming in meant I could only see the silhouette of a young bull battering the gate but that was enough to send me walking briskly back to the house and phoning Ivie.

The conversation went something like this.

Me: But what if it gets out?
Ivie: Go and shut the gates to stop them getting up the hill and then shut the ones near the house. It’ll be fine.
Me: But what if it’s already out when I go back up to shut the gate?
Ivie: Just keep out its way.
Me: I’m too scared.
Ivie: Well, I can’t come down. I’m up the top. Phone Kerr. He’s in the bottom field.
Me: But he might come and it’ll have stopped and he’ll think I’m stupid.
Ivie: Well phone Jane.
Me: OK.

Thankfully Jane was much more sympathetic, told me to shut the gates near the house and keep away from the bull which she described as a ‘lot of beast’. Crisis – and need for bravery – averted.

Back to the birds.

I gave myself a pep talk, reminding myself that I once removed a mouse from my bath that my cat had kindly gifted me just before a friend came to visit in Auchencairn, not to mention that I once moved 100 miles with no job and no plan - and that’s working out quite well so far.

So, I put up the hood of my hoodie, donned my fire gloves and opened the double doors of the shed (I’m quite glad everyone else at The Spittal was busy and couldn’t see my very attractive get-up).

PPE

I tip-toed towards the burner, opened the door then legged it outside as fast as I could. Not one but two starlings cheeped loudly, flew to the windowsill, cheeped again and flew past me, no doubt off to tell their pals about the wild adventure they’d just had.

Thank goodness that’s over (or words to that effect), I thought to myself.

And obviously I’ve just had to stop writing this to go and release another starling from my burner. Word’s obviously getting round about the middle-aged woman with the fire gloves and now they all want a look at the eejit.

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

The End is Nigh

What I've been thinking about this week:

1. Training courses.
2. Lambs. 

When I worked in the university sector, I was always being sent on training courses. You know the kind of thing - building resilience (aka 'how to deal with a sociopathic boss'); writing reports (that was one of the few useful ones); and teamwork.

The teamwork one involved filling in a questionnaire to find out what your Belbin role is. Raymond Belbin is a researcher who came up with a way of categorising team members according to their strengths and weaknesses. It's supposed to be a way of knowing yourself and your colleagues better so that you can make the most of what you're all good at and not get too irate when Bob can't make up his mind about anything. 

They have fancy names like shaper, monitor evaluator and plant. I usually came out as resource investigator, which means I'm really good at starting things but can lose interest after the initial enthusiasm (that's why I'm on week 9 of Couch to 5k for the fifth time). 

More my comfort zone

One of the less common - and most useful - roles is completer finisher. They're the person on your team who makes sure that the i's are dotted, the t's are crossed and no-one goes to the pub until the deadline is met. 

This is all very well in a desk job but not very useful when it comes to an industry like farming. I mean, you can't just leave the last dozen ewes left to lamb because you've found something new and shiny to get excited about. 

Posing pets

Although we're reaching the end of lambing at The Spittal, the ones left will probably string it out until the end of the month. Ivie and the team have no choice but to be completer finishers while also getting ready for whatever's next. 

I've seen very few lambs being born this year, mainly because I try not to get in the way. I'm not sure I'll progress from, 'oh cute lambs,' and that's not particularly useful in the whole scheme of things. I have managed a bit of bottle feeding and cuddling the pet lambs (don't tell anyone) but, other than that, I've let the experts get on with it. 

I don't think anyone will argue if I keep hold of my desk job for now.