A Tale of Two Badgers

I believe in the existence of badgers. I've seen the entrances to their setts, I've heard them snarl at Ziggy when he went down their tunnels, I know they live in the woods, I suspect that in the past they were scratching at the doors of the hen house and I've even seen dead ones on the road. But I've never seen a live one and I still haven't.

Last night Hannah came rushing into the house, Chico in her arms.

Where are the dogs? Are the cats here?

What panicked her? Just outside our house, halfway between the back door and the entrance to the hen run two badgers were fighting. Hannah was scared that one of the animals might have been one of our pets. But no, two badgers fighting. Bert saw them both run across the yard then scoot off in different directions. All our pets were fine. Cleo was outside, as was Judy. Judy, being stone deaf, heard nothing but Cleo was excited and set off in pursuit of the badgers. 

I was so jealous. I've never seen a living badger and now Chico has and he is only eleven weeks old.

Chico is Hannah's puppy. This is his sixth day living here and he is well settled. Nothing fazes him, not even fighting badgers. But wait until he meets the pigs!

A Tale of Two Bullfinches

 

Possibly the same female taken a couple of years ago

First thing this morning I was out looking for survivors from the fox attack but there were none to be seen, just another area filled with feathers from a kill. That is at least two hen’s worth of feathers so far.*

We had another avian incident today. Bert and I were in the sun room when we heard a thud on the window and I saw a small bird falling to the ground. When I looked out, the bird, a female bullfinch, was standing on the ground, looking stunned. I wondered if I should just leave it there but, spotting Hannah coming back from her walk in the woods, with three dogs and two cats in tow, I thought it would be better to take the little bird out of harm’s way. I set it in the middle of the rhododendron hedge and went to make sure that the cats were kept indoors. When I got back, there was Cleo, trotting along with the bullfinch in her mouth. She gave it up willingly and her soft mouth had done the bird no harm. For its own safety I placed it in a cardboard box with a cooling rack on top.

Then after fifteen minutes or so Bert took it outside where it flew up into a hawthorn tree. A male bullfinch was perched further up the tree as if keeping guard. The female stayed for around 20 minutes and then was gone. I checked the bottom of the tree for signs of its fall but no bullfinch.

What a day for that wee bird.

Flies into a window and brains itself.

Is gathered up by a human and placed in a hedge that it doesn’t normally frequent.

Is carried off in a dog’s mouth.

Is imprisoned.

All being well she will survive this experience and go on to raise a brood or two. Maybe even three.

*The third killing site was discovered just outside the hen run. My lovely Jacqueline.

This may well be the same male bullfinch who waited for her today. Apparently bullfinches pair for life.

And Then There Were... None?

 

We were already down to four chickens. Then our new rooster (not pictured) was nabbed by Foxy at the beginning of the week. I kept the remaining three hens inside for a couple of days then, feeling sorry for them, I decided to open the hen run and let them run around the yard and garden. My logic was that Foxy would be unlikely to get them if they were running wild and free. At dusk they would return to the hen house and I'd close them in for the night. 

This evening it was past dusk when I went out to do that. It was dark and I took a lamp. The first thing I saw was a scattering of feathers, far too many to be normal. I shone the light into their house. No hens.  I went in, feathers everywhere, especially at the trap door. I looked around the run. Not all around it as it is overgrown, but there was no sign of hens either living or dead.

I went into the house feeling awfully sad. The hens had such a lovely time today. Every time I looked out the window or went outside there they were, scrabbling and pecking, enjoying the mild dry day. If only I'd gone out earlier maybe I could have got them shut in safely before Foxy got there.

I said to Bert,

I think our chicken-keeping days may be over.

And told him what I'd found.

He said,

You never know. One or two of them might turn up in the morning.

They were all old girls and we'd been planning to let them live out their lives then stop keeping chickens, get the run cleared and maybe, maybe start again at a later date. Part of me hopes that they are all gone because then I can stop worrying about them. Another part...

We shall see what tomorrow brings. 

Jacqueline. She was my favourite. The feathers that I found did not belong to her.

Cabin Fever

 Since Saturday I’ve hardly been out of the house. There was a quick and early run to the Spar for our weekly print journalism treat, the Weekend Guardian for people like us, people with log-burning stoves need something to help light our fires. Sorry, re our carbon footprint - I’m not going to be embarrassed about that as I rarely use aeroplanes and Bert never flies anywhere.

On Sunday I was completely confined to quarters. Never put my nose outside the door. Did a lot of housework. Took my daily exercise in the polytunnel as it was really wet and windy.

Monday had me taking a quick run to the Spar for milk and to Boots for my medicine. It’s something I take for arthritis, been taking it for years, even before I fell out of the tree-house, maybe started around the time I was cowped by the pig. I don’t know if it helps but I’d rather not stop just in case it does.

The sore stomach started around lunch-time and got worse and worse. I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t throw up and I couldn’t poo. The pain went into my back. If someone had offered me heroin I would have accepted it gladly – even though I was pretty sure it was just trapped wind. I slept a lot when I could. No-one offered me heroin so I took two dissoluble paracetamol at around 10pm and slept all night. The smart watch recorded a total sleep of 11 hours and 45 minutes for that period.  Crazy dreams.

The bad pain was gone next morning and I did the natural thing. Tummy still felt tender and I had little appetite and I was so tired. Spent the day reading – mainly Jan Carson.

Today I had the cabin fever. I went to Antrim, took Jazzer shopping. Just a few things she said. We breakfasted in Alfie’s, my only concession to my delicate tum was cappuccino rather than an Americano. Afterwards I checked out the charity shop, nice sweater, two mugs and a book with change from a fiver. Then it was Asda, Lidl and Islandbawn Stores. Jazzer’s idea of a few things is very different from mine. In between Lidl and Islandbawn we stopped at Belmont Cemetery for a bit of a walk and to call with friends. Jazzer said hello to her mum and dad, her sister, her brother, her niece and nephew and many friends and neighbours. I said hello to a great-niece, a cousin, an uncle, an old friend and some neighbours from home. There was a funeral taking place while we were there but we kept a respectful distance.

Being nosy, I checked out the funeral when I got home. I had supposed it was for someone who had lived a long life. But it wasn’t. It was for an infant.

The Unforgettable Geoff Kerr

In which Bert takes up literary criticism

Sunday morning, and Bert stays in bed with his book.

When he comes down I ask him,

What are you reading now?

J.M. Coetzee. Dusklands.

Is it good?

It's shite.

Why read it then?

It's really two novellas and it shouldn't take long.

But why is it shite?

Because of how he writes. Never says what he means, just fliff-flaffing about. It's esoteric. What does esoteric mean anyway?

I don't actually know for sure. Look it up and while you're at it check out what's being said about Dusklands online.

Is that not cheating?

No. It's a really good thing to do. Helps you to understand the book, maybe get more out of it.

A little time passes. 

Bert has just found out about the world of books online. He says,

Ha! I'm not the only one then. It says here that those that find fault with Dusklands concentrate on the obliquity of the book's method.

He goes back online. Doing his research. Some minutes later he waves his phone in front of my face. I am looking at a picture of Frank O'Connor's Dutch Interior.

Bert says,

Look at that! The state of it! Spine's hanging off it! And they're looking £40 for it.

I say,

It's probably a first edition. But I wouldn't want it in that state.

I look up our paperback copy to see what that is worth. Seventeen pounds.

Bert says,

You should sell it. It's a load of shite anyway.

Snow Time Like The Present

Our two oldest grandchildren, Martha and Evie live in town which is very convenient for them. Handy for the shops, the cafes, friends, school, the station and wider access to city life. But... not much use for snow. For snow they need Granny and Granda Nellybert. We're a bit elevated and a lot less trodden and have the best snow. That mattered more when they were wee childer but still... snow is snow. Still snow, it's special.

Yesterday was the third day of the snow, every night bringing fresh falls, every morning a pristine vista, then yesterday a province-wide strike (which we supported despite being completely unaffected by it) and a day off school for the girls. 

Hannah collected them. Solicitous and caring daughter that she is, she does not like me to walk, never mind drive in wintry conditions. Lord love her she had three days of the snow to brush and scrape off her vehicle before she could set off.

These days the girls do not expect me to entertain them as in days of old. No cries of, we're bored! what can we do now? No dressing up, no let's do the show right here, no can we bake buns, make slime? Nowadays all that is needed is a Netflix subscription and food every three hours. I accept that, they do have busy lives, they need to relax, to chill and Granny's house seems like a good place to do that.

Then snow happens.

Cleo found out about snowballs from Locky. He made her a few and threw them and now she is convinced that there are millions of white balls hiding in the snow if only she could find them.

Martha got snow in her wellies and a wet bum and she was ready for the warm house, and Netflix and the dry but Evie and Cleo needed more so we went to the woods. 

While we were there she gave me a massive compliment. Said she doesn't think of me as 'old', says that as far as she's concerned I'm only about fifty-eight which, funnily enough, is the age I was when she was born. I can live with that. Fifty-eight forever.

I haven't enjoyed the beauty of snow so much in ages which is one of the delights of old age. Enjoy stuff because it's all coming to an end. Later on, while we were all enjoying the warmth of a cosy warm house, I noticed that Martha was missing. She was outside taking close-up pictures of the snow to send to her cousin in Australia. The same cousin who was in Ireland only a week ago, who longed to see snow and missed it by days.

Another time Miss O.

New Jess On The Road

 

There are now at least two collie type dogs living on our road that are called Jess, our Jess and Clint's Jess.  Clint's Jess has a story. During Clint's time as a milk-tanker driver he frequented farms all around the country and on one of these farms he came across some people, good enough people in their own way, who acquired collie pups which they kept confined to a cage. That's how he got Bob. He'd seen him in the cage for far too long and eventually asked for him and got him. It does something to dogs if they don't have a modicum of freedom but Bob has been with Clint a long time now and although he's a bit crazy he is happy and well cared for.

Clint's retired from the milk collection trade now but around Christmas time he had business on the yard where he'd previously got Bob and there was another dog in the cage. Jess. She'd been there a good few years, a dog bought in the hopes she'd work out as a cattle dog and that hadn't happened. She is Clint's dog now, and she'll have a far better life with him for he cares about the animals in his life.

Still don't agree with his politics though. We just don't talk about that.

An seid prátaí

I was making soup and needed a large onion so, outside to find Bert who is clearing the middle bay of the polytunnel. He is going to make an obstacle course for Cleo. It was Hannah's idea, a way to burn off some of the pup's excess energy and take her mind off the Kong.

Where are the onions?

Scratches head. Thinks. Says,

Big ones or wee ones?

Big ones.

They're in the pruta shed.

Pruta shed? Which one is that?

You know! The pruta shed. 

Never once in my life have I ever heard you calling any of the sheds a pruta shed.

It's always been called the pruta shed. Ask Clint.

I'm sure Clint would be too embarrassed to call a shed for something it hasn't had in for forty years. Now which one is it again? Give me a clue. What do you keep in it?

Onions.

What else?

Tools, kindlers, stuff!

Oh - you mean the workshop. Righto.

The naming of places has always been an issue with Bert and I have blogged about it before. And as I'd told him the pruta shed was a new one on me I thought I'd refer back to this post.

It seems that back then he called it the potato shed, and that's another thing, as Bert gets older he uses much more Ulster-Scots dialect. I have been known to accuse him of making words up and he'll say,

Get the book* out!

The book always proves him correct.  

*The Concise Ulster Dictionary was a gift from Ganching 28 years ago. She paid £9.99 for it. Today you'd be lucky to pick up a second-hand copy for under £100. I'll not be selling mine. Far too useful.

Those of you that have Irish will see that most of Ulster's old words for the spud are derived from our native tongue. I wish I had more of it myself so that I could take my turn at confusing Bert.

This Is My Life: Shopping & Animals (and books)

 

First thing in the morning I let Cleo out for morning pees and poos. Delighted to say that it is more than 50 hours since she has performed either of those actions indoors. The Kong obsession has not been entirely helpful as her desire to collect it in the morning has often led to a big piss on the kitchen floor. Every day is a learning day (for both of us) and I have learned to pitch the Kong out the bedroom window so she just cannot wait to get outside to fetch it.

The picture above is post morning evacuations and back to bed with coffee, Kong and Woody the kitten. Woody has breakfasted, no need for outside as he is still a litter tray user. I have my coffee and my books, not easy to manage with a largish kitten sitting on my throat. Cleo has her Kong and all is right with her world. This morning's books are something about Hurricane Katrina and euthanasia which depite being ploughed through for months, the name escapes me at the moment. The other two books are Wally Lamb's This Much I Know (excellent) and Margaret Atwood's Cat's Eye (even more excellent).

Woody has removed himself from my throat and is amusing himself playing with Cleo's tail. It will soon be time to get up as I am taking Jazzer to the shops. Asda to be exact. She is post-surgery for a shoulder injury and I am helping her out just as she helped me out when I injured my hip last year.

I have a perfunctory wash for which I am not ashamed as I showered yesterday and I dress myself in Snag tights, raspberry coloured, Nordic socks, shades of raspberry, Blundstone boots, a polka dot denim Toast skirt, a grey M&S long-sleeved vest, a burgundy coloured jumper and a pink hand-knitted (by Ganching) scarf. My outer garment being a black M&S burberry. I am, in my own opinion, looking well for 70 years old.

On the way to Antrim - I'm travelling slow as the roads might be icy, I notice strange clouds in the sky. They are disk shaped, one on top of the other. I make a note to myself to Google them later.

To Jazzer, still in pyjamas, but despite her shoulder difficulties she is soon ready. All I had to do to help her was adjust her surgical support sling. Last week I had to fasten her bra so - progress. We leave the house, breakfast at Alfies's, collect supplies at the pet shop and peruse the charity shops. I buy nothing, Jazzer buys pyjamas. A theme going on? At our house we call pyjamas drinking trousers - someone call AA.

On to Asda. Asda, once Antrim's flagship grocery shopping destination has become hugely disappointing. OK - so I picked up an incredibly cheap and fleecy duvet set that will replace the one that Cleo ate, but that does not make up for one, just one till being open while we, the actual customers were expected to check out our own shopping whilst being overseen by the grumpiest shop assistant in the world. Honestly Asda, I'm not coming back anytime soon. Also, the Kenco coffee was overpriced although to be fair the cheap and cheerful Spanish Rioja I just took my last swallow of, wasn't bad at all.

After having deposited Jazzer and her groceries I headed home whilst listening to an incredibly interesting programme on Radio 4 about bacteria. I felt vindicated having had just the perfunctory wash as apparently bacteria ain't all bad. I am also encouraged to wear my clothes for longer between washes. But, that said, it seems it is still a very good idea to wash one's hands regularly and thoroughly.

Home again, and in a good mood, having had a brisk 20 minute walk through Ballee Cemetery. It is very cheering to pass the graves of one's former neighbours and work colleagues knowing that one is still here. Bert was also in a good mood having chopped down a disease-stricken ash tree that was annoying a horse chestnut and that will keep us warm for at least a month.

Then that bloody internet. Far too easy to go shopping there. That bloody Rioja too. I bought another pair of Blundstone boots. Still haven't figured out those clouds. Lenticular? Where are the mountains? The Mournes are miles away. Belfast hills?

Walking in the Woods

Over Christmas and the New Year I got out of the way of walking in the woods. Too busy. Busy cooking, busy eating, busy entertaining. Hannah was much more diligent. Unless she has an all-day work commitment she takes Cleo walking. Rain, snow or shine. Cleo doesn't mind. Pippin does mind and she'll only go out if it's dry underfoot.

Pippin is a walking cat just as Caps, Harry and Holly were before her. Fred didn't care for walks and we wondered whether Woody would be up for it. Today we found out. Hannah got the Dunlop wellies on, Cleo's cue to get very excited. It has been so soggy lately that Pippin has been avoiding the wood but today it was frosty, the mud was hard and she decided to go with them as did Woody, for the first time ever. Pippin showed him the ropes, which paths to take, which trees to climb. He had a great adventure, came back ravenous and ready for a good long nap. 

These past two frosty days I've been back in the woods too. Today I met Bert and the dogs on the lane returning from a walk. Jess went on home with Bert but Cleo came with me for another walk, her third of the day.

When we returned I said to Bert,

Y'know if we'd met a stranger on the lane, maybe some devil, horns, cloven hooves the works, I'm sure she'd have went walking in the woods with him too.

The Sweet Waters of Europe and Some Other Places

 

The Sweet Waters of Europe

Just as Bert finished reading Dutch Interior I'd completed Master Georgie by Beryl Bainbridge. I handed it over,

I think you'll like this. It's about a surgeon in the Crimean War, and it's written by a woman. 

These days Bert seems to prefer female novelists, his current faves being Hilary Mantel and Pat Barker. Sure enough he came downstairs next day saying,

That's more like it. Says what she means, no shilly-shallying around.

In the novel Master Georgie and his camp followers take a leisurely route to the battlefield. They set sail from Liverpool to Constantinople and on arrival spend some time taking in the sights including a trip to the Sweet Waters of Europe, which was a fashionable resort at that time. The area, now known as Kâğıthane, is urbanised and the wealthy must have found new playgrounds.

Now I know very little of the Crimean War for it never came up in my school history lessons. That was all Plantagenets, Tudors, The Flight of the Earls and the English Civil War. There was Florence Nightingale of course and references to limbless soldiers in Victorian novels. Yet when George and his camp followers get to where the action is I realised that many of the geographical place names were already familiar. Belfast, like hundreds of other towns and cities in these islands, had streets named Crimea, Inkerman, Alma, Sevastapol, Plevna and Varna. Most of these are part of old Belfast and no longer exist. However, Sevastapol Street, off the Falls Road still stands and that is where the famous mural of Bobby Sands is situated. Balaclava Street, also on the Falls Road, has disappeared. Its claim to fame was being named 'Balaclava' at one end and 'Balaklava' on the other. 

Nor was Lord Raglan, of Peninsular and Crimean War fame, been forgotten when it comes to Irish roads and pubs. Belfast had its Raglan Street, Dublin still has its Raglan Road made famous by Patrick Kavanagh and Luke Kelly. And Ballymena? We had the Raglan Bar in Harryville which I entered on one occasion for about five minutes. Strong Straw Dogs vibe. It's a Credit Union now. 

New Years Day

The day did not get off to a good start. Bert came downstairs waving a copy of Frank O'Connor's Dutch Interior and giving off about it being the worst book he'd ever read.

Why did you read it then?

Because I kept thinking something would happen.

And did it?

No. Nothing happened and there were far too many people in it and they did nothing and what had it all got to do with a Dutch Interior anyway?

I was intrigued. I've only ever read O'Connor's short stories so I'll be adding Dutch Interior to my to-read list. I suggested he might like to read First Confession as I consider it to be an excellent short story. I hoked it out for him and said,

That might be easier for you to understand. Or maybe not.

He said, 

Are you saying that I'm stupid?

No. You're not stupid, you're Protestant.