The Siege of Drumrankin

 

On Saturday Ben and Sara came around and we made a start on the overgrown flower bed next to the lawn. Ben was the spade man and I just pointed at things and wheeled barrows to the compost heap. A mass of blue iris was removed, a huge cephalaria gigantea disposed of and yellow crocosmia, irises and Sidalcea lifted and shared with Sara. Bert absented himself from these endeavours as he was helping Clint with his beasts.

Cleo likes a bit of digging too.

We had a leak in the upstairs bathroom which I discovered at 6am on Sunday morning. I’m usually up at that time as Cleo needs to be toileted as early as possible. Bert was informed of the leak and got up to look at it. Then returned to bed saying he would sort it later. I placed a basin under the drip and returned to bed for a few hours. Finished my Jane Gardam – the third part of the Filth trilogy already ordered from World Books.

Four hours later Bert got up and I fed him porridge and peaches and he got to work. I’m not sure what he did but the leak was fixed – temporarily.

Clint was on the yard first thing this morning. There was a bit of a siege on. Apparently, some boy’s cattle along with some other boy’s Simmental bull had broken out of another boy’s field and some decent sort of a boy had come along and got them all off the Dreen Road and into Clint’s silage field. So a posse of boys were gathered up and the cattle were to be moved into our big shed for collection.

I went up to tell Bert.

You know the other day, when you were telling me a tale about J’s sister-in-law, who was letting Clint cut silage in her fields for free and this boy came up and said he’d no business as the grass belonged to him and it was very confusing and it was either ‘this boy’ or ‘that boy’ and I couldn’t make head or tail of it – well do I have a tale for you, boys, cows and bulls galore and the good news is that there are that many boys coming to round them up that you can stay in bed.

It must have taken the boys a good half hour to get the beasts out of Clint’s silage but eventually, all landed in the yard and the cattle were safely deposited in the shed. The boys were a mixed bunch. One of them was a grizzled old fellow who looked like he belonged in a Western movie. One had a shifty look about him. One wore his trousers belted close to his armpits and one young one’s jeans were hanging halfway down his arse with a good expanse of his hairy crack on view. One was a girl and one was Clint.

It goes without saying that Clint wasn’t that impressed with twenty cows and calves and a bull trampling through his silage but the boy who owned the bull said he could have the loan of it for a month and Clint reported tonight that it has its courting ears on and he’s hoping to have an excellent wee crop of calves in 2024.

Yellow crocosmia, sidalcea, iris, cephalaria. Don't worry, I've still go lots of them left. These had just gotten out of hand in a small flowerbed

And Bert was up reasonably early this morning, off to the plumbing supplies store and has fixed the leak.

And I have bought yet another dress for Naoise's wedding. 

Election Eve

 Bert and I do not always see eye-to-eye regarding local politics. His inclination is to vote for moderate candidates whilst I (in his opinion) vote 'tribally'. I see my position as voting for parties that are more left-leaning. Where we come together is that neither of us will give any preference to the DUP, TUV or Northern Ireland Conservatives. In addition, I will be giving no preference votes to Aontú.

During the run-up to the Brexit referendum, I was keen to encourage people in our friendship circle to vote sensibly. As regards this election I'd just ask that they vote because, I'm glad to say, most of them hold sensible views even if some of their views do not align completely with mine. Sadly, I know a fair few folks who won't vote at all. Some have never voted. I've never not voted except for that time that I was at a country auction for most of the afternoon and was far too tired after standing for hours as farmer's wives got into bidding wars over bundles of moth-eaten cushions, chipped delft and ancient Singer sewing machines. It was only a council election anyway.

One of our callers told me he has never voted. I was shocked. He is almost fifty years old! His reasoning for not voting is that as soon as the election results are called it is likely that one party will refuse to form a government and we will be cast into limbo again. I did not like to say that it is because of people like him that we are in the mess we're in. However, it turns out that his sibling always votes and he favours the centrist Alliance party and that barrister chap, Jim Something. I suggested that if the bro was going to vote for the TUV leader he'd be better staying at home and cracking open a bottle of Sainsbury's finest red instead.

Then this morning there was a moment of joy. Clint called round and after a brief conversation about why local farmers roll their fields (I'm still none the wiser) we moved on to politics. I didn't like to ask Clint what his intentions were. He's normally Unionist but if he'd moved in Jimbo's direction I'd have been depressed.  But no. Clint is disillusioned with politicians. Thinks they are a terrible shower. In fact, the only person he ever struck in temper his entire life was a local DUP councillor. They were both about eleven years old when yer man accosted Clint as he was carrying home a jamjar of tadpoles. The councillor to be thought it funny to grab Clint's tadpoles and empty them on the ground whereupon Clint lost it and knocked him through a hedge. Discretion prevents me from naming this councillor but I'll provide a clue. His initials are the same as the Big Man in the New Testament.

Voting day is always a Thursday and that is the day we have the two oldest grandchildren. Their school is used as a polling station so they'd always have the day off. Traditionally they have accompanied me to our polling station, which is Bert's old primary school and only a five-minute walk from here. Tomorrow it will just be Evie as Martha has moved on to secondary school. Martha will probably not enter a polling station again until she is old enough to vote. And that is only six years away. Who knows who she will vote for? It might be easier to guess who she won't be voting for. The future is coming.

Garlic Tears and Shiny Bales

 

This was a crop from a previous year. It wasn't so good this year even though I started with fresh cloves. Normally I'd have covered the beds with fallen autumn leaves to keep weeds down, last year I didn't bother. Mistake. So here I am with a poor crop and am unable to buy new bulbs from GB because of the protocol. I did (whisper it) chance eBay. The sellers on there don't do paperwork but I'll not be counting garlic cloves until they're hatched. They might be crap.

Today I'm going to look back to my recent visit to Pensthorpe Natural Park in Norfolk. It was just Katy and myself, James and Emily. James was supercharged that day. He loves everything about Pensthorpe and never stopped running. The water, the birds, the play park, the water, the gift shop. the water - he was soaking at the end but there was a change of clothes so no problem. I didn't buy anything in the gift shop, too busy minding the children while Katy had a look around. The books looked interesting though. It was good to see our own Dara McAnulty in fine company.

The hay was lifted from the meadow today, and it's all bare and scraped back and ready for next year. I might scatter a bit more yellow rattle seed near the stream and I am considering starting some patches of corn marigold at the sunniest edges. But mostly I am hoping to see what the seedbed will bring forth. Exciting times. No pictures though as there are four big shiny black bales plonked in it. And I thought it was to be baled the old-fashioned way. Embarrassing. 

Bringing in the Hay

Bringing in the hay always used to be a fun time. Old style balers, old style oblong bales, stacked in nines and as many hands as possible to get it on the trailer and back to the shed. Old style balers are not so common these days but Clint has one. The field, the one in front of the country housing estate used to belong to Johnny, Bert's father and Bert said that when he and Johnny went to bring in the hay at least ten or more youngsters from the estate would appear just for the fun of the thing to help and to get a ride on the trailer. Nowadays that field belongs to Clint and the young ones aren't interested in riding on trailers and bringing in the hay. The only helpers Clint could get tonight were over sixty.

Bert knew it was coming up. He warned Clint.

I don't know that I'll be much help to you. My knees are murdering me.

Clint said,

Huh! We'll be some crew. Murray's got a bad heart, I can't get a breath and you can hardly walk.

The call came and it was the loveliest evening. Balmy, a slight breeze, a promise of rain to come. I was tempted to join them. Decades since I helped to bring in hay but I remembered it as being enjoyable.

Bert said,

Are you sure? You might hurt your back...

I decided against it.

Then Banjo Man turned up. Needing to speak to Bert about getting the shed delivered. We drove down to the hay field. I tried a bale. Not too heavy. We gathered a few, Banjo Man and I. He was worried he might break a nail on his picking finger but he didn't. Shed talk over we dismissed him. He had been working hard in Dublin all week while the rest of us (not Clint) were lazing in the sun. I stayed. Murray and I soon realised at 65 and 73 respectively that working together we achieved more than struggling to lift heavy bales on our own.

It was so satisfying and all finished well before nine o'clock. A field of bales gathered and loaded. There was a time when I'd have expected a lot more of a Friday night than an hour or two of hard physical work. But... when a body is 65 or older the pure joy of it is still being able to do it.

Argument

I had an argument with Clint this afternoon and I didn't even know it was an argument until he stormed off in a state of high dudgeon. My conclusion was that this meant the argument had been won by me.

The conversation started, as it so often does, on farming.

Bert drew my attention to a compliment that Clint had received from another farmer on his success with calf-rearing. I too, was complimentary.

We then went on to discuss Bert's imminent retirement from the cattle trade. Clint posited that Bert's experience in livestock was 'a disaster'. I took exception to that as he had managed to keep all cattle alive that were meant to be kept alive so it was hardly disastrous. Clint countered with Bert's failure to get cows in calf. I suggested that this was a disappointment rather than a disaster. Anyway, there was a little more in this vein and then the talk turned to the weather.

Everyone was in agreement that the weather was a real disaster. Clint said that the last good day we had was the Twelfth of July and I said that there had been the odd good day here and there but he insisted that Orangeman's Day was the last decent day we'd had. I expect he hoped that this might enrage me as I am a Shinner but I let it go. Instead I mentioned that I'd read a report in the Guardian that studies indicated that the Gulf Stream is now at its weakest since around 400AD. "And how would they know that," says Clint. I said, "Science."

Bert interjected by saying it hardly mattered what the weather was going to be like as Trump and Putin are going to blow the world apart. I think I have mentioned before that Bert leans toward a very simplistic and pessimistic world view. That led to a discussion about Trump which is a subject Clint and I usually avoid, him being an admirer as well as a card-carrying Brexiteer.  I said that if Trump's blustery tweets did turn out to be more effective than old-fashioned diplomacy then I for one would not be unhappy. Clint took this as a capitulation, that I had changed my tune on Trump. I took an opportunity never before open to me to ask him why he had supported Trump even before he'd taken office. He trotted out the usual. Breath of fresh air. Successful businessman. I took him to task on that one. He countered with one of the richest men in America, funded his own campaign... I picked him up on this,  for Trump only self-funded to a point... and the next thing Clint's storming off - which is where we came in.

And I've been feeling edgy ever since.

Every Picture: Spring Squill

I'm going to blog every single day in February be it short or long and the theme shall be 'Every Picture Tells A Story' which is a blog title I've used on three separate occasions. 

It's been a difficult three months only alleviated by friends, family, food and Christmas. The thing is, I got very caught up and upset by the Trump thing and still am. And I hadn't even recovered from the Brexit thing and now there is the ongoing Trump and Brexit thing and the Stormont thing and it looks like the vote in North Antrim might be split and not in a good way. But at least I'm used to disappointment in Northern Ireland politics.

To ease my agitated mind, I've become obsessed with my photo archives, the animated series Archer and low-brow novels that I pick up from a charity table in Tesco. Also alcohol. I'm sipping on a wee Laphroaig as I type this and very soothing it is too.

Spring Squill

So, moving on. The first pictures in the Every Picture blog series were taken in Anglesey in May 2009. Bert, Clint and I had spent a few days at the Royal Welsh Smallholder and Garden Festival in Builth Wells. At the time I wrote a blog post about how Clint fell out with the entire Welsh population but revisiting my picture archives reminded me of another aspect of our brief time in Wales. It was as simple as this - if all had gone Clint's way we would have sped our way from the Marches to Holyhead but it was not to be and we missed our ferry crossing by about five minutes and had several hours to kill. Downtime rarely happens in Clint's company so that was a bit of a treat. We ambled around Holyhead for a while then decided to go check out the coastal area, At some point, we found ourselves close to RAF Valley where Prince William was stationed for a while. No sign of the prince but we did see some very fine jet planes. Bert and I had a wander around the little stony beaches. And it was there on the dunes that I saw, for the first time Spring Squill, scilla verna, a beautiful little coastal plant. I've since found that it grows in some parts of Ireland and is actually the county flower of County Down. I really should try to track it down this spring. 

A pebbly beach

Now I'm off to watch another episode of Archer.

The Wall

Katy, Hannah and Zoe, sometime in the 90s. 365 views so far...

...and the 30th most interesting photograph on my Flickr account on 30/03/15. That's my three girls in Dreen, perhaps taking a break from a game of rounders. Clint has all those trees cut down now and cattle sheds where they stood. In my uni days I used to walk up the road from the train and look for the first glimpse of the trees and feel so proud that I lived in such a wooded place. Clint said the trees were diseased but what really bothered him was the amounts of leaves that dropped in Autumn. The trees were a delight but, it has to be said, his cattle sheds are very fine too. He cut down the trees and dismantled the dry stone wall that Bert's father built. Said it was 'full of rat's nests'. It wasn't.

Johnny building the stone wall

 Summer wall

Winter wall

I was so cross with Clint for getting rid of that wall but it's been a long time and I had to let it go. I have the photographs and my memories.

 And Finally.  Look! Those girls were only following in their mother's fashion footsteps with that flannel checked shirt look. It wasn't the Seattle grunge scene a-tall.

My Life In A Day

I've been trying to get up one minute earlier every day. I had just got to 7:03am when British Summer Time arrived. Today I got up at 7:59am.

First things first. Charlie goes out to pee and start on the many hundreds of 'rounds' he clocks up every day. This done I returned to bed with coffee and got up again around half-eight. The other two dogs got up and we all went out to sort the pigs and hens.

Charlie has taken a great dislike to pigs and would torment them given the opportunity. However I found a way to deter him when I picked up a length of alkathene piping. The minute he saw it he shot off and watched the proceedings from a safe and respectable distance. I think his previous carer must have whacked him with alkathene piping on more than one occasion. I'll not be doing that which I'm sure he'll soon discover and then poor Lily and Rusty will have to watch out.

I attended to Pearlie then breakfasted on a new-laid egg and some home made bread after which I headed to the poly tunnel to sow cucumber, peppers and okra.

New baby

Clint came to help Bert move the new calf and her mother to the meadow. He was back and forth all morning in a variety of tractors. Don't ask - it's a Clint thing.

Bert cleared off to deliver clematis and I had a light lunch of beetroot soup and sandwiches. I think it was beetroot soup but it was from the Polish shop and all information was in Polish. Maybe it was blackcurrant soup. It was very nice anyway and I ate it sitting in the sunshine. Young Rooney called. He crawled about under my car for a wee while and his long shorts slipped down and I saw his bum but I pretended I didn't. Bert returned and Clint arrived up in another tractor and a road sign that said Men at Work. He looked over at us and said,

Youse boys'll hardly be needing this then.

I said,

Did you not see Young Rooney under my car? He was working. For about a minute anyway.

Clint and Bert had a very boring conversation about manuring the meadow and Clint was whinging about the price of manure. I asked him if he couldn't just use shite and he said you need the artificial stuff to give the shite a bit of a push. I think he just wants the excuse to get out on his tractor. Young Rooney said he could get him plenty of horse manure but Clint said sarcastically,

Aye! If I wanted my fields to grow every weed under the sun I would!

Then Rod (and his mum) arrived with the fruit and veg for the pigs and we gave him six hen eggs and a goose egg and his mum gave me a pen which she does every time I see her.

When we got the yard cleared of folk I did a bit of weeding, bit of housework, started the dinner and made scones for Bert's music night.

In among times I kept Pearlie's fire going. Pearlie likes a fire no matter what the weather is like. Today, while everyone else was in tee-shirts and her carer had the top off her sports car, my mother-in-law sat there with a fire roaring up the chimney, all her windows and doors tight closed and wearing, on top of her normal clothes, two shawls, with two blankets over her lap and a hot water bottle. I'm afraid I was cruel come mid-afternoon and opened a window a chink and let her fire go out as I believed she was at risk of heatstroke.

Boys all arrived for music night and since then I've mostly been sitting here scanning photographs. I got a HP Photosmart from one of the boys as my previous machine would not work with Ubuntu. I've been going through Matty's photographs but I think I've scanned the best of them already.

Then I tried to take a photograph of the Moon, Jupiter and Venus. Sadly I couldn't find the important part of my tripod so it wasn't much good. As you can see.

Camera shake

Home Alone

I'm home alone. Pearlie has gone to one of her regular respite placements so that means two whole weeks without a batallion of carers tramping in and out. And it is also two weeks without her constant griping and complaining. It is a chance for Bert and I to have a taste of what it must be like to live as a couple in privacy and peace. Eight whole weeks a year we get of this and I know that makes us very fortunate people.

As I said I'm home alone. Bert has gone off to Malin Head with a couple of friends. I hope they get reasonable weather and aren't blown off the Head. I've been left with the chickens, the dogs, the pigs and the cats - not too burdensome. Clint has been left with the cattle. I'm supposed to be watching and listening for one of the heifers 'looking away' but we're not holding out much hope. The beast has had numerous goes with A.I. and a good run with the bull and she just can't catch. Clint came in to talk about it. He knows Pearlie isn't here so I've got nobody to moan at me.

Huh! The only place that one will be looking away at is the abattoir. She's far too big a baste to be keeping as a pet.

I interpret this as a dig at the kune kunes but I do not react. He goes on.

Aye! It's the freezer for her, no question about it.

I'm sure he'd like me to get sentimental about her so he can come over all manly and practical and farmerish but I do not give him a chance. He goes on,

Did Bert ever get the bags sorted out for the butcher?

I concur that if he did, I have not been informed of it.

Huh! He's an easy-going boy waltzing off to Donegal in this weather and no worries about the butcher! And in November! Sure it's wild up there! He has little or no sense. I don't know what would take him up to Malin Head at this time of the year!

I remark that I thought the break would do him good and mention that we've got a piano.

Aye! I saw that. I don't know what you thought you needed that for. Huh! What with that oul squeaky clarinet and dinnilin' away on an oul out of tune piano that'll hardly do him much good. It would answer him a lot better to finish that ranch fencing he started.

I have to agree that Bert has a rather dilatory attitude to general chores.

Well! I'm away down to get my own livestock foddered and in before it's too dark to see.

I bid him goodnight.

When he is gone I say to the dogs for there is no one else to say it to,

Y'know – there are a lot of things that Bert is good at, that Clint is not.

And I smile a little smile to myself.

A Bit Of A Lout

The Kerry Sister was telling me that the other day the Neesh and herself were amusing themselves with an Ulster-Scots Dictionary. Now the Neesh comes from Antrim and it's a well-known fact that Antrim people are practically McCooeys and know no Ulster-Scots at all so she was amazed at the richness of the 'hamely tongue'.

"Mind you," says the Kerry Sister, "We couldn't help but notice that most of the best words had the same meaning."

"Is that so?" says I. "And what would that have been then?"

"Oh," says she. "Most of them had a definition of 'A foolish, awkward fellow. A bit of a lout."

Well, it's said that the Inuit people have many, many words for 'snow', and Ulster-Scots appear to have many, many words for 'fool'. I wonder if this has any significance?

I thought I'd do a little research during the ad breaks of 'Big Fat Gypsy Weddings' and, advised by Bert, started with 'G'. It proved a rich seam.

My reference was 'A Concise Ulster Dictionary' a Christmas gift from Ganching 14 years ago.

Gaum - a fool, a simpleton

Gomach - a dupe, a gullible person

Gowk - stupid person, idiotic

Gornical - odd looking, dim-witted person

Gype - a clumsy awkward person

Galumpus - a stupid person

Gazeby - queer looking, a tall awkward person

Gaberloon - a stupid awkward fellow

Gah - a silly person

Gumph - a stupid person

Gulpin - thick-witted stubborn person

Glipe - an uncouth fellow

Gloit - a blockhead, an awkward fellow, a boor

Gludgeon - a clumsy awkward person

Glunter - a big awkward person

Gorgie - a foolish person, a clumsy silly person

Gowtril - good for nothing, a lout

Gunshion - thick-witted person

Gorkin - a big stupid person

My father would have regularly used 'gornical', 'gype' and 'gulpin'. 'Gornical' and 'gulpin' were terms of derision but I'm sure I remember him using 'gype' as an expression of endearment. Maybe I misunderstood him. I've heard Bert use 'gaum', 'gowk' and 'glunter'. He would usually be speaking of Clint.

The Continent Pup

pup goes visiting, originally uploaded by NellyMoser.

And the good news is Judy Pup doesn't go poop and piss in the house any more. Well, not for a few days now anyway. We are very pleased with her.

The bad news (there's always bad news) is that the fool Clint ran over her sweet little paw with his nasty forklift. No real harm done. It was her back springing paw so she needs a little help on to the bed.

I don't know what Clint needs a forklift for anyway. Bert manages perfectly well without one.

Buzz Killington

Clint is Buzz Killington.

There was Bert, enjoying a rare solitary evening, no me (for I was on Matty duties), only three good dogs and two good pigs to share his barbecued sea bream, baked potatoes and cider as he sat by the brai on one of the balmiest evenings of 2010.

But hark! Here is the sound of a Massey Ferguson coming up the lane. Sadly not Hector's, for Hector would not disturb Bert's reverie. No. It is Buzz Killington, otherwise known as Clint, on his new tractor. Clint - a man with no concept of relaxation or enjoyment, Clint who'd work a two-minute silence, Clint and his bloody dog - both of them go-go-go, for Clint has tractors to drive and Lucy her tail to catch.

What are ye sitting idling there for? There's barley straw to be got from up the road. C'mon now for it'll not get itself home!

I'm only getting a bite of supper.

Humph! I've mine in me long ago. I see you're at the drink again. I hope you're fit to drive!

I've only had half a glassful... the pigs...

You're giving those pigs drink! That'll do them a lot of good!

Sure if you seen the way they shape their wee mouths for me to pour it in. And the way they gaze up at me. It's so cute.

Not near wise. Your head's cut. C'mon! Let's get going!

Sadly Bert had only a few more mouthfuls of fish and a drop of cider to wash it down, then abandoned his lovely evening, looked sadly at the pigs and they at him. He trudged off in Clint's wake. That straw won't bring itself home y'know!

Gŵyl Tyddyn a Gardd Frenhinol Cymru

Please God I am not making a fool of myself and that title actually does translate into the 'Royal Welsh Smallholder and Garden Festival', which is where Bert, Clint and myself spent last weekend. It was my first visit ever to Wales and I was very impressed with the country. It may be wet but it is beautiful and the people are lovely.

Which is not what we'd been led to expect from Clint. He regaled us all the way over with stories of the sheer horridness of the Welsh people. His dislike of the Welsh stemmed from his experiences driving tankers of Irish milk to a cheese factory in Anglesey. What did the Welsh do to him that drove him to take umbrage with an entire country you may ask? And I did. It appears that a canteen lady in the Welsh cheese factory in Anglesey wouldn't give him a cup of tea saying curtly that the canteen was closed and that he could get his tea from the machine. Meanwhile there was a group of employees sitting at a table nursing hot steaming cups of proper tea and they were all glaring at him. What did Clint do? I asked him this. It seems he told the canteen lady to stick her tea and then flounced out. Now there is an entire cheese factory in Anglesey that thinks Northern Irish people are perfectly hateful.

The Garden and Smallholder festival was all about flowers, pigs, woodcraft, pigs, goats, pigs, vintage farm machinery, pigs, vegetables, pigs, cattle, pigs, farmer's markets, pigs, dogs, pigs, country clothes, pigs, sheep, pigs, camelids and pigs.

And did I mention the pigs? They were far and away my favourite part of the show.

While I was away I picked up a new Facebook friend. Her name is Mavis and she is a Berkshire pig. She's got a brother who lives and works here, in the Ministry, in the AI section. Tough job but somepig has got to do it.

I Wish Weekends Were 5 Days Long

Run darlings!

I have felt rather cranky this weekend. Mainly because I had around five days worth of stuff I wanted to do and only two days to do it in. I spent a little time with Zoe and that was good. I visited the bluebells in Top Wood twice, for the first time my camera battery died, and I failed to get even one decent photograph. I took pictures of Clint's new goslings and found them rather camera-shy.

I made a rhubarb and ginger crumble.

I watched about an hour of TV and Danny MacAskill's YouTube video another couple of times. It's at over two million views now and only 17 of those were mine!

I researched the history of the McAnespie family and discovered a new cousin. (Third. Matty said it doesn't count. I disagree.) Called on the aforesaid Matty and gathered up her genealogy cuttings. She told me a funny story but I'm saving it for a blog post. (The muse rarely visits me these days.) Delighted in my newly grown up Niece-Sha and went for several walks, none long enough. Fell out, then in with Pearlie. Listened to a great lot of Middlemarch.

Another thing that made me cranky this weekend was what Clint did to Johnny's wall. Philistine! A blog post there too and I can be as insulting as I like for he never reads me. Too busy rearing geese and being a Barbarian!

And I have been getting irritated by the varying quality of readings and recordings on LibriVox. When it is good it is a joy. When it is not I grind my teeth. Still, my own copy of the book will be here soon and I'll do what I did with Our Mutual Friend - use my eyes to feast on the unlistenable-to chapters.

Division of Labour Christmas Style

It's said that women do most of the preparation for Christmas and I'm sure that in many homes that is the case. Take our house - Bert won't go near a shop during the run up to Christmas unless it's to the garage to stock up on gas or dogfood. He wouldn't dream of buying anyone a present, much less wrap one. At a pinch he'll chop down a Christmas tree but he wouldn't have the first notion about decorating one. You might, if you're really persuasive, get him to go to the off licence to stock up on booze and he's pretty good with the Christmas meats. No fancy trimmings for him though. He'll cook a turkey to perfection, he'll carve it with skill but you can put it on your own damn plate yourself! What you want? He eats it for you?

But last night I had to concede that sometimes women get the better deal. I spent my evening baking citrus based Christmas desserts - a Lemon Mascarpone Cheesecake and an Orange and Almond Cake. Whilst so engaged, I chatted happily with some folks who'd dropped by to wish us Season's Greetings. Meanwhile Bert was down at Clint's plucking and drawing teens of turkeys and geese. The conversation was terse as Clint was still traumatised from the killing that had taken place a few nights before. He'd really loved those birds.

So I got to smell the sweet tang of sugar and citrus while Bert, poor man, had the reek of blood and guts in his nostrils. Sometimes it's good to be a woman.

Poor Nameless Pup

Clint took a very long time getting round to replacing his last dog Tanya. Eventually he decided to take this wee collie pup. He waited until she was three months before bringing her home so she would have a good long time with her mother. He only had her a few days when she got under the wheel of his trailer, broke her pelvis and dislocated her hip.

She was at the vet for over a week and seemed to be making fair progress. But when the vet got her back for a checkup on Friday past she said the pup was not doing as well as she'd hoped. Her pelvis isn't knitting and she has a post-operative infection. They are giving her another week to see how she does.

She is a lovely little thing, bright, affectionate and friendly. It would break your heart to see how she longs to play and fun but she isn't able to. Clint can't bear to name her just yet.

Pearlie wouldn't approve - she said she should have been put down straight away - but I'm praying for the pup every time I think of it. Still they're only Catholic prayers so as far as Pearlie is concerned they won't count anyway.

I really do hope I get to write a post soon telling you what Clint has decided to name his pup.

D.I.Y.

Clint has man flu. He came into the kitchen this morning to get warm water for the calves and I said,

I thought you’d been up already or I would have fed them.

I wish I’d known that for it was hard rolling out of bed this morning. I’m dying!

What’s up with you?

I ache all over. I feel terrible.

Well don’t worry. I’ll do the calves at lunchtime and I’ll get them tomorrow morning as well.

Sure I’ll have to get up anyway to see to the geese.

But you won’t have to go off your own yard. I’ll do the calves tomorrow.

That would be great. I could do with a morning off.

Meanwhile Bert is lying softly snoring in his cosy warm bed.

He gets up at around eleven o’clock.

Poor Clint is sick again. He’s always poorly, isn’t he?

Huh! Little wonder for sure isn’t he always standing about in some cold hole!

What do you mean? What’s he been at?

Take yesterday – one of the coldest days in the world. He’s standing foundering in an open-sided shed painting oul hen-houses. What need did he have to be at that!

Meanwhile you’re sensibly sitting in front of a warm stove playing your clarinet and as warm and toasty as can be.

Exactly!

But Clint always has to be at something doesn’t he?

Aye. Oul eedjit. D’ye know what Peter says Clint’s version of DIY is?

No. What is it?

Clint’s idea of DIY is Done It Yesterday!

Wouldn’t you wonder what drives him on?

Clint Micawber

"Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure nineteen nineteen six, result happiness. Annual income twenty pounds, annual expenditure twenty pounds ought and six, result misery."

Clint says the reason people keep wanting to sell Bert things (like herds of Irish Moiled cattle) is because he has too much money.

There’s nobody trying to sell me anything. Which is just as well because all I have to my name is £222!

Is that all then? What you do with all your money from the house then?

Them sheds don’t come cheap y’know!

S’pose not. You do have a lot of sheds.

I’m not worried. As long as I’m solvent. It’s like thon Micawber boyo says – as long as you don’t spend more than you earn you’re all right.

You a big fan of Dickens then Clint?

Och! I wouldn’t say I was a fan as such. But if it comes on I’ll sit down and watch it.

A Rare Breed

This past week Bert was considering buying in a few rare breed type cattle to graze in his plantation. He’d been thinking about Dexters but they’re hard to keep in and fencing wouldn’t be one of his strong points. Someone had told him about these Irish Moiled cattle that were grazing at the Ecos centre in Ballymena so we went along to have a look. The word was that the owner might be looking to sell them.

They are lovely cattle Moilies but nevertheless, Clint and I have persuaded Bert that there is no point in rushing into it. As I pointed out to him, he’s not actually had that much luck with beasts that certain folk have chatted him into.

Remember the rabbits Bert? Your mother was raging with you when you landed home with those. Suggested that they’d been palmed off on you by some boy you fell in with at a road-house.

It’s well seen she knows little about pubs if she thinks they’re frequented by boys with pockets full of rabbits.

Remember all those babies they had? Little brown babies got on them by wild buck rabbits that screwed them through the hutch wire.

Aye. We had to take that lot over to Gallaghers and set them free.

Then there was Bob and that palamino from Greenmount.

Bob was a lovely horse.

Aye. He was. But he was useless for riding. Always trying to scrape you off by walking tight up to the hedges. And do you remember how the pair of them kept breaking out? They were always running up and down the Dreen Road with you after them like an eedjit.

And you mind all those boys that kept stopping with me while I was running after them offering to buy the pair of them of me?

And you eventually broke and took a very bad price of the last fellow that asked you. Said they were going to a riding school. I’m sure.

What do you mean?

Far more likely they were going for dog food.

Don’t be depressing me.

Anyway – can you imagine the Moilies? When they’re not racing about the roads they’ll be out getting shagged by the wrong sort of bull. They’ll be a quare rare breed then.

A Tourist Attraction

You'd think they'd never seen pigs before. The amount of visitors we've had since the porkers came has increased dramatically. And Clint is practically living with us.

Those of you who know him will remember how he used to talk incessantly about potatoes. He knew every variety of spud grown in Europe. He was a blight expert, ploughing was his passion and soil an obsession.

Then there was eggs. He started of by hauling them around the country. Who knew the hazards attached to egg transportation? Then he got some, and so did we, but Clint wasn't content with a few ex-battery hens about the place. His craving for fowl grew...and grew. Turkeys were next, then geese. The local foxes were in fowl heaven.


Of course if you've got a lot of poultry you need a lot of sheds. It started with one. But one wasn't enough. Soon Clint's yard was thronged with sheds. You could hardly get through it.



Now it's pigs. Clint has no room for them at his own place just yet. Too many sheds in the way. So they're here in the meantime. Two for Clint, two for his mate and two for us. Where will it end?