The Amazing Jumping Smarm-Hound

Bert: C'mon Judester, show Charlie your amazing jumping abilities.

Judy: Sure thing Dawds! Just waiting until the stupid collie gets out of my way.

Charlie: Complete arsehole...

Bert: Clever girl, Judes!

Charlie: Sad human-pleaser, Judes!

Bert: Don't listen to him Jude. You're awesome.

Judy: Am I Dawds, am I?

Judy: Kiss, kiss, slurp, slurp.
Charlie: (offside)  Puke, puke, retch, retch.

Dining on Dianthus

Around five o'clock yesterday while planting in my raised bed I spotted a flying creature that I was sure I'd never noticed before. It was feeding from a patch of sweet william (dianthus) at the end of the bed. I stopped to watch it. Its wings were a blur, tinged with orange and constantly in motion as it moved from flower to flower. Its backside was bulky, dark blotches on a pale background and the proboscis was long and black. I called Bert over to see it and he was quick to identify it as some sort of hawk moth. After about five minutes I thought I'd fetch my camera from the house and the hawkmoth was still there when  I got back. But I was still too late for it had finished with the flowers and flew off before I'd even removed my lens cap.

Later on that evening we researched the butterfly sites and identified it as a hummingbird hawk moth. or macroglossum stellatarum. One interesting observation was the moth often returns to the same feeding site at the same time every day.

So today, hopeful, moth and camera ready I headed for the polytunnel to await my visitor. Perhaps it wasn't warm enough, and maybe too windy, for it didn't show and I had to make do with this Red Admiral which also seemed to be enjoying the dianthus patch.

One thing's for sure, and Zoe agrees - we are definitely going to continue growing flowers alongside the vegetables in the tunnel for not only are they gorgeous, we are also getting a greater variety of insects visiting us. Good pollinating insects. And often we don't have to sow these flowers for they just turn up.

At the present time there are several varieties of red poppies growing beside the veg and another, Zoe's bread seed poppies are just about to bloom. We also have foxgloves, nasturtiums and marigolds growing freely. All are self-seeded.

If all goes well there should be a decent crop of peaches this year. This tree is supposed to be espaliered but Someone must have forgotten to prune a branch.

So I'll be on the lookout again for the hummingbird hawkmoth but, even if I do get a picture it won't be as good as this one.

Photo courtesy of Jindrich Shejbal via Flickr.

The Young Gardener

We were visited this afternoon by two community gardeners and Miss Martha excelled herself in making them feel welcome. She herself has been a keen gardener and a habitué of the polytunnel from a very early age. 

It started with strawberries. Once Martha realised that strawberries could be grown she never looked back.

It was no time until she was looking after her own plants.

Here she is wheeling bedding plants to her own little plot.

With a little bit of guidance from Bert she was soon on her way to becoming a horticulturist.

She has always been very conscientious about watering.

And digging. She likes to dig.

Here she is watering her beloved strawberries.

She soon outgrew the miniature pink rake although I still use it to level my raised beds.

Our young gardener has recently become very interested in trees. Here she is watering an oak tree that we inherited from Martha's great-grandmother Martha. It has since been planted in our wood. Martha has her eye on the hundreds of beech seedlings that have sprung up under our trees and wants to plant her own wood.

Inspecting the plants for pests.

A day off gardening. Martha checking out the Spring bedding in the Palm House in Belfast.

Planting perennials while little sister looks on and learns.

So, it was very little wonder that Martha enjoyed talking to the community gardeners this afternoon. She took one of them to see her pond and showed him her most recent addition to the garden and when he asked her what it was she answered "Lithodora 'Heavenly Blue'." I believe he was impressed. She then presented him with one of her beech trees which he graciously accepted. No matter that he too was surrounded by beeches, sure one more would do no harm.

Her next project? A fairy house. We'll keep you all posted.

Hard Times

My Uncle Vincent's funeral in Rasharkin was held on the same day as the interments of Princess Diana and Mother Teresa. I have to say that the old nun's death passed me by what with everything else that was going on at that time. But I'm rarely in that churchyard and when I visited it last week on the eve of Aunt Marian's funeral I was surprised to recognise so many names of people who are buried there. One of the most startling was the grave of the three Quinn brothers from Ballymoney who died in a sectarian arson attack on their home on the 12th of July, 1998.

Marian had lived to 83 years of age and she had lived well. The priest who conducted her Requiem Mass made much of her sense of adventure, her love of travel and her strong attachment to family. It was probably one of the most inspiring eulogies I've ever heard and, I can assure you, I am very hard to please when it comes to preachers. One thing I noticed in the chapel was the presence of three young brothers, great-nephews of Marian's I suppose, who were around the sort of ages as those other three brothers lying in the churchyard. The Quinns would be grown men now, probably with families of their own but they never made it to adulthood just like so many of the youngsters murdered in Manchester the other night.

It is hard not to feel a terrible sadness right now for it happens that tonight is the 43rd anniversary of the deaths of our father's two brothers, my uncles Shaun and Brendan. Sometimes I forget it is their anniversary. But not this year.

Yvonne and Anne
write far more eloquently on this than I can. There is a lot of reading here but it is very worth it.

Martha's Duck Pond

Martha, Evie and I went to the charity shop in Wakehurst Road to see if we could find anything to beautify their garden. I explained that whatever we bought if we bought anything, it would have to be lovely and it would have to be tasteful and that was why I refused to buy the purple unicorn with the tatty acrylic mane.

It's not tasteful Martha.

But Granny! I'm not going to taste it!

We ended up buying some polished stones for twenty pence and when we got home we made a pond. Bert dug a hole and I found a clear plastic box and Martha edged it with old Bann bricks. She insisted we put stones in the pond so that whatever chose to live in it could easily find its way out. When we'd filled it with water she ran upstairs to the bathroom and collected all the rubber ducks because,

Evie and I are big girls now. We don't need rubber ducks in the bath anymore.

I'm not so sure about that.

But I think the rubber ducks are very tasteful indeed.

Six Months Later

Six months ago I visited one of my aunts, one who lives a mere ten miles away from me. It was a lovely visit, long overdue and on the drive home I promised myself, just as I'd promised her on her doorstep, that I'd come back soon, that I'd not leave it so long again. Yesterday I kept that promise, exactly six months since I'd seen her last. The pity of it, it was too late for Marian was dead. Today I go to her funeral.

There's a lesson there, don't you think?

Centaurea or Bachelor's Buttons always blooming in Aunt Marian's garden in May.

Garden Pests

Northern Ireland is currently experiencing Summer Time and I have been making hay while the sun shines, or sort of... I have been weeding, sowing and planting and Nelly's Garden is actually looking OK. If it wasn't for all the interruptions life would be great.

First of all, I took Saturday evening and most of Sunday as a vacation from what the Americans call yard work. We went out for dinner with the Banjos and slept over. Then on Sunday, we all went to Garden Show Ireland. It was Marty and Jazzer's first visit (even though they live in Antrim) and I think they enjoyed it. I bought my usual geranium and wanted to buy some white papaver Orientale but missed out on pot plants so bought root cuttings from a beautiful Dutchwoman. Two white, two salmon pink and two red. Hope they grow! Going around the exhibits I realised that my bay tree is probably worth £120 and that the three trees I'm nabbing from Bert would cost me nearly 500 if I was buying them from a garden centre. And - the half dozen lupins I'd planted the day before and that were grown from a teeny little seed were worth nearly fifty quid at Garden Show prices. I actually felt quite rich.

Monday was family gardening day and it started off well when the black and white cow had a healthy bull calf standing by her side first thing in the morning. Then there was great excitement when Evil Edna started to show signs of imminent calving. Unusually, for Edna, she was considerate enough to hold off on the big reveal until the girls' homework was done, then had the calf birthed just as supper was being put on the table.

Yesterday Hannah and I went shopping in Antrim. I bought a hand weeding tool and Hannah bought socks. Bored with the shops we went to the Castle Grounds to walk. The council workers were still clearing up after Garden Show Ireland and I found a lithodora 'Heavenly Blue' in a bin and nicked rescued it. Another £7 saved.

Today, nothing much to do so worked in the garden. Planted geraniums, crocosmia 'Lucifer', cosmos, potentilla' and used my new weeding tool which is very useful for grubbing up dandelions and creeping buttercup. It was a very enjoyable day except for the invaders. First, there was the chicken escapees, three of the young hens that have no trouble flying over the fence. They spent the day in the flowerbeds gathering up grubs and insects.

Then I was wandering around taking pictures of this and that and heard this crashing noise and there was...

...Lily, who had to be quickly headed off before she started trampling on my freshly planted flower beds.

The next invader was driving a shiny red car that whizzed into the yard with one door hanging open and that turned out to be a mother and child delivering leaflets for a church lecture. I'd already noticed posters for this event in the village and was astonished that such people still walk among us. I told the woman that I was a firm believer in evolution and she looked at me very askance. She suggested I should come and add to the debate. I said I probably wouldn't.

Click to enlarge and get a better look at Evie's plastic dinosaur and the potentilla and geranium that flank it. The invite from the crazy people is propped against the alpine strawberry.  

The Truth About Nelly's Garden

Everyone should know that Nelly is an enthusiastic gardener and a knowledgeable plantswoman - or is she? You might have seen the photographs that seem to prove it - on the blog, on Flickr, on Facebook and Instagram. It's time the truth was told.

I am an enthusiastic gardener on fine days. Late autumn, winter, and early spring are far too cold and dank for anything other than minimal effort. And yet, a proper enthusiast would be out all year round except maybe for December and January.

The photographs? That's down and judicious cropping with the very occasional use of photo-editing. That is rare though for I'm not much good at Photoshop either especially as I actually use GIMP. I might remove a blemish from a petal or get rid of an unnoticed piece of debris.

I love to sow seeds and take cuttings and make beautiful plants that I can plant in my garden in spring. Then I either forget where they are or even what they are and by the time I get back to them they are no longer healthy or beautiful. Example - I sowed a lot of wallflowers last May and potted them on and then, instead of planting them out in the autumn I left them standing by the polytunnel all winter. By the time I got to them, something had beaten me to it, the wind, the cold, vine weevil, maybe all three and less than ten percent were salvageable.

This is what I imagined...

Botanic Gardens, Belfast

...and this is what I got.

Nelly's Garden

Ah well. Better luck next year.

Meanwhile, I'm really looking forward to the iris blooms, the geraniums, the lupins, the aquilegia and all the other early summer flowers. I'll be taking lots of photographs and making sure that weeds and scruffy things don't feature. They'll be there - just not in the pictures.

The Best Day Of My Life

Today was family gardening day and it was Martha and Evie's Dad's turn to choose the dinner menu.

Pulled pork, sourdough loaf, and lemon meringue pie.

It was a very slow and easy process.

Saturday afternoon - shop for ingredients.
Saturday night - assemble sourdough starter.
Sunday afternoon - I was going to bake blind the pastry case for the lemon meringue pie but gardened instead.
Sunday evening - mixed sourdough, kneaded (using the dough hook on Kenwood) and left to rise.
Monday morning - assembled ingredients for pulled pork and put it all in the slow cooker. This was going to cook all day. Make and bake the pastry case. Leave to cool. Turn oven up and bake the sourdough loaf for 30 minutes. Make lemon meringue filling, cool, turn oven to low, make meringue topping and bake. All done except salad.

Monday afternoon - family arrives.

The girls and I went shopping for last minute milk, butter, cream and ice lollies. It was a very pleasant day and Martha suggests a walk so we strolled round to take a close look at the strange wooden sculpture that has appeared on the river bank.

Martha wants that we continue our walk on the river path as we have their dog with us and "Gracie would really love a walk because there's no point her hanging around the kitchen with you Granny because all the cooking is done and she won't be getting any titbits."

I agreed that this would be an excellent idea. The river path was crowded with people and dogs. And why wouldn't it be on such a beautiful May Day holiday? We climbed up the steep bank beside the path and followed another little pathway that wended its way through a sea of bluebells, wood anemones and the beginnings of wild garlic. It was like another world. A fairyland. An adventure. The girls loved it and so did I. Here and there trees had fallen over the little path and while the girls clambered over these obstacles with ease, they presented a bit of a challenge for me. Oh, to be young and limber again.

We rejoined the main path and went off to see the horses and donkey. Martha asked me if I was having a good time and I answered her that I was having the best day of my life. I think that was a very honest answer. But it was time to head for home. There was a salad to prepare and dairy products sitting in a very warm van. I reached into my pocket for my key and it wasn't there. Panic! Had I left it in the van? Of course I hadn't. The van was tightly locked and my key was nowhere to be seen and I didn't feel up to retracing our footsteps with the girls in tow. Evie was already starting to tire. No phone, no money, no vehicle. We went to the garage and borrowed their phone. No one at home! All out in the garden making potato rigs, strawberry beds and so on. Victor sorted the girls out with some much-needed water and we set off walking home. Normally a twenty-minute walk it was going to take twice that with Evie unable to walk that fast. We were halfway up the road when our rescuer appeared. The girl's dad off on an errand to pick Hannah up. We told him what had happened, gathered Hannah up and then at everyone's insistence stopped by the river path to go key hunting. I checked the local shop to see if anyone had handed the keys in but no luck so I hurried off to catch up with the search party. They were (I could hear the girls chattering) up on the high path and as I went towards them I heard excited whoops and looking up, saw them all trooping back towards the car park.  I knew then that their mission had been successful. It was a lovely moment in which we all played a part.

Dave who was calm, sensible and practical.
Martha and Evie who remembered exactly where I had walked and what I had done.
Hannah who was enthusiastic and said, "I'm very good at finding things" and who found the keys lying hidden in a patch of wild garlic at the very spot where I had clambered awkwardly over a fallen tree.
And myself, the very reason why we were all so bloody happy. For I was the silly sausage who had lost the keys in the first place.

So there you go -  the best day of my life was still the best day of my life even though there was a big problem right slap-bang in the middle of it.

Other good things that happened (1) dinner turned out well and (2) I had my first ride on the quad while we were looking for a lost pig. It was scary and fun and we found the pig.

I didn't bring a camera but there were bluebells and there was Gracie so here is one Zoe took earlier.

Gracie, the bouncing bluebell girl. Photograph by Zoe Bowyer

Busy Day

First of all, I baked this loaf. It had been rising all through the sleepy-time hours so I gave it a quick knockback, turned the oven on to high, took my coffee back to bed then baked it for thirty minutes exactly.

Sorted out my chickens, showered and went to Belfast.

Then straight to the Ulster Museum to look at the exhibition that wasn't child-friendly, the Francisco Goya 'The Disasters of War'. It was harsh. I also took another look at recent Irish history section, the part that depicts what some call 'The Troubles'. I have a friend, a Republican and Sinn Fein activist, who finds this part of the museum anodyne but I am always affected by it and often tearful. The so-called Troubles were my entire adult life from around fifteen years old until they ended, if they even have ended. Maybe my friend is right. I'm sad and sniffly at the Ulster Museum but in our other city at the Museum of Free Derry  I was in pieces.

As always it was impossible to resist the Palm House which is so close to the museum and the delights of the exotic and wonderful plants within. Just one niggle - why aren't they named. I always feel I don't know a plant unless I have its Latin name. I knew the Dizygotheca elegantissima, Passiflora caerulea, Crassula ovata and Monstera deliciosa because I have or have had those plants at some time but what's this?

Or this?

No doubt I'll find out some day.

It was a good day. I needed to get out on my own and when I got home the people I live in where in very good form (they had enjoyed a Nelly-free day) and the sourdough bread was very delicious indeed. 


Since posting this I had the following message on Facebook from a South African friend.

The yellow flower is a Hibiscus that is a genus of flowering plants in the mallow family Malvaceae. They grow prolifically in SA.

April Sleet Showers

It was bitterly cold today and not boding well for my Wednesday trip to Belfast. Will just have to wrap up good and warm. Despite the snow and the sleet I managed a little outside gardening and rather more inside. I'm behind with seed sowing this year but they'll catch up.

I did manage to take a couple of garden pictures between the showers. Close up as the flowerbeds still need a bit of work.  And I started another sourdough loaf. If Bert doesn't get to it before my camera does I'll have a nice picture of it tomorrow. Now, time to sleep.

Look What He's Done To My Bread Ma

I persevered with the sourdough bread, kept the mother going and worked out a recipe and method that works for me. My last two loaves have been excellent. The trouble is, they are so yummy that it is hard to get a photo before the bread is scoffed.

I was going to take a photograph earlier today but it would have meant decluttering the kitchen and today was a gardening day - so no time for housework. If there was to be a picture of my delicious bread then everything had to be just right, perhaps an artfully placed linen tea towel, or a posy of spring flowers, maybe I could even arrange one of the cats to sit on the dresser to add interest to the background. What I wouldn't want is dirty dishes, piles of unsorted laundry and a massive heap of newspapers on my catless dresser. I consoled myself with how very pretty my loaf looked, good texture, unburnt crust, decent shape. With a few slices cut from it would make a very decent picture.

Now imagine how I felt when Bert hacked my lovely loaf to pieces before I had the chance to Instagram it. It couldn't have been less photogenic if a rabid donkey had got to it. Why? He couldn't find the right knife, sure it was only going to be eaten anyway. What did it matter what it looked like?

It's a pet hate of mine when people leave loaves, pies, and cakes looking unpresentable. And, of course, when I say people I mean Bert. Do you know what he'd do if he thought he could get away with it? I'd be taking some delicious baked thing out of the oven and before it even had a chance to cool he'd have pulled a lump out of it to taste it. Sharp rap over the knuckles with a wooden spoon soon put that nonsense out of him.

Anyway, here is a picture of one of my first loaves. The one that got mauled looked better, was bigger and tastier and was going to have a better tea towel. Here's to the next one.

The Visitors

Well, who knew? It seems that fun is definitely much more tiring than work. Katy and James arrived on Monday afternoon and we had an action-packed few days during which James did far, far more than anyone.

On Tuesday we all went to the Ulster Museum. That was a busy day. It was a child-centred visit which meant that there was building, painting and drawing to be carried out. James discovered that the art galleries were marvellous echo chambers and he made an awful lot of noise. I only noticed one person who minded. Surely anyone who visits the Museum in the Easter holidays should expect it to be brimming with children and, if they are decent coves, they should be jolly pleased about it. Martha and Evie are frequent visitors to the Museum and they had a wonderful time showing James their favourite places,

On Wednesday James went on a playdate to Martha and Evie’s house where I am told, he tore around the house like a whirlwind and then ate an enormous lunch. It seems he got on very well without his Mama as all well-adjusted boys should – for an hour or so at least. Meanwhile, Katy and I lunched and perused charity shops. I bought a straw hat for Bert, some wool for Zoe and a chiffon cloak for the girls’ dressing up box.

Yesterday, we went to Ballycastle, amused ourselves at the amusements, went to the beach, went duck-watching and all that before lunch. Lunch was outdoor fish and chips at Mortons where I made two new friends. One was a single-legged seagull and the other a very cheeky jackdaw who perched on my shoulder, sauntered down my arm and tried to eat my fingers. My grandchildren took all this in their stride as if it was the most usual thing for grannies to have tame jackdaws strolling about their upper bodies.

It's likely that the highlight of James' trip to the seaside occurred on the downward journey when we passed several miles of major roadworks. I don't believe the child had ever seen as much heavy plant in one place, ever. He looked left there were dozens of diggers and heavy tractors, he looked right - more of the same. He was entranced.

Tame stuff but at least he's in control

Today I got up at half-five and drove Hannah to work then went back to bed and slept until nine o’clock which was wonderful. James and I spent some quality time jumping in puddles, watching chickens, feeding cows, examining tractors and other assorted plant. We watched Sammy the Digger Man clean out a drain, then Clint spreading manure with his Davy Brown. For James there was no contest. Diggers are OK but tractors are his particular passion. It was a good morning. James and Katy lunched on Ulster Fries and then it was time to drive to the airport where I felt very sad to kiss them both goodbye. The plan is that I will visit Norfolk in October and, while I don’t expect Katy will have changed much (maybe just another few strands of silver curls), James will an inch or two taller and will have a much bigger vocabulary. Looking forward to it already.

Mary, James, Evie, Zoe, Hannah, Martha, Katy 2017

Rooster Attack

When a rooster flies at you and puts his spurs into your leg, you notice it. This fellow was a big heavy lad and he ruled the roost. I'm going to miss hearing him crow tomorrow morning. Blogged on 02/06/2015



This is Duke, our senior rooster. He was reared as a battery hen and turned out to be a male so, as our previous rooster had been taken by the fox (see above), we gave him a home.

He was a timorous fellow to start with but, as his confidence has grown, he has turned out to be one of the most vicious roosters we've ever had. I have to keep a tight eye on him when I go into the run. Tonight I forgot. The seven youngest chickens take ages to go into the house at bedtime and I was giving them a bit of encouragement or, to be honest, chasing them, when he came flying out of the house and launched himself at my right leg, at knee height.  I limped into the house to clean the wounds, both bleeding, where his spurs had punched right through my heavy jeans. My knee had already started to swell. Of course, I was raging and considered having Bert kill him, or leave him out in the woods for Foxy to find. It's not as if he hasn't three fine sons to take up rooster duty in the hen run. But,  then I relented for he was only doing his job, protecting his flock.

Hopefully, my knee will feel better tomorrow and I won't lose the leg owing to some filthy chicken disease. Then he gets to cock-a-doodle-doo for another while and we won't be eating cock-a-leekie soup for our Sunday dinner.

That was the bad news. The good news is that my latest sourdough loaf was a big success and my grandson James thought it was delicious. Sadly, no pictures of the loaf for it got scoffed far too quickly. All I can offer is this picture of James after spag bol and a bowl of yogurt. I wonder if he would like some chicken soup?

Sourdough Wars

The husband is in my bad books. First, he suggests that I can keep my egg money. I reply that I’d rather not as he buys the chicken feed, so he should keep it. He says it would be handy for you, give you a bit of independence. I say, what is the egg order again? Two and a half dozen. That's £2.50 a week. A generous allowance indeed. Go on Bert, you can keep it.

Did I ever mention that I am one of the multitude of women caught out by the rise in the pension age? There are women I know, only a few months older than I am who have been receiving their pension for over four years now which is very galling.

Yet, it was very unfair that women reached their pension age five years before men but it doesn’t stop me wishing that they’d waited until I got mine before the rules were changed. Still, I’ll probably get a pension some day and with me being the frugal sort, it will seem like a fortune when it comes. Unlike my poor children who will be quite old before their pension day arrives.

Now, back to my devilish husband – for there were two things… now, what was the other? Oh yes, sourdough bread and the imaginary competition between Les and Nelly. It was Les originally piqued my interest and was quick to offer recipes, advice, and encouragement. Les has created a great many loaves and is close to perfecting his method. I know, because he has shared those loaves with us. I, on the other hand, have been successfully feeding the ‘mother’ but have actually made just three loaves. For life gets in the way. Then Bert goes to Les for music practice on Tuesday and comes home raving, raving about the awesomeness of Les’ latest loaf. And there is half of it sent home with him and it’s true, the bread is sublime. Bert goes to check my ‘mother’. His verdict? Not as good as Les’ ‘mother’, too watery, needs more flour. Then there is the way Mrs Les served the bread, oil and balsamic vinegar, sea salt on the side, bet you’ve never even heard of that? Heh, Nelly?

Nelly raging, says,

Of course I’ve heard of it. Why, I was reading an article in the Guardian about that just weeks ago! I’m glad you enjoyed it because that’s what you’ll be getting for your supper all week! Bread, olive oil, balsamic vinegar and sea salt! We’ll see how you like that!

He says,

Well I won’t if it’s Mother’s Pride bread!

I bet you all never knew how hateful he can be.

Anyway, I started another loaf on Wednesday. Assembled it yesterday, left it to prove overnight. It looked very promising this morning and I baked it at lunch time. Slow bread. Put the oven on high, placed a bowl of water on the bottom shelf, put the bread in, forgot about it, burned it slightly.

Had some with my homemade chicken broth made with own leeks. Tough crust but good flavour. Had some with Bert’s omelette at supper time. Made with own eggs, own broccoli, and own chives.

Later on we had some broken up and dipped in balsamic vinegar, olive oil and sea salt. Accompanied with glass of own rhubarb wine. Very nice but wouldn’t want to eat it every evening. (Unless it was Les’ sourdough loaf.) Did I mention I am turning into fat, bloated, sourdoughy lump? And it’s not even Easter yet.

Les and Bert

Field Dressing

So, just as the oul' sore shoulder starts to ease I get a tension backache that starts every evening after supper but I will not complain as my sister is laid up with a very sore face after taking a nasty fall at the weekend. I was on the phone today speaking with her when Martha came in and I knew by the child's face that she wanted to tell me a big story so stalled her by telling her that I was talking to Aunt Gan who wasn't feeling very well and, bless Martha, she sat patiently and waited, even had a little chat to Gan herself.

As soon as our call had ended Martha announced,

Aunt Gan's not the only one of the family who's had an accident. Bert has cut himself on barbed wire and he won't come in from the fields to get it washed so I'll have to bring him a plaster.

I said we were out of plasters so she'd have to bring him a bandage and I put together an emergency pack of bandages, tape, scissors and wipes.

Off she ran, heading for the field where Bert was fencing.

I said,

Don't run. You must never run with scissors. Hasn't there been enough accidents in this family?

About half an hour later Bert and the girls returned. His wrist and hand were heavily bandaged. He told me later that she'd ordered him out of the muck hole he was standing in as it was far too dirty a place for him to have his wrist cleaned and dressed. Not bad going for a seven-year-old.

Relatively Speaking

Last year, when my cousin Peggy was visiting from New Zealand she mentioned that she was putting together a family tree for the benefit of her grandchildren. I offered to share some of the information that I had gathered over the years, then promptly forgot about it. As I do. So today I get a message from Peggy reminding me and immediately sent her all the details I had on our maternal grandfather's siblings. And that reminded me that I'd never got around to recording that particular branch of the family tree onto my very complicated Family Echo app. So I made a start on it, and discovered about a zillion more relatives, loads of whom don't even look like McAnespies!

So there you go. A lorry load of cousins that I have absolutely no use for. They didn't give me one tiny percentage of the pleasure that I had when Miss Martha found the wee white hillbilly hen had laid me an egg.  At long last! It was immediately packed up with five others to be delivered to Martha's house.

Proper McAnespies, dapper and a wee bit nebby.

Birds of a Feather

We have sixteen chickens now. Sadly, four of them are roosters which is three too many. The seven young ones (a gift from the ever generous Les) were kept apart from the others for about six weeks as the four roosters would have murdered them. When we reunited the flocks I kept two of the cockerels in the old run but their sister would not be parted from them and kept flying over the fence and lingering outside their gate. I gave in, let her join them. That group are known as the Hillbillies because of their incestuous lifestyle. And the female hasn't laid one single egg since she got there. I have to say that last year's egg hatching experiment, whilst exciting, ended in disappointment. Five chicks brought forth, three males and two females, then one female dispatched to Dr. Leitrim Sister's rushy fields whilst masquerading as a male. Our Dede didn't even want a rooster and, as it turned out, she didn't get one for Miss Rocky is laying well.

There are seven or eight eggs a day coming from the other lot, most of them from the young hens. They stick together and have adopted the young white rooster as their harem-master. They knock around together and roost in a row at night. Duke, the old rooster, makes do with the two old browns and the two old blacks. The two brown hens chum about and they hate the young girls. The black hens are pals too. Duke perches on another part of the roost with the black hens on one side and the brown ones on the other. Thankfully the run is big and they all have plenty of room but there is definitely a distinct pecking order at scoff time. The old browns are the boss hens and everyone except Duke gets chased off. When my lovely bantams were here they stuck together as well and did not get on with the others.

I'd love more Silkies and Pekins but I'm not sure I could cope with their inherent broodiness and too many boys hatching. Unless I can toughen up and turn the cockerels into a nice nourishing soup. Peter told me this evening that he dispatched his rooster for raping the ducks but hadn't the heart to eat him. I don't think I could eat mine either.

Bindweed and Beetroots

It was around ten days ago that I decided to manhandle a single bed mattress up the attic stairs. I could have waited for Bert to return from whatever errand he was on but I didn't. And even as I was hauling it up there I knew there would be a price to pay. The right shoulder was sore for a week. In the end, I had to resort to co-codamol and brave the wee lecture about addiction that the pharmacy assistant recites on each occasion (maybe once or twice a year) that I buy pain medication. I have this theory that painkillers, by alleviating the soreness, helps me to relax and it's the relief of tension that truly mends the hurt. Two days and eight co-codamol later I could feel myself beginning to feel better.

So out I went to clean the greenhouse which was overrun with bindweed and couch grass. Bad gardener! The grass was tough, not at all easy to pull but I yanked away with all my might. Guess I'll be dosing myself with tablets yet another night. Don't tell the wee lass in the pharmacy!

In other news, we missed Homeland* on Sunday night as Dr. Leitrim Sister was visiting. As was Prof. Swisser. Two doctors coming for supper! Bert wondered if he should mention his dodgy elbow but I told him not to be so puerile. What do Irish Academics eat, you may wonder. Well... they eat cheese and onion pie made with butter and newly laid eggs.  Professors also eat boiled beetroot, fresh from the garden, which Dr. Leitrim Sister wouldn't even lip. She doesn't know what she missed.**

* Watched it tonight.
** Pink pee.

It Jiffy Shoetree

Happy Birthday, Youngest Brother!