Pearlie Me

My mother-in-law Pearlie had some rare ideas at which Nellybert used to scoff. These notions came word-of-mouth and I dread to think what she would have gotten hold of if she had ever been subjected to social media. There was the collecting plastic bottle-tops craze. She had heard that if she managed to collect enough of these, somebody, somewhere, who was desperately in need of a wheelchair would receive one. Then there was the time she asked Bert to get her WD-40 as she had heard that this lubricant, if worked into the joints would ease the pain and stiffness of arthritis. How we laughed. Well. We’re not laughing now. Not now, when both of us are tortured with our knees.

 A good few years ago Bert was invited to take part in a trial being carried out by one of Swisser’s PhD students. He filled in a long questionnaire and duly received a full-body scan. Afterwards, when the results came in, Swisser informed us that her student had reported that Bert had the bone density typical of an 80-year-old woman with osteoarthritis. How we hooted at Swisser and her tall tales. Well, we’re not hooting now. Bert has his knees and I have mine. He’s been harpling about for awhile now and my own come and go. A careful reading of this blog would date the first mention of the Nelly knees to 2004 which I’d quite forgotten. I’d have said it was seven and a half years ago when Rusty inadvertently caused me to twist my left knee in a food-related incident. In fact, when my GP recently asked me how long my knees had been troubling me,

 I replied, 

Seven and a half years ago, when the pig knocked me down.

I might as well have said,

I am a crazy person and there is no need to take me seriously.

My GP is quite capable but does have an imaginary friend called Jesus and is totally bereft of humour.

But, to return to Pearlie and her ‘notions’. Listening to her back then I was quite certain I would never have notions for I was a rational human being. I think back on those days and laugh at myself. This recent knee thing began exactly two days after I had my first ever flu jab. ‘Rational me’ would say that this was a coincidence. ‘Pearlie me’ is certain that the pain in my aching joints, was an obvious reaction to the flu jab. ‘Rational me’ listened to every word of advice uttered by the GP and spent several long weeks applying his gel, and swallowing his tablets and not feeling one small bit better for it. Then ‘Pearlie me’ recalled words of advice given months before by a neighbour who swore that Battle’s Udder Cream (for cows) had worked wonders on his sore back. Apparently, huge numbers of dairy farmers had noticed that the application of this cream had eased the pain of their arthritic hands as well as alleviating daily wear and tear on their milker’s mammaries. I pondered this but it was not until my own brother told me that he had tried it on a friend’s advice and found it helpful that I sent my spouse up to Killyless Stores to get me a tub of it. Conversation as follows,

Killyless Stores: Is it for a cow you’re wanting it? 

Bert: No. It’s for my wife.

Killyless Stores: We do have rubs for pains, that are meant for people.

Bert: No. She has that. She wants the Udder Cream.

I had it in the house for ages and didn’t use it. Carried on with the GP recommended treatments. Had sleepless nights waking up with cramps, ups and downs, and this went on for weeks. Last night, before going to bed I applied the cow cream to both limbs, took two paracodal and had an unbroken night’s sleep. Woke up this morning, refreshed, my knees hugely improved and needed no pain relief this entire day. Probably just a coincidence. But, I’ll be using it again tonight, just in case.

A Bicycle Built For Three. Not

 

Tuesday. 

My sore left knee wasn't too bad today but in order to rest it, I planned a family meal that would be simple to prepare and easy to serve. Spaghetti Bolognese, followed by Pear and Ginger Crumble. This must have been a good year for pears because we have had two separate gifts of bags of delicious pears. The second lot, the ones I used on Tuesday did not look like much but they tasted great. There's a story about how they came to be. Our friend Ron bought the tree in Lidl a few years back. He carried it around in the boot of his car for the best part of a year then decided he ought to dispose of it. The pear tree, a mere stick, was propped up at the back of his flat for an entire winter, its root ball wrapped in hessian. He kept meaning to take it to the council dump. Spring came and his wife informed him that the tree was budding blossom. He decided to give it a chance and planted it out. The first year there was hardly a pear to be seen but since then it has cropped well, so much so, that he's giving them to everyone and it is even getting scrumped by well-dressed Englishwomen in silk scarfs and pashminas.

The other thing that happened on Tuesday was I decided to pop down to the village to buy some Ben and Jerrys to go with the crumble. I haven't been driving but reckoned I could manage it. And then as I was climbing into our van something went in my right knee and afterwards, I could barely walk. It's only starting to ease now. Bert and the girls did the ice cream run and I was glad that dinner was all prepared except for the pasta. Zoe sorted that.

Watched The Crown.

Wednesday

I spent most of the day lying on the sofa, reading and resting. Called Kerry Sister to wish her well on her upcoming major surgery.

Watched The Crown.

Thursday

Bert collected Martha and Evie from school. I can walk now but would rather not drive.

Watched The Crown.

Friday

Kerry Sister's big operation. That's what Matty and her sisters would have called it. From five onwards my phone was never out of sight or hearing. The update came from my niece. It had gone well.

Watched The Crown

Saturday

My knee was feeling much better. I even got a few non-essential chores completed. But it is boring not being able to go out, even if it is only to the local shop.

Katy sent us all this picture of Miss Emily in her Ireland supporter's outfit. Very cheering to see even though the game did not go Ireland's way. It was a win-win situation for Emily as she is half English, or is it a quarter English and a quarter Welsh? 

Finished Watching The Crown.

Sunday

Long and tedious day. Clint came round and was tedious about Brexit. Still thinks it is going to be great. Doesn't like Biden. Says he is a Republican. What he means by that is that he fears 46 would support a United Ireland. Personally, I think the new President will have enough to be getting on with in his own country to be troubling himself about us.

Heard that Kerry Sister is taking little walks and hopes to be home in a few days. She has only one episode of The Crown left to watch. As I have none there is only one thing left to do and that is to update Nelly's Garden.

Fooling Around

It must be all of two months now since Bert got the new phone and Martha showed us both all the cool things he could do with it, like the panoramic view function. The girls preferred to take crazy disjointed photographs like this one.

And this one.

When it was my turn I took this shot of the front of the house. It was taken in the second week in September and there are a lot of incomplete projects in it. They are still mostly unfinished.

What Do Old People Talk About?

I have been tending the Garden that is Nelly's for sixteen years now and must be well past the halfway point. If this blog could be kept going another sixteen I'll be in my 84th year. Can't see it. What do old people talk about anyway? 

Yesterday I was looking through old posts using the search word 'knee' and found that that I have had intermittent knee pain for at least seven and a half years and that it all began with Rusty. The following from Nelly's Archive.

It was last September when Rusty first knocked me off my feet and he has went and gone and did it again. I was carrying a gigantic bucket of goodies down to their paddock and while I was looking for a sweet, clean place to dump it out, Rusty all impatience, barrelled through my legs and lifted me off my feet. Yes folks, for a split second or so I was sitting atop his broad back and he just kept barrelling on and I knew for certain I was for landing on my arse. Wish I'd followed through on that one for all I'd have got would have been a soft if muddy landing. But I thought it best to try to stay on my feet and that was my downfall. People, when trying to extol the virtues of the smaller pig, say, "They'll only grow to knee height." That is all very well but they forget to mention that the 'small' pig will likely grow to around two foot wide. I know that when Rusty dove between my legs I ended up standing on tippy-toes with my legs well extended and it was when I tried to keep my balance that I twisted my knee.

Oh! The agony. At first I couldn't even put my foot on the ground. As I stood there one-legged, crying with pain and frustration I really had no idea how I was going to make it back to the house. After a few minutes I found I could weight bear but it was no fun and I made my way slowly and uncertainly to the house. Bert was, as usual, totally unsympathetic although he did help me off with my wellies which were very filthy indeed. (May, 2013)

I spent many months limping on that twisted knee but it did get better eventually. Nelly's Archive has this to say on Christmas Eve, 2013.

It's been another busy day. Lots of friends calling round and lots of baking and cooking. I felt a bit like Nigella except her kitchen is nicer than mine and obvs she has access to better drugs. All I had was some paracetamol for my sore knee.

And regarding that sore knee - I was striding through Cully yesterday when it occurred to me that my knee hadn't troubled me for well over a week. Within moments it had started to throb. I wonder if it had been sore the whole time but I'd forgotten about it? The mind is a very curious thing. (Dec, 2013)

I don’t subscribe to conspiracy theories but when both my knees started to hurt just two days after receiving my first ever flu jab, I couldn’t help but wonder if my aching joints were caused by the jab. I’d not been doing anything unusually strenuous and had not hurt myself and now, both knees were equally sore. The aching and discomfort came and went. After a week I started taking ibuprofen during the day and paracetamol to help me sleep at night. I was careful not to overdo it. There were good days and not so good. Then it was not so good and bad. Today, after limping out to feed the chickens and put the bins out I put my left foot on the back doorstep and was unable to go any further. The pain in my leg was horrible. I managed to drag myself into the house. For hours I could not weight bear and of course I phoned my GP and had a telephone consultation. He thinks it is something called a Baker cyst which may have ruptured. I have a cream to pick up tomorrow and I'm already taking the medication he would have prescribed. (Brownie points for self-funding on that.) Appointment on Friday and I'm to rest a lot.

So, to answer my own question, this is what old people talk about. Hurtings and sorenesses. What the doctor said. And crumbling away.

I had this conversation with Matty eleven years ago when, compared to my ancient mammy, I still considered myself relatively young. The title says it all. 

Mostly Up

What a week this has been. It was a heartbreaking one for Zoe and family that their little dog Miss Gracie had to be put to sleep. It was a wrench as she'd part of their family for fifteen years. But she got a special place in our garden. It was only fitting when we think of the numerous funerals that Martha and Evie carried out for all sorts of creatures from shrews to unborn chickens. This burial was far more real and painful.

Dave's picture

Evie's ninth birthday was on Tuesday and everyone put their sadness for the loss of Gracie on hold so that Evie could enjoy her day, the special birthday that will be her last in single numbers. I made supper and, though I say it myself, it was a big success meaning that everyone enjoyed it and had second helpings.

We did not discuss the election taking place in the USA although Evie had previously said that she wanted America to have a new President. And speaking of presidents I am pleased to say that throughout the Trump years I never (except once, when only Bert heard me) put the President word before the Trump word. And it felt like swearing in church.

Then I spent the rest of the week paying an unhealthy amount of attention to the news coming from across the Atlantic. It was worrying at first. No landslide for President-Elect Biden. Eventually, by Saturday all came good and Biden was called. I realised that I actually know far more about the American political system than I do about Ireland's and there's me hoping to become an Irish citizen with voting rights before I die.

Today is Remembrance Sunday. Is it only me or does this day seem to come round really quickly, even oftener than Christmas? I noted that the PM had made some effort and combed his hair and that Andrew of York was banished from the ceremony. All's as it should be.

Neat Eyed Division

 Another day, another birthday party.

Evie's. What age? solve the anagram in the title, or easier still, count the candles. She has a special birthday wish but we won't know for a little while if it will come true.

It was a real privilege to give you your birthday supper Miss Evie.

Dog Years

Ten years ago Miss Martha and Miss Gracie attended Bark In The Park in the Ecos Centre. Here they are discussing Bonnie's chances of winning Best Rescue Dog. Bonnie's there in the background with Ben Reed

Ten years isn't that long a time for a human bean. Miss Martha is looking at her last year in primary school. Ben Reed is learning to drive. Bonnie is long gone and Miss Gracie will be leaving us soon. Dog years just don't last long enough.

Screech

 All was going well with the Radio 3 all through the night plan. The weird noises in my ears were bearable and I listened to some unfamiliar sounds and had good second thoughts about some familiar ones. For instance, the Carpenters - I'd no interest in them back in the 70s when they were all over the charts. They were too soft, too middle-of-the-road for my liking. But - Karen Carpenter covering John Lennon's Ticket To Ryde? Sublime. Even Lennon himself said the Carpenters did it better. I listened to a lot of Hannah Peel (no relation to John, as far as I know) and she played some interesting tracks, many the night I drifted off...

Then last night. I awakened at some early hour to a screeching soprano. Dear God! It was worse than tinnitus. I got up to turn the volume down and took note of what was playing, Joseph Bodin de Boismortier - Les Voyages de l'Amour. For research at a later date..

So I'm researching it right now, playing on YouTube as I type this. It's not as jarring as it was last night but it won't be going on my top ten operatic favourites any time soon.  

Sabine Devieilhe & Marianne Crebassa

Had it been these two lovely women that woke me from my slumbers, I would have found it a great deal more soothing. I did get back to sleep eventually and wakened at a reasonable hour from a horrible dream of an unmet essay deadline.

Tinnitus

 I've only recently become aware of a sort of rushing, hissing sound in my ears. It's always there, but it's low-level. During the day I don't notice it. It's at night, when I'm in bed that I hear it most and it has started to make me feel stressed. For at night it's SO LOUD.

That's one problem. Another problem is - what sort of image can I use to illustrate a blog post about tinnitus? Well. The noise in my head is not the only thing that is causing me anxiety. What about Covid-19? That's a huge pisser. Always there at the back of my mind, impacting everything. My nephew tested positive. He's OK, thanks be. My brother had a much-longed-for holiday cancelled for the umpteenth time. One sister has tinnitus far worse than me and she had an appointment with a specialist postponed indefinitely. A very close family member had her wedding cancelled at the last minute. And, most difficult of all, another of my sisters is currently undergoing treatment for cancer and as well as that anxiety, she and her family have to be extremely careful about shielding.

Anyway, here's my chosen image. A snippet from First Dog on the Moon which encapsulates another one of my current anxieties.

I did a bit of research on tinnitus and knowing that there is no point in seeking help from my GP as it is hardly that big a deal in the circumstances, I decided to find my own cure. Distraction. I take my radio to bed and tune it to Radio 3, turn the volume down and drift off to sleep. If I wake up (and I usually do) I don't think about the stupid noise in my head, I just listen to the radio. They play some weird stuff at night. Baritones singing Auld Lang Syne in Russian, tinkly things, obscure operas. This particular night after I'd wakened, peed and returned to bed there was a very shrieky soprano singing so I thought I'd change channels. Radio 4 had someone expounding the necessity for a Trump second term, so I moved to Classic FM hoping for a similar soporific effect. Head on pillow. What's this? A childish voice prates,

Grandad had two strokes, now he has vascular dementia...

Leap from bed. Back to Radio 3. Who wants to hear stuff like that in the middle of the night?

I Discover The Murdocks

 In the year 1910, the village of Cullybackey boasted three blacksmiths. These days blacksmiths are thinner on the ground and, as far as I know, they tend to concentrate on shoeing horses. Am I wrong about this, Corinne Robb?

The painted backdrop suggests spacious country houses

My family tree searching (snooping) has thrown up one blacksmith. His name was Patrick Murdock and he was Bert's great-great-grandfather. I don't know where he plied his trade but it seems he lived in Dreen which is only a step or two down the road. The thing about Bert's family is that they didn't stay put. If they weren't heading off to Australia or Canada they were flitting back and forth from Scotland. Mostly they avoided England which was very sensible of them. When I first met Bert I thought him short of blood relations but my research (snooping) has proved me wrong. 

I happened to mention to him the other day,

Y'know there are more people on my side of the family got murdered than on yours.

Oh.

But on your side there seem to be more criminals.

Really?

Your lot aren't very religious. We've got a good scattering of priests and nuns and a really big family of Independent Fundamentalist Baptists in Iowa.

Will you be visiting the Iowa crowd?

Wise up! Although I'm sure they'd make me welcome.

Nice lacquered cabinet in that picture. Photographer's own I should think.

Perhaps the worst thing I discovered so far is that one of his (same name) Scottish second cousins married a woman from Florida who is a fervent Trumpatorian. She's got the hat and everything. I haven't discovered one of those on our side. Yet.

There is always a chair with barley twist spindles.

I've still to establish who the mutton-chopped man and the serious child are. The lovely woman in the first picture is Bert's maternal grandmother. And I'm still working on the Murdocks and haven't got any further than 1911. They're leaving blacksmithing behind so I may be losing interest in them. 

Worry Guts

Some of the photographs in this post will have little to do with its subject matter. They are merely there to pad it out and make it look pretty.

I'm worried that I'm getting too fat. This will never trouble Lily

When I have worries I bury them under an obsession. My current obsession is researching Bert's family tree. Tonight I am obsessed with his first cousins, once removed, that emigrated to Queensland. Bert is under the impression that these cousins are very far out relations because, in his family, emigration to Queensland changed first cousins once removed to fourth cousins, removed 9581 miles away.

My main worry is Covid 19. And because of that, I got my very first flu jab today which is not as stupid as it sounds because now, if I get flu-like symptoms, I'll know straight away that it is the White House Virus. The flu jab experience was interesting. It took place in a church hall and was well organised. Lots of masking up, social distancing, temperature taking and fellow boomers. I'm interested in other oldsters. Like to see how they are getting on. I listened hard when they were telling the assistant their dates of birth. You're ten years older than moi? I like the cut of your jib. Doing well. Not too tottery. We'd been asked to wear short sleeves. one dear hadn't got the memo and was encased in the tightest, white jumper in the world. She had to heft it off and expose her sensible white underpinnings. Out of decency, I averted my gaze but not before noting that she seemed to be wearing a liberty bodice. No doubt inherited from her own grandmother.

Must be time for another random photograph.

The third one along is Bert's father Johnny. The other two were keen gardeners who used to frequent our nursery. The one hiding behind the standard fuchsia was very keen on fuchsia. The guy in the middle was a rose man. The day that Johnny died he was in our yard first thing wanting to buy more rose bushes. I told him we weren't open for business, that Bert's father had died. He still wanted roses. I remember thinking him very callous. That photograph was taken three years before Johnny died, twenty-six years ago. They will all be gone now. The man behind the fuchsia was a sweetheart. That's all I remember. Not his name, just how I felt about him.

Twenty-six years later I can understand the rose man better. Death was unfamiliar to me, I wasn't used to it.

I have worries closer to home. They must be kept in a box with a tight lid and several bricks piled on top. Johnny, the third guy along, told me once that there is no point in worrying, it didn't make anything any better. I should keep that in mind.

This picture grounds me. What is all this worrying shit? Just grow your hair, tie it in a man-bun, wear a blue boiler suit, pile your two oldest grandchildren on to a rickety bike, and speed race around the house while they squeal with glee. 

And leave the worrying to other people. People like me. Now back to Queensland. 

Dancing

Some people just love to dance. I am not one of them. Two left feet, self-conscious, ungainly. I envy the dancers. Given another life to live I would have put more effort into it and danced like no-one was watching.

.

Belligerent

 Why are you so belligerent?

Said Bert,  speaking to me, his wife.

Belligerent? I think not. Belligerence is defined as hostile and aggressive, while I am only impatient and assertive. I have lost patience with stupid and am not afraid to say so.

And I am starting to realise that my husband is somewhat less feminist than I have previously given him credit for. 

But to lighten my mood here is a lovely picture of some flowers. I think they may be centaurea, rudbeckia and something else I cannot remember.

It's not Bert that is stupid, it's just that he is perfectly OK with some other people being stupid.

One Gets To Wondering

 ...or, what's it all about?

Martha just wants to do dangerous tricks on Bert's old bicycle. By the way, she informed me that I have a bicycle. I'd forgotten.

Dangerous tricks accomplished, Martha felt it was time she learned to drive Bert's ancient Ford. 

 Bert probably learned on that same tractor himself. You'd hardly know it, but it was in for a recent refurb. There were great plans mooted but Bert settled for a few engine improvements and some new mudguards. All the better to sit on when the latest child learns to drive it. Uncle Joe said, and I quote,

Yes, learn on the wee Ford and when Bert buys a new Fendt she will be up to speed.

It will never happen. Mudguards are as far as Bert goes.

Meanwhile, Evie looks forward to her ninth birthday on the 3rd of November. She only wants one present, or should I say, president.

Look Back In Bemusement

 I have been toodling around with genealogy for more than twenty years now and often I'll leave it alone for years on end. Now that I have more free time I'm finding myself becoming obsessed. I'm at it at least once a year, and often for weeks on end. It doesn't help that my oldest daughter, at least one sister and several cousins are equally interested because that only encourages me.

Which is why I haven't blogged for over a week.  

The oldest daughter tempted me to try a free month on Ancestry and I really did think that would be enough. Instead, I found myself buying an extra month so I could get stuck into all those Australian, Canadian, and American kinfolks. It has been both frustrating and fascinating.

I spent several evenings digesting 1950s newspapers centred around the Trangie area in New South Wales searching for news of Bert's Robinson kinfolk. They led not particularly exciting lives holidaying in each other's homesteads all of which were extensively reported in the local paper. Also considered newsworthy were purchases of new Ford cars or the shooting of wild boars that had been worrying sheep. They all lived between Trangie and Dubbo and a trip to Sydney was a big highlight. Bert has relatives (supposedly) in Dubbo to this day as do I although I'm not sure if they know each other. Bert's lot moved from the North Antrim hills to become farmers and my lot travelled from Belfast to make their livings any way they could. I tracked, through Facebook, a descendant of those early Robinson farmers and he'd made the news and not in a good way. Living on a property, dry as a bone, where no crops have been raised in nearly a decade and trucking in grape by-products from the wine-growing areas to feed his cattle. It seems that my relatives in keeping clear of farming have had far better outcomes in life. 

One thing I have learned is that sites like Ancestry, like so much on the internet, cannot be trusted. Take those Dubbo relatives. About thirty years ago Bert's lot got word that a couple of young folk from Dubbo were in Ireland to seek their ancestral roots. It turned out that most of their Irish relatives were very elderly and because Bert was still on the young side we were encouraged to meet up. At that time in our lives, Nellybert were very sociable and keen on partying and the brother and sister from Dubbo were invited to a social gathering at which the young lady was very well-behaved and her brother anything but.

We met a few times and the final get-together was to be in Belfast. That never happened because although we were all in the city we couldn't make it to the agreed meeting spot in the Crown Bar as the Europa Hotel, which is opposite that pub took another hit that day. 

Back to the present day and with all the internet and Ancestry at my disposal I decided to find out how those far-out Dubbo cousins were connected to Bert. I found out that their dad had died recently and conveniently, he was in possession of an unusual forename so it was easier to trace his ancestry. I was very excited for Robinson is a common surname. But, what's this! Mr Unusual Forename, married to a Miss Robinson completely by-passed Bert's ancestor Joseph Robinson who had emigrated from Carnbuck to Trangie in his eighties and instead our so-called imposter cousins from Dubbo are descended from Mr George Robinson, convict of Manchester, England. 

Or maybe Ancestry UK got it wrong again. Like I said, frustrating.

Sunflowers and Ava

It's summer's last kick (really early autumn) and it's sunflower time again. As ever, I sowed too many and successes were few.

This one was a 12-footer growing in the polytunnel where it collapsed on to Zoe's sweetcorn patch. Too fresh and lovely to throw on the compost heap and far too heavy to arrange conventionally. 

These dark orange sunflowers are my favourites,,,

...while small tortoiseshells seem to prefer a traditional sunflower.

Sunflowers were a big favourite of Ava's too and because she died in the first weeks of September they will ever be associated with her memory. Exactly one year ago today since she was laid to rest in her hometown Antrim. 

 

Ava Grace Byrne 2011-2019

 

 

27 Years

The birthday cake was yesterday because birthday cake is always on a Tuesday because that is when Martha, Evie, and their loving parents come for supper. There is no point in birthday cake unless Martha and Evie are there. For candlelight becomes them. I only wish James and Emily could have been there too. 

James was otherwise occupied. He started big school this week and I hear he was disappointed. He said big school was 'too tiny'. 

Today, Jazzer took Bert shopping for a new phone, his first smartphone. I think he is secretly pleased with it even though he said it was 'shite' because he doesn't know how to work it. In a week he will. I'm jealous of the camera and will probably be borrowing it to photograph my moth catches.

Did I mention that we have bees again? They came on Sunday evening. Fingers crossed they will stay with us.

Back to Jazzer. She reminded me that she first met me on my fortieth birthday. The title of this post refers to the length of time that we have known each other. How did I get to be this old?

Meadow Making

I should have brought my camera so that I could have taken a 'before' shot and pictures of the little calves who are doing their best to chomp all that farm grass down, helping me to make a meadow. But I was burdened. I had some water mint roots to plant beside the stream and a trowel to plant them. I had a big bowl of yellow rattle seeds and a litter picker to gather the trash that car sluts throw from their windows. I had a big plastic bag to collect the rubbish. With all that I couldn't manage a camera as well.

The calves followed me everywhere but I did not find them intimidating. I worried that they weren't hungry enough to eat all the grass that needs eating. They are far fonder of calf meal. In an ideal world, they'd all still be with their mothers. But there they all were, orphan boys, following the strange human around the field, partly curious, part in the hope she might have something for them to eat.

It was a pleasant job, scattering the seed, tramping it down with my feet. I'll return to it.

Some meadow inspiration that I visited a couple of months ago. This meadow was created by Donna Rainey, a volunteer with the Don't Mow, Let It Grow project.

Another picture taken on that visit. Hard to believe that a few years back this field was being intensively farmed for silage. It's easily ten times the size of our little meadow. And it all started with a good scalping and a load of hand-sown yellow rattle seed. 

If anyone was looking for me this evening between 4:20pm and 5:10pm I would have been just outside the chicken run, hiding behind a fine specimen of Angelica Sylvestris whilst keeping a close eye on the hen known as Jacqueline. This particular hen is renowned for 'laying out' and I was trying to determine if she had a nest nearby. 

Currently, we have 12 hens and 2 roosters and are averaging around two eggs per day. This is unsatisfactory considering the amount of high-quality chicken feed I am shovelling into them daily. Five of those hens are recent additions and I had high hopes for them. Unfortunately, they came with an unnecessary rooster but, as they say, one cannot look a gift horse in the mouth. We'd just got rid of a surplus rooster and our hens,  relieved from the stress of the demands of two randy cocks, had rewarded us with increased laying. Two weeks later, another useless rooster turns up and the hens stressed to the max and the two tribes are hating on each other and are not earning their keep.

So there was Nelly, crouching among the thistles, nettles, brambles, Robin run the hedge and the angelica keeping a very tight eye on Jacqueline. And Jacqueline, feigning all indifference, kept a tight and beady eye on Nelly and refused to give up the location of the nest which, I'm certain, must have brimmed with at least two dozen eggs. 

Hens are reputed to be of low intelligence yet I suspect they feel the same about us for I am constantly outsmarted by them. Hens are cunning devils and I wish, I really wish I loved chicken broth as much as I love eggs.

Yellow Rattle Seeds

 On Friday afternoon, Rachael, Ziggy, Twins and myself went off in search of yellow rattle seeds. Our first stop was a bit of managed meadow outside Rasharkin. Yellow rattle is a useful plant for establishing meadow flowers because it's roots attach to the grass roots, stealing the nutrients which weakens the grass, allowing native wildflowers to flourish. That's why meadow makers love it, and farmers not so much.

We were able to gather a good quantity of the seed while leaving plenty to spread further into the meadow. Meanwhile, William and his sister took turns looking after Ziggy.

Young William running through the meadow. 

Back at home two of the four swallows in the shed had just fledged. They hung around for a couple of days but today they are out flying around and fending for themselves.