The Archers at The Larches

Show Jumping at The Larches

noreply@blogger.com (Lou) — Wed, 22 May 2013 21:25:34 PDT

Thanks to our naughtiest lamb, Cocoa, [owner: the 10yo] Bracken, one of our alpacas, leapt the fence to her paddock and ended up in our neighbour's field. Grrrr. Chops for tea anyone? It is typical that the Hubby is away this week in Italy. Poor him!

The 10yo, 8yo and I were calling the lambs for bed time in the stables this evening, (- yes we are soft,) and they were being typical youngsters; refusing to comply and hiding behind the field shelter. After tons of coaxing I semi gave up and stood still, half way up the paddock, dreaming of wine. The 10yo, who had insisted the lambs come in because of the bitter wind, collapsed in the grass. Cocoa, Bambina and Oreo, sensing our defeat, leapt about a bit kicking their lambsy legs to this side and that and then stood defiant, 'king-of-the-castle-style,' on gigantic conifer stumps.

The alpacas were intrigued by all the madness and finally ventured towards the lambs. Cocoa delighted as Anabelle, the palomino alpaca, sniffed her and in joy she gave a great lambsy leap into the air, frightening the beejeesus out of the chocolate camelid, Bracken.

Bracken took off and leapt over a decent sized fence, off our property and onto our neighbour's land.

To cut a long story very short, it took almost two hours to return her to our paddock. We took our time partly because of her pregnancy and partly because it's bloody tricky to catch an alpaca, even trickier to move them once they refuse and sit down. 'Nuff said.

Our neighbours need medals for services beyond the call of duty. I must say that since moving to the middle of nowhere I have never been more reliant on the kindness of neighbours (oh and the spooky 'alpaca-whisperer' talent of the 10yo.)

After a big glass of wine I feel much calmer and, bearing in mind that it is almost 9pm, I would very much like to go to bed now with more wine and the TV remote to watch Chelsea Flaar Show, unfortunately I still need to lock up the chooks. Sob.

Onward and upward.

P.S. Dear God, please turn off the wind machine and could you move the Gulf Stream back northwards please?

Love Lou.

The Llamas at The Larches.... (actually they're Alpacas but that didn't rhyme!)

noreply@blogger.com (Lou) — Mon, 20 May 2013 14:56:49 PDT

We had an interesting weekend; a party in Henley-on-Thames for The Entrepreneur, a good friend. A flying visit to my sister and family in Guildford.

'Thank you,' I called to her from the car window as we headed off back to deepest Shropshire, to lambs and sheep, chicks and cats, 'Thank you for almost having us....' She laughed, she knows we're mad.

We were home by midnight and the sproglets, Hubby and I fell exhausted into our beds.

As usual, the next morning I awoke at 6am for a bit of thinking time. I'd be a good milkman as I love to get up early. I especially like the time in the morning where it's just me and the coffee, oh and the cats, er yes, and the lambs, oh and not forgetting the chicks...... Oh for God's sake!... my mornings have been invaded.

Anyhoo, this Sunday morning was glorious, the sun beating down, the coffee hot. After opening up and feeding the broods I wandered about the gardens perusing the plants that hadn't yet been eaten by lambs.

Late morning when the sproglets and hubby had finally emerged from their beds, I was free to mow the walled garden and tidy as loudly as I liked.

After an impromptu BBQ lunch and a decadent glass of wine, I wandered off to assess whether the 10yo's rare breed chicken compound needed to move to fresh ground. It did and I was just in the throes of catching the massivo rooster when the 8yo started screaming somewhere in the distance...

'Mum, Mum!'

I thought something really bad had happened, a death at least.

'Mum, there's a trailer with llamas in it.'

I assumed someone was lost, way off the beaten track, asking for directions.

'Dad's bought llamas,' the 8yo insisted.

I knew this was impossible but in order to soften the disappointment that the 8yo was sure to feel when they drove off, I thought I'd best come and see what all the fuss was about.

Rounding the side of the house there was indeed a livestock trailer on the drive, worryingly the ramp was down and Hubby was grinning from ear to ear. The 10yo stood, gobsmacked, staring into the cavity while the 8yo was in rapture.

'They're ours, they're Alpacas. Daddy's bought Alpacas. I love you Dad,' he repeated over and over.

They were. He had.

Gob. Smacked.

Did I mention they're both pregnant?

Lordy love a duck! Scary but so exciting. I'm amazed I had no idea they were coming.... what a fab Hubby.

Next instalment when the shock and awe has worn off a bit. A big welcome to Anabelle and Bracken.

Lou

Chick Flick......

noreply@blogger.com (Lou) — Sun, 19 May 2013 15:06:41 PDT

We have 6 chicks to date, more on the way. The Bantams are blissfully unaware that they are foster parents!

I was a little worried by our style of birthing centre this time; Housed in a converted cupboard inside a 3m x 3m secure compound, 3 Bantams sit close together incubating 15 eggs. Far from being a problem, their close proximity has meant that the three 'would-be' mothers have shared the chick care: They take turn sitting on the eggs, scratting with the hatched babies outside the coop and at night the chicks snuggle under which ever mother is closest. A great family model.

Emerging from hibernation: The Lesser Spotted Archers at The Larches

noreply@blogger.com (Lou) — Sat, 11 May 2013 00:27:20 PDT

I've been busy here... at night, instead of blogging, I sleep. Sorry.

Mind you, during the day [my days seem to comprise more hours than the standard 24] I squeeze in a marketing job, minimal housework, dinners etc, bottle washing, lamb feeding, the chickens and, now that my garden is just beginning to recover from 18 months of rubbish weather, a spot of seed sowing and land management. I'm considering a day off tomorrow at Malvern Spring Show, though that said, it's pouring from the sky today and if this weather continues I might just join the lambs in the stables who are huddled around a heat lamp!

Lambs are lively little things and love nothing more than play time with the sproglets! [If you can't see this video in email format click the title of the post to be transported to my blog.]

I've three Bantam hens sitting on approximately 15 eggs. None of the eggs belong to the Bantams, instead they are sitting on a mixed brood of Welsummers, Salmon Faverelles and Heinz57's! I'm praying that the hatchlings will be mainly hens rather than roosters but you never can tell. With luck they'll hatch next week when the weather may again improve, it's dreadful at the moment.

Here at The Larches we favour animals being free to wander. Our chooks are free range as soon as they're big enough to withstand the advances of the two cats. Recently we released the, now grown, Salmon Faverelles; the 10yo's rare breed chickens. This did not go well; our original rooster, Road Runner, who is half the size of Lucky the new boy but twice as aggressive, decided to pick a fight to the death with the new interloper. But for The Hubby's interference, one or both roosters would have needed hospitalization.

After spraying combs and necks with purple antiseptic spray we returned the rare breed chickens to their 3m x 3m enclosure. Sad.

Wondering what to do next, Hubby and I pondered our options until a neighbour appeared asking if we had a spare rooster to take care of his 40+ hens! Was he sent by St Francis of Assisi I wondered? A summit of Archers was required to see if the sproglets would agree terms with the neighbour, money was never an option, the children were more concerned that rooster would be sad at being forced into exile. In the end we all agreed that the neighbour could 'borrow' rooster and that afternoon we placed him in a dark box and walked down the bridlepath, passing one neighbour's land, across the small village road and down the hill to our next neighbour's property.

We locked rooster in a shed located a the bottom of field on the neighbour's land and 40 hens clucked at him through the door. He was clearly furious but he needed to be locked in for a couple of days, with food and water of course, in order to imprint his new home to his memory.

Two days later he'd escaped. He was soon spotted by our closest neighbour as he jumped into his hen compound. Before Road Runner had time to completely murder our neighbour's prize rooster, he was caught (again) and taken back to his new home.

Two further days and he had escaped again, this time he avoided our neighbour and came back home to us, his real home. Who knew roosters had homing pigeon instincts?!

I get the hint. He can stay. The sproglets and our hens are delighted. The rare breed chooks will need a bigger compound! Sheesh!

Blank canvas.

noreply@blogger.com (Lou) — Mon, 25 Mar 2013 08:58:33 PDT

Dear God.

I know you are busy but I was wondering if, when spring finally arrives, it would be possible to make it prolonged as I've barely had the inclination to open Carol Klein's veg book this year and I'm very behind with my sowing?

Best wishes.

Lou

St. Patrick's Day white stuff....

noreply@blogger.com (Lou) — Sun, 17 Mar 2013 00:54:56 PDT

As we toddled to bed last night Hubby remarked on the snow. I thought he was joking, having heard no mention of it on the forecast. Peering out into the darkness across the driveway and towards the fields I could see my black car was white!

I'm in need of sun. I don't mean holiday-in-the-Caribbean kind of sun, just a bit of blue sky and brightness that is a usual spring here in Blighty. I feel as if I have seen grey skies or fog-fug or blue-black rain skies for nigh on 18 months.

The other day I began fantasising about the creation of a giant hair dryer, pointed at the sky, diverting cloud cover, pollution and hopefully the ruddy jet stream. [Oxford and Cambridge get your thinking caps on.]

Note to self: Get off the soap box now!

OK, I'm back. Positive mental altitude required.

On an up-note, the sweet peas I planted in October are romping along and so, two weeks ago, I took these pots and some pots of perpetual peas planted in December and placed them on a table in the walled garden. The table faces south east and their backs are against a 25' Shropshire stone wall, home to our gossipy sparrows and tits.

I am always amazed at the resilience of sweet peas, if they have been grown hard they merely bow their heads to frost or snow. Obviously if frost was sustained I would have protected them but fortunately the white stuff has been manageable this year.

Today is traditionally the day to plant potatoes; St Patrick's Day. The snow has rather put me off. Instead I will don boots and put on a good coat to open up the chickens and check on the sheep. Then I might sow some seeds or have a spring clean of the potting shed. Good jobs for a Sunday. Hubby and Son are creating a wooden, stand-alone, nest box for the 10yo's Salmon Faverelle chickens, as they've grown so enormous they have begun squashing their own eggs in their coop. If I'm feeling robust I may even barrow some muck to the raised beds, though that may be tricky if the ground is frozen again under the snow.

This afternoon we are hunting eggs, the chocolate kind, at a school event. Here's hoping the organisers haven't hidden all white chocolate eggs or we may never find them!

Till next time.

Lou

Having a think......

noreply@blogger.com (Lou) — Sun, 10 Mar 2013 05:14:20 PDT

There's plenty in my head to write about, maybe too much.

Since last I wittered, (a long time ago,) the seasons have stagnated and I'm fairly convinced that just one season remains - a wet one. The fields are still sodden, our animals are damp and though the snowdrops are still showing off, (if your snowdrops have come and gone by now you must remember we are high above sea level here and consequently a couple of weeks behind warmer parts of the UK) and the daff heads are swelling for their turn, the jury's out whether this will be a good year.

I heard a lovely story, though can't recall where, was it Bob Flowerdew?.... he called a garden centre and asked if they had any snowdrops for sale in the green....... 'Sorry' said the lady on the end of the phone, 'We only have white ones.' Bless.

***

Another excuse for not writing is that I'm back to work, supporting a vocational school. A worthy cause actually.

I've sowed some seeds. Some have foundered, some have not. There must be a glimmer of optimism.

Chilli (Tabasco), tomato and Cerinthe are all doing well. Modules of Rose Campion are beginning to spurt. I'm checking the Dahlia and Cosmos plants of last year, protected over winter. Life looks unlikely, but then again I'm surprised by plants each and every year. They may just need a little more warmth; I'm hoping that rumours of last Tuesday being the summer of 2013 are untrue.

Sweet Pea, sown in October, December and then again in January are also doing well. I gazed at a label for one of the sowings, wondering what variety Leominster was. I couldn't find or recall the packet. It came to me later; these were the perpetual strong pink Sweet Pea pods I'd pilfered from a pub in Leominster.

Plant pilfering seems less of a crime as I head towards 50. 50! I remember my mother taking cuttings from some concrete and pebble planters, (must have been the 70's,) outside an impressive insurance company. I was mortified, especially when I looked up and saw the security guard inside, heading towards the glass entrance doors. We'd been spotted.

My mum was totally engrossed and there was nowhere to hide, we were going to prison and my younger sister and brother would have to go into care, as all dad could cook was breakfast egg-flips, a revolting mixture of warm milk, sugar and raw egg shaken to a frenzy and gulped down. Urgh!

The guard descended the steps towards us, instantly authoritative in his dark suit, shiny buttons and banded cap.

'There's better bits round the back in the car park; reds and blues.' he said and smiled. Clearly a fellow pilferer. Holy cow, who can you trust nowadays?

***

According to our cats spring is deffo here; their gifts of the hindquarters of Easter bunnies secreted behind the sofa in the kitchen bearing testimony to the fact.

Well, it's been nice chatting, I've enjoyed dipping my toe in the wittering water..... I'll be back soon I hope..

Lou

There's snow business like snow snow business..

noreply@blogger.com (Lou) — Mon, 28 Jan 2013 06:27:51 PST

Much as I loved the snow I am thrilled it has now gone..... sorry kids! However, I did get some lovely snow shots even if they weren't a patch on my pal's; Sue Flood's stunning arctic, wildlife photography. Check out her website here.

My pics are a little more parochial! Christmas-cardy?

Roll on Spring!

[Pics are my own, please don't reproduce or use without permission. Thanks]

Another Next Big Thing......

noreply@blogger.com (Lou) — Mon, 28 Jan 2013 03:11:41 PST

Not a book this time but rather a wonderful talented recycler: Kate Holbrook is an ethical business woman selling the most gorgeous Hugs, a versatile, circular garment made from once loved jumpers. At her Shropshire based company Turtle Doves, she also sells elegant fingerless gloves that double as wrists warmers. She is a wonder and I think a Hug is an essential wardrobe item. Check out her demonstration here.

The Next Big Thing.... A Hug

The Next Big Thing...

noreply@blogger.com (Lou) — Mon, 28 Jan 2013 08:26:35 PST

I’m chuffed to have been tagged in a meme entitled 'The Next Big Thing' by the poet Elizabeth Darcy Jones. Elizabeth is an innovative poet and is Britain's Tea Poet. She is currently working on an exciting project for Mothers Day. This blog tag demands that I tell you about my next book so here I go!

What is the working title of your next book?
The Perrys at The Berries is a fictionalised account of a family of four, Sophie and James, mum and dad, and their children Izzy, 5, and Seb, 4, who decide to change their lives by moving from London to rural Shropshire. To be fair, I'm not sure of the title yet, it was born out of the blog The Archers at The Larches which is, as you know, factual not fictional.

What genre does your book fall under?
It is a romantic comedy though some of it is rather black.

Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?

Wow, really hard question. Rosamund Pike would be perfect for Sophie. Her characterisation of Jane Bennet in Pride and Prejudice was so endearing.

In my mind James looks like the actor Scott Speedman. James, thirty-something, needs to be vulnerable yet manly.... Let me know if you have any other suggestions.

What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?
Moving house from London to Shropshire may have been just 150 miles by car, but to the Perry family, it was a whole new rural world.

Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?
I will be represented by an agency for this book though my children's ebook Nancy, Peggy and Susan - First Freedom was self published under the pseudonym Pandora Butterfield and is sold through Amazon, Barnes and Nobel's Nook and Lulu in various formats.

How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?
The first draft only took 1 month. I enrolled on the NaNoWriMo challenge (National Novel Writing Month) in November 2010 and sat in my kitchen, close to the log burner, writing the 50,000 words required to complete the challenge. I loved it and would repeat it tomorrow if allowed! My family did not love it: There was scant housework done, pre-cooked dinners were the norm and it would be fair to say I was a little distracted.

Who or What inspired you to write this book?
I was approached by an New York agent to write this book, she had read my blog and thought a twist to a real life memoir could be a fictional account of the situation. I loved the idea and eagerly began to write.

What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?
Hopefully it will be a fun read with a good amount of self help information on how to start a smallholding; manage land, grow fruit, veg and flowers and keep sheep, chickens and the like. If the readership of my blog is anything to go by there are an awful lot of city-folk and Londoners in particular, who would love to do exactly what Sophie and James attempt to do.

Look out for The Perrys at The Berries and live vicariously through my book.

Now it's my turn to pass on a Next Best Thing recommendation: I met the most marvelous woman at a New Year party. I am in awe of her life, it's not often someone tells you that they are off to spend a stint in the Amazon as a photographer. Sue Flood has taken stunning wildlife photographs all over the world. She has worked in cold climes taking pictures of penguins, polar bears and more. She has worked for the BBC, The Discovery Channel and has supported David Attenborough in his wildlife programmes. She has swum with humpback whales and told me that once, a baby whale, (sill the size of a school bus,) managed to thwack her with his tail, knocking the camera from her grasp!

She is awesome and I envy her adventures. He wonderful book Cold Places is available through her website here. Check out her blog when she continues this meme.

Pond Dipping....

noreply@blogger.com (Lou) — Tue, 08 Jan 2013 04:58:38 PST

I have been increasingly determined to clean our wildlife pond, the weed has taken over and several of our pond plants are now Amazonian, plus grass from the bank and several years of leaf fall has begun to clog the water. There is nothing better than looking into a pond to watch the wildlife but lately we've seen diddly-squat!

Though I'm feeling a bit low with a cold, the weather is fantastic and so I decided today was the day. Hubbie was more interested in lighting a fire in the garden to burn away last spring's apple tree's prunings to help me so I duly donned the thigh length waders, snapped on some yellow marigolds and my zippy mac and walked, [John Wayne like,] towards the water. One sexy lady! Not!

The sproglets weren't that interested in me either preferring dad's adventure with fire and incendiary liquids rather than my slippy, smelly task.

I stood on the edge noting that the rain had filled the pond to the brim, I eyed the dark water suspiciously.

'Are you sure you've been right into the middle of the pond with these waders?' I shouted to Hubbie.

'Yes, in the summer remember?' I couldn't really.

I started in the shallow pond, the place where the frogs and toads choose to lay their spawn. Gathering great handfuls of grass, leaf and weed I placed my harvest on the bank, hoping that disturbed creatures would crawl back into the water later. The pond gained a bit more depth and I, satisfied with my progress, moved on to the abyss, the bigger kidney shaped pond.

I first toured the edge again tearing away lengths of grass and armfuls of weed.

'Don't forget to pick up the waterlily so we can re-pot it,' called Hubbie.

'Will do' I said. This was going well.

It was tricky to see the lily, its rotting foliage was a couple of feet down towards the centre of the pond but I made my way gingerly towards it.

Ponds are slippy. [Not something of a surprise to you Dear Reader I'm sure.] I let out a sad, girly shriek as I realised my legs weren't as long as I'd like them to be.

The feeling of waders filling with sulphurous pond water is not one I'm going to forget any time soon and I was so heartened to see my delightful family on the bank as they charged over to ~~laugh,~~ ~~check if I was drowning~~ support me from the bank.

I carried on regardless, as I am a hero, though my movements were much slower as my legs felt like they'd each eaten a traditional British 3kg Christmas cake. With help from the sproglets on the bank (after they'd finally stopped giggling,) I manoeuvred a metre square island of reed grass to the side of the pond however, even with the help of Hubbie, we couldn't pull it out. In spring when the grass is less mushy to drive on we'll put a tow rope around it and use the Discovery to yank it out.

All-in-all the job was completed well. The worst part of the task was trying to get back out of the pond and then having to lie on my back on the grass with my legs straight up, draining the fluids from my boots into my pants. At this exact time a van came to a halt on the drive, an online shopping delivery. The driver looked frightened, we didn't explain and he left very quickly. I'm glad he did leave as the family insisted I strip on the doorstep before sending me for a shower. Apparently I didn't smell very nice. Fussy, fussy, fussy.

Fortunately no one could find my new [hidden] camera.

What's next? Bring it onnnnnnnn!

Later Addendum.......... Just confessed to Hubby that my personal mobile was in my jeans pocket (i.e close to my pants) during the wader waterfall experience..... Mobile now resides in a jar filled with rice. Knickers!

Growing up...

noreply@blogger.com (Lou) — Sun, 06 Jan 2013 03:30:30 PST

Moon and Snowy born March '12

Pink born May '12

Moon Jan '13

Snowy Jan '13

Pink Jan '13

A New Start.....

noreply@blogger.com (Lou) — Fri, 04 Jan 2013 01:25:24 PST

If you [Dear Reader] were ticking off the seasons according to my blog then it may seem as if December never happened. The sproglets broke up on 7th December and are still off now...... I may have plenty of anecdotes but they are written in my notebook and haven't made it to the computer yet. Another reason I disappeared is that my trusty Kodak camera died, sad, fortunately Santa noticed and now I have a shiny new Canon.

Normal (or as normal as The Archers at The Larches can get) service to be resumed next week.

For me, 2012 felt a tricky, bitty year though there were notable highlights: The Olympics, Paralympics and antics from the then 9yo and 7yo, were of course wonderful as was raising the bottle fed lambs, publishing my first e-book and completing yet more essential work on the house, but the inclement weather put a distinct dampener on everything and our garden produce was woeful. I welcome 2013, if it behaves itself!

The New Year started well with a smashing dinner party and family sleepover at a friend's. We awoke to bright sunshine on the 1st. The weather has been fine ever since and yesterday we drove to the Carding Mill Valley (and hills) to visit with Sam at Middle Farm Cottages. As soon as we arrived we were helping to steer the biggest British Lop eared boar I've ever seen back to his pen. He must weigh a ton, only marginally ahead of me on the scales after a food fest Christmas. It transpired that Charlie had been on a love quest at another farm and was being returned home..... for a rest!

Incidentally if you are booking a mini break next year and want to be treated royally, check out Sam's website, the cottages are to die for, she and her hubbie are passionate foodies so you definitely won't starve and there's so much to do on her doorstep you'll never want to come home. (I can bear testimony to this as my two children were distinctly cool with me when I said we were leaving yesterday afternoon!)

Today the weather continues to be fine and tripping out to the wood shed in my PJs at 7am, the temperature was approximately 11° and rising. Lovely, I'm determined to do some gardening today and will try to get more broad beans in before the temperatures plummet. In the greenhouse the sweet peas have emerged from their loo roll seed trainers; we shall be assured of scent for summer. If you haven't sown any there's still time.

Roll on 2013.

Love
Lou

Driving Miss Daisy mad...

noreply@blogger.com (Lou) — Fri, 30 Nov 2012 22:56:25 PST

This post was going to be about a dreadful incident we encountered on the way to school today; 2 white vans and a car damaged beyond repair plus four dead sheep, blood and fragments of their bodies strewn across the rural road. I've decided to write no more than that because it was too sad for words.

Slow down people, particularly on rural common land where gentle creatures graze!

As I began to write this post the 8yo appeared, PJ'ed and clean but with a wobbly lip. He felt sidelined today by pals at school and, though he is big now, tall as my shoulder, he sat astride me and wittered his woes. I remembered advice given to me by a very wise woman.

'When people tell you their troubles don't give them your advice, just say oh dear a lot.' I did just that and the outpourings kept coming.

After ten minutes of oh dearing and stroking his furry dressing-gowned back, he jumped up.

'Can you read to me now?' he asked brightly, his troubles stroked away.

'Sure, but only if your wild, discarded underpants are tamed and herded towards the washing basket.'

His grumps almost returned.

So now I must go to read the next thrilling instalment in Stormbreaker... can't wait.

Lou
xx

4am

noreply@blogger.com (Lou) — Thu, 22 Nov 2012 02:47:09 PST

I woke at silly o'clock today. I could have just laid there, warm and toasty, but my brain was awake too, listing things I could do quietly with the couple of hours before the household awoke: Read, make cheese scones ('oh, not enough cheese,') rewrite the white board diary in the kitchen, bake with the surplus eggs..... Write.

Downstairs the cats were surprised by me, they blinked in the light, stretching and rubbing up against me hoping it was time for an early breakfast. I busied myself trying to light the log burner, the only source of heat in the kitchen.

After several attempts at the fire I had to admit defeat. I just didn't have enough kindling. I listened and noted that the storms of yesterday had passed by so, donning my new, [well, hand-me-down, Jules Wellibobs donated by a lovely friend,] I firmly tied my dressing gown hitched up my thermals and went out gently into that good, dark night.

There was a stillness to the land, a pre-dawn calm. Even rooster, locked in his box, was quiet, most likely asleep. The stars littered the sky and the distant glow of the city, maybe 50 miles away, burnished the horizon.

It's not far to the log shed, out the front door and up the drive towards the stables. Pink was the first to hear me as she lay in the field over the hedge. I noted her soft needy tone. Alerted to my presence Snowy and Moon, bleated hellos too. I could picture them bedded down in the grass;. big sheep now, not the tiny lambs I raised by bottle.

'Morning girls' I whispered and they bleated again but I could tell they were still in their same positions, they knew it wasn't yet time to get up.

In the wood shed I shone my torch and selected a good box of kindling, prepared by hubby in early Autumn.

And now I'm by the crackling fire, talking to you. Tabby, the bigger cat has a cold and has crawled up to my lap for extra warmth. He sneezes occasionally and nips me on the hand as I type, just to remind me that he's here.

It's 5.10.

Last night the 10yo finished reading my children's book Nancy, Peggy and Susan. First Freedom. [Available at Amazon for Kindle Lulu for ebook download and Barnes and Nobel for Nook.] She'd asked me to read her the last chapter which was a privilege. There's a little twist in the ending and I'd wondered if it was obvious. It wasn't. As I began to build up to the secret she stopped me and excitedly described what she thought was going to happen. As I revealed the plot she squealed and demanded I hand over my Kindle, determined to read for herself. She was convinced I was making up words rather than reading them. She had been wrong and the twist had caught her out. It was exactly the reaction I was hoping for when I wrote the story some four years ago. Priceless. A moment I'll treasure.

Well I'm off to make tea and begin the process of re-reading my long abandoned novel.... a fictional version of The Archers at The Larches with the temporary title of The Perrys at The Berries. I think I put it aside in order to learn more about the land, animals and me as a writer, but now I suddenly feel compelled to finish.

Have a good day, I think I shall.

Draughts and Lizards....

noreply@blogger.com (Lou) — Wed, 14 Nov 2012 12:58:07 PST

Picture taken Spring 2012

The title for this blog post is not to herald the newest Christmas board game, but rather to act as a literal comment on the need for constant repair to an old house. Where the miners had canaries as an early warning system, we Archers have lizards..... well, newts.

I barely had a leg in a pant this morning before the 10yo burst into my bedroom.

'Mum!'

I nearly fainted; she being up and about without my having to scrape her from the bed, being dressed and with kempt hair! Turns out she and her school posse, were planning a pop band rehearsal and she needed to pack bits and pieces which included her guitar. In the corridor leading to the front door she had met another being....

'Mum!'

'Yes?' [It's tricky looking stern and attentive in your non-matching smalls.]

'There's a lizard in the hall.'

She's not daft, especially in the animal department, so I generally believe her press, however the lizard reference had me stumped.

Once, long ago, when there were no babies and my arms didn't continue to wave long after guests' departure, my hubby and I played golf. Our foreign (long since forgotten) holidays around the world always included a round or two. On one such trip we took in the Florida Swing. After a particularly gorgeous yet tricky round at Doral, I climbed yet another steep bank of Kikuyu grass, the type of grass that claims your ball For.Ever. Over the ridge I just knew my ball was deep in the bunker and that this bunker was probably nicknamed Miami Beach or somesuch. Cresting the dune, I came face to face with the biggest iguana I've ever seen. He and I shot off in opposite directions, both screaming. Urgh!

Lashing downstairs I had a momentary flash of that scene.

In the hall, near the skirting board was a smooth newt. Phew! As I bent to pick him up, a gust of icy wind bit at my finger tips. Clearly there was a newt sized gap from inside to outside. Our house, built in the 1840s has no deep foundations as we know today, it was built on the ground it stood on and after 150 years, this seems an adequate solution, if a little newty.

Mr or Mrs Newt was taken to new quarters; a winter creature hotel of pallates and straw and warm hidey-holes tht hubby and the sproglets built this summer for drowning wildlife. [Not that we Archers were doing the drowning you understand, rather the creatures were drowning so we built the hotel..... Tricky, this language stuff...] We look forward to his or her re-emergence in spring.

The wind tunnel has been sealed.

Next!

Irish Halloween and Cake.....

noreply@blogger.com (Lou) — Sun, 11 Nov 2012 10:10:42 PST

When I was growing up Halloween was a huge affair. Being Irish, my parents seemed to have great enthusiasm for fun and trick or treating was compulsory. In Ireland the word fun isn’t considered a good enough word to describe the time you're having under that heading, so they call it ‘the Craic.’ Halloween was the perfect time to employ the craic; the chance to scare children rigid being an occasion not to be missed.

Still in Ireland to this day, in the weeks leading up to Halloween, homes are littered with the delicious treat known as Barnbrack which is an Irish fruit loaf. The title comes from the Irish Gaelic bairín breac which literally means speckled loaf. In traditional Ireland each member of the family would get a slice of the delicious cake but you had to be careful when chewing the delicious treat as there were several charms hidden in it, wrapped in baking paper. Each charm signified an omen for the finder’s future.

If you found a ring you were sure to find romance. If you got the coin then you were in for a prosperous year, but if you found the rag than your financial future was in doubt. [I must have found the rag ten times over!!] If you find the thimble then it was thought you would never marry! - Tricky if you were already married.... Nowadays many commercial Barnbrack cakes sold in Irish shops around Halloween contain a ring.

Mind you, regardless of austerity, the ring maybe about to get a lot more grandiose if the rumour about the Irish finding oil are to be believed. Check out this fantastic, hilarious journalistic take on the state of the Irish economy by writer and broadcaster Fiona Looney. Click here.

I've made Barnbrack this year and wrapped coins in tin foil as my charms. The children love the moist loaf (though I think they eat the slices to get to the gifts!!) and it’s dairy free. Have a go, it’s so simple.

Barnbrack

Ingredients

380g dried fruit
A pot of good tea, enough to cover the fruit
225g self-raising flour
1 or 2 eggs, beaten
1 or 2 teaspoon mixed spice
125g caster sugar
honey or Golden Syrup (optional – for decoration)

Soak the fruit in tea overnight, then drain. Mix together with the rest of the ingredients (apart from the honey/golden syrup) and stir in the charms wrapped in tin foil. Don’t over-knead the dough, or your delicately re-hydrated fruit will break up.

Line the base of a 20cm round cake tin or 900g loaf tin with greaseproof paper. Grease the tin and pile in the mixture.

Bake in a pre-heated oven at 170C for between an hour and one hour fifteen minutes, until risen and firm to the touch. Check it is cooked with a skewer.

You can brush with melted honey or golden syrup or glaze with a syrup made from two teaspoons of sugar dissolved in three teaspoons of boiling water.

Source for the post The Evening Herault and Irish Central.

Less than fantastic Mr Fox.......

noreply@blogger.com (Lou) — Fri, 09 Nov 2012 05:05:03 PST

The 10yo's new chickens are growing well and are now roaming the grounds, having been evicted from their temporary prison in the walled garden. These rare breed Salmon Faverolles have joined my other birds in the main coop with access to the gardens and fields all day. I'm sad to say that the other 13 hens and 1 rooster, haven't been particularly welcoming.

I've never had such difficulty merging birds to another flock and I'm starting to believe this is because the new birds, though just 12 weeks old, have a rooster among them, though he's barely a chap yet.

I've tried all the tricks, locking them all up together for days on end, feeding them together and even giving them access to 'the bungalo', the granny annex on the side of the main coop so that they don't have to bed down with the grumpy elders. Sadly, each evening as I return home in the dark with the sproglets, there on the front door step are the newbies, huddled together for warmth. It's driving me potty. I really don't want to make a seperate compound for them but it's looking like I might have to, especially after this morning's event.

There are pros and cons to having free range chickens:

Pros.

Guilt free rearing
Eggs, of course!
Less food supplied by you, more grub-gardening done by them
Healthier for the chickens who are exercised all day
No one area of the garden is destroyed

Cons.

Poo everywhere
Loss of eggs as the girls lay secretly in the hedges
No chance of an early night in the summer months while you wait for the last straggler to pop home so you can lock for the night!
Exposure to predators!

Along with the posh chooks' antics, Archie has gone off the rails too.........
(I'm not sure if the well repeated origin for the word posh is true or not but I rather like the explanation: 'Port out, starboard home'. The much-repeated tale is that 'Posh' derives from the 'port out, starboard home' legend supposedly printed on tickets of passengers on P&O Ships (Peninsula and Orient) passenger vessels that travelled between UK and India in the days of the Raj. Another version has it that PO and SH were scrawled on the steamer trunks used on the voyages, by seamen when allocating cabins. http://www.phrases.org.uk/meanings/) Anyhoo, as I was saying, along with the new birds misbehaving at bedtime, our black hen, Archie, has decided coop sleeping isn't for her either. Although it is chilly-willy out there now, (we dipped to 0° last week,) she's decided to night- roost high in the rhodendendron bush! Normally her elevated nocturnal resting place is reserved for hot summer nights, so this is unprecedented.

Animal bonkers-behaviour is considered normal here at The Larches; so each evening we duly carry the new chooks to the coop and, brandishing a torch, shout into the 20ft rhodendendron,
'Archie, get into bed!' This results in Archie flouncing down from her branch, black as the night, chirping her hen swear words before storming into the coop.

I must admit, when you've had a full day, the dark and the damp penetrating your bones and the children are tired, you do begin to wonder; should we just leave them out, teach them a lesson, hope they get cold enough to seek the warmth of the other hens tomorrow night?

I'm glad we didn't do that last night. This morning I got up at the usual time, 6:30am, and pottered to the sproglet bedrooms to commence defcon 5 of waking them, (a process that can escallate as high as defcon 2!) After round 1 of encouragement and bright lightbulb treatment I made my way downstairs for caffine reinforcement. On the stairs I stopped, hardly daring to breathe. There, passing below me on the gravel outside the front door, was a fine specimum of Reynard, a striking red fox.

I feared for my friends as he ran about, here and there, bold as brass, hungry. Fortunately the chickens were locked in, the electric fence switched on.

'Look out your windows, NOW!' I called to the household.

My voice must have conveyed a certain something as I heard two thuds as small people rolled out of bed to reach their windows.

There was a silence, a horrified awe as we watched him scurry here and there, exploring. He was both beautiful and terrible to us.

If foxes stole just one chicken to eat I could cope with the loss now and again, but the truth is they don't. They kill all the chickens and take just one. I can't comprehend that.

I let all eighteen chickens out later in the morning and worried as I drove to an appointment in beautiful Hay-on-Wye, the used-book capital of the Universe.

All was well today, there was no loss of life and everyone is tucked up again although my neighbour has since told me that he has lost seven chickens in the past ten days. Fingers crossed for our chums.

Over and out.

Salmon and Delilah....

noreply@blogger.com (Lou) — Mon, 15 Oct 2012 22:34:29 PDT

As of Saturday the 9yo will need to be called the 10yo..... Double digits; I must be old. Twelve days later and the 7yo will be renamed the 8yo. Good Lord!

We wracked our brains for a suitable pressie for the 9/10yo. New clothes? Bigger bike? Music player?

'May I have a goat?' she asked.

It seemed like a good idea so I did some research. Surely a goat could join the three cade lambs in the field? Actually the lambs need to be renamed too,.... they don't look anything like lambs now, they are rotund and enjoying the experience of grazing with our neighbour's stock of huge texel and beltex ewes, experienced animals with two seasons' lambing behind them.

My research made me nervous. Apparently goats do not graze the land like sheep, they prefer to eat your hedges, trees, flowers, vegetables and knickers off the line! While sheep are considered escapees, goats are houdinis, experts in their field. Te he!

Our sheep are well cared for; their water fresh, their grass fresher, mineral licks on tap, their feet checked and worms kept at bay, snuggles a-plenty but we only occasionally offer them a multi-stock feed. Allegedly goats are more demanding, requiring hay and goat feed constantly and a cosy indoor residence in case of the merest hint of rain. They also need entertainment..... I pictured we Archers putting on Shakespearean shows, but I'm thinking that they'd probably prefer a musical but not 'Singing in the Rain.'

Then there's the price. A decent Pygmy goat is upwards of £150, a meat or milking goat is north of £250. [Lamaze breathing.]

On Sunday daughter and I visited The Gobbetts, a rare breed farm in a tiny village in Shropshire. We were there to see the Pygmy goats and I was rather hoping to persuade the girl to purchase some smaller livestock.

Several of the goats came to greet us as we ambled along the grass paths between the chicken runs. As daughter and I continued towards them they pretended we were chasing them, about-turned and, nimble footed, mounted the [high] rail to their enclosure. It was immediately clear that they would easily escape any of the fences at The Larches!

The 9yo went to pet them and two of the younger goats immediately set about eating her favourite jacket. So naughty. She giggled and fortunately agreed that we really weren't up to keeping goats. Phew!

She settled on a pair of gorgeous rare breed chickens; Salmon Faverolles. They are most unusual looking. The rooster, though just 10 weeks old, looks like a mini bird of prey with a ruff head dress like a bald eagle. His mate, also 10 weeks old, looks like a soft tawny owl.

According to the sproglet, she will breed this pair and sell the chicks, she already has plans to make Moo business cards to promote her shop..... just shows the power of advertising!

I tried to get her to call the pair Salmon and Delilah but she wasn't having any of it. Lucky and Lipstick have joined The Archers at The Larches.

Picture courtesy of Stephen Jones and Wikipedia.

Feel Good Food...

noreply@blogger.com (Lou) — Wed, 10 Oct 2012 06:42:51 PDT

It must be my age or an iron deficiency but lately I find myself tearing up when I encounter kindness, good service or 'pay it forward' type stuff.

Today I am trapped in Ludlow. If I was to choose somewhere to be trapped it would be Ludlow or possibly Barbados... My husband's car needed some TLC and so, till 3pm I am camped in the library, writing. (The library is not a quiet zone today.... the baby noises are fine, the ignorant parent noises on mobiles and shouting details from computer screens less so.. sigh..)

I am writing a script for a sit com. Get me! My belief in myself is concerning but hey ho.

Writing makes you hungry so at lunch time I ventured out to get something yummy.

Ludlow is the gastro capital of ..... well, everywhere. There's a plethora of eateries stocked with delicious produce from an unending list of local producers; Monkland Cheese, Swifts Bakery, DW Wall butchers in the high street and AH Griffiths on the Bull Ring with pies and meats and game. Then there's the market in the Medievil square, the cafes and of course the restaurants, including the award winning La Becasse and Mr Underhills.

Today I did not need caviar, walnut bread, home reared pork pie or a Ludlow sausage, I just wanted to grab a little takeaway cup of home made soup and a roll. I stood on the tiny pavement off the Bull Ring close to The Feathers Hotel. Along the street I noticed a little alley called Fish Street and there I found the tiniest cafe in the world, (possibly.)

On the board outside THE CAFE my lunch was advertised: Small Soup and a roll. £1.95. Perfect.

Inside was a joy; four clean little tables and a minute serving area. My order was taken and I stood talking with a delightful boy who told me that he was slightly worried about Friday's weather as he had plans to look into some family history. He also told me that he'd just eaten his lunch, a hot curry. He, like me, prefers his curry to be hot. Quite right too.

THE CAFE is staffed both by learning disabled members and by volunteers. This space provides work, training, and social opportunities and offers a great service and delicious food. Next time you are in Ludlow, pop in for your lunch or a snack, you won't be disappointed, my soup and warm home-made bread was delish and the feel-good factor warmed me through.

Edwina Hayes - A must

noreply@blogger.com (Lou) — Mon, 08 Oct 2012 12:53:24 PDT

Thanks to The Entrepreneur (my good friend) who bought hubby and I tickets, we saw this delightful girl at a concert on Friday. She was actually supporting a v famous singer, Barbara Dickson, who was superb but for me, Edwina was really special, her voice and stage manner so endearing.

Queen of the onions....

noreply@blogger.com (Lou) — Sun, 09 Sep 2012 04:07:34 PDT

It has been a foody end to the week here at The Larches and the weather has been outstanding.

Friday was a gastro-nom-nom-nom treat, strolling around the Ludlow Food Festival nibbling cheese and sipping cider tasters. I met up with Jane Hayes, Ed of Shropshire Life Magazine to discuss my new column with the magazine and was interested to note that she, like me, favours the savoury side of life over the sweet. Funny how our taste buds are. What do you favour?

At 6pm, the children and I arrived back at The Larches at the same time as The Hubby, a very unusual occurrence. The sun was still blazing so we packed up a crate with some wood, some seasoned pork loin chops, local sausages and salad from the garden and cooked our dinner at the firepit in the field.

The sun disappears quick at this time of year, the lovely heat suddenly snatched away, walking back to the house I could feel the damp of the grass on my flip-flopped feet. In place of the sun rises a gorgeous harvest moon and with no artificial light around the property, the twinkling sky is truly awesome.

Saturday morning and a mad panic to deliver The Archer family entries for the Village Show. Everything needed to be brought into the village hall and staged by 10.30am so that top secret judging could commence. I wasn't hopeful, we've had a mixed crop this year. I couldn't enter half the categories I entered last year; I had no tomatoes, the runner beans are only just emerging and The Borrowers would do well to pop over and borrow a few potatoes. Still, some of my attempts were more successful so the Hubby and I prepped these for show: We finally found 3 onions that looked decent. The rhubarb was ok'ish and the beets acceptable.

I had just one big cucumber (having eaten all the other big ones! Doh!!)

The courgettes were woeful, but I still entered them along with some roses, sweet pea and seed grown dahlias.

The sproglets had entries too: The 9yo made 3 glittery fairy cakes and wrote out 20 lines of a favourite story 'A Kitten Called Moonlight' by Martin Waddel. She'd also made a Jubilee card with a secret envelope inside containing a fold out crown. Jolly handy for those sudden Royal duties.

The 7yo had entered the seed tray category where the theme was 'A Woodland Shelter.' I'd encouraged him to make this weeks ago, on one of the days we were trapped at home with the builders. I don't believe in giving much help to the children for these activities, surely the taking part is much more important than winning and I'm not so keen on seeing perfect work from children, unless they are very little where Mummy has worked for hours, besides, I'm too lazy. This year I was very surprsed at the work both children put into their entries. The 7yo spent hours cutting little twigs and asking which plants he could have from my garden and the 9yo agonised about her card.

Returning for the Village Show opening later that day, we were delighted to find that the 9yo had a 1st for her card and a 1st for her handwriting, while the 7yo had a 1st for his seed tray.

I had a 1st for my onions (2nd year running!) a 1st for my cucumber and a highly commended for my roses.

And with the sun still belting down and roast chicken for tea, this is turning out to be a bloomin' brilliant weekend.

Gagging to play rugby....

noreply@blogger.com (Lou) — Thu, 06 Sep 2012 03:43:25 PDT

The 7yo is thoroughly chuffed to be in Year 3 at school. He can see the Upper School from his classroom, he's officially almost big.

He has been playing tag rugby for three years now but this is his last year of tag, next year he will begin full contact rugby. In an effort to be bigger faster, he has been nagging for a gum shield.

'Please can I have one Mum?' he pleaded. 'I'll put it in my sports bag [at school] and never use it.'

Huh?

I resisted until his teacher suggested that he .... might.... use one for matches and that the price of a gum shield was less than new teeth. Good point.

Tonight there was great excitement as a pan of water was brought to simmering point, the 7yo watching every bubble rise to the surface. This was not an insane initiation ceremony for new rugby players.... or at least I don't think it was!! No, this was the molding of the gum shield.

Take small excited boy
Take 1 gum shield (preferably ridiculously coloured)
Dunk gum shield (not child) into decanted simmering water
Whip scalding gum shield out of water and force small child to stuff it in their mouth (none of the namby-pamby 'blow it, blow it' of olden times...)

The 7yo gagged and gagged and had I not yelled 'Take it out,' he'd have vommed the delish dinner of roasted chicken thighs, garden salad and fresh baked rolls, eaten while watching the paralympics.... Not on my watch!

The 7yo is now far less keen on being bigger.

On the subject of the paralympics she, who shall be nameless .... let's just call her Mil-ly, has told us she's been enjoying the spectacle of it all on the TV.

'You should see those paramedics run,' she said.

Must be the go-fast stripe on the green jump suits.

3rd in the medal table - rock on GB!

Dr. Doolittles of The Larches......

noreply@blogger.com (Lou) — Tue, 04 Sep 2012 06:46:09 PDT

And with a blink it was all over for another year....... I mourn the close of the summer holidays..... Amen. Yipeeeeee!!!

No, seriously, this was the best (and yet the most frustrating) summer holiday ever. The sproglets, being almost 8 and 10, were fantastic company. We three were at various times trapped under builders, but they were very nice builders and they've pretty much fixed The Larches to its former glory with cracks and rotten woodwork mended. We three escaped to the beach or to pals only on days when the men were busy elsewhere on other jobs, but I suppose that made our escapes all the sweeter.

To amuse themselves at the house the sproglets cobbled together dangerous looking go-karts which they hurtled down the concrete drive in. On most days they took charge of their own lunches, thrilled by my insane relinquishment of the Rangemaster. They cooked boiled eggs or melted cheese onto toast. One day the 9yo heated tinned tomatoes with anchovies, the smell in the house beckoning to every feral cat in Shropshire.

The sheep have been helpful playmates too; they seem to be able to escape the confines of their paddock at least once a day before we capture them while the chooks keep trying to lay siege to the new entrance hall!

We've had a pet-a-thon this summer, petting many creatures we've not previously petted:

First there were our very own lambs now big fat sheep.

Then there were the creatures in Midland Safari Park,

the cockroach,

The emu,

The camel

and the gorgeous giraffe.

And, probably the 9yo's favourite, the baby seagull in Swanage.

A walk.....

noreply@blogger.com (Lou) — Tue, 04 Sep 2012 14:41:06 PDT

We've been replacing the rotten windows here at The Larches. We thought we might ignore this job till another year but the repairs to the cracked exterior brickwork exposed the sponge like wood and our fate was sealed, or is it unsealed?

The dirt and dust of the past months building and DIY is phenomenal. I'm almost able to block it out, preferring to wipe the kitchen surfaces clean just before preparing a meal. Boy, does black granite love a bit of dust!!

In early summer when friends and relatives enquired about visiting I had no idea we'd be in such a pickle. Last week, at the true height of pickledom, The Entrepreneur (best pal ever) came to stay for a few days and as she waved goodbye, my sis and family were en route.

Fortunately the weather was broadly fine, if you don't count the insane thunder storms on the Friday and Saturday!!

On Monday The Entrepreneur, the Sproglets and I took a stroll out through the local Common Land - Catherton, in baking heat. The 7yo shushed us as we walked through the bee infested heather. 'Shush, the bees are working,' he informed us. I even spotted a common lizard.

We tiptoed on, down a gentle valley to navigate the bog bridge, lethal but funny... and smelly; that boggy sulphury smell. Ugh! Next we reached the stream that winds its way through the trees- a real treat. We followed the water till it limboed under a fence line becoming the transient property of a farmer. Then we climbed the steep slippery clay bank emerging into the sunlight surrounded by Amazonian ferns and surprised sheep.

The stroll back along the quiet road that leads home, turned out to be a buffet of hedgerow fruit; pink raspberries beckoned as did the fat, dark blackberries. Time for pie methinks! Deelish!