Cappuccino milk for the lambs

And this week’s favourite animals are… (drum roll please)… The orphan lambs!

Yep, the orphans have arrived. Three very noisy, very pretty, very noisy, two day old girl lambs. Noisy girl lambs. Little orphan Annie’s (were there any girls in Fagin’s gang in Oliver? Other than Nancy, but she was more to do with Bill Sykes—

—There’s a lovely true story about that. At the time Charles Dickens was writing Oliver Twist he had a friend who was working at the Houses of Parliament as an artist. Anyway a squabble broke out between the artist and one of the MPs over a woman, and the MP got the artist sacked. When the artist relayed this to Dickens, Dickens said he would immortalise the scoundrel by naming a nasty character after him in the latest book he was writing. The MP’s name was Bill Sykes.)

Noisy orphan lambs…

The danger with bottle feeding lambs five times a day is it could send a man off balance for good. They’re far too cute, and the urge to talk in baby speak whilst leaning over them with both hands on knees, screeching “Iccle baby lamber-lambers!” is always there. A lesser man than me might succumb, and certainly all the females.

No, leave all that silly stuff to the girls. Silly stuff. Never catch me doing it. Of course I do have to speak to them, but I do it in a manly way, matter of fact, “Here is your breakfast, please do not slurp.”

Breakfast is a manic headlong rush. The lambs are in the stable next to the goats. I have to dash past the lambs into the goats, get Amber up onto the milking platform and milk her into a bucket. I have a jug and three bottles ready, and I milk her in three separate stages because the milk froths on top like a cappuccino and each bottle has to be the same. Besides, it’s how the lambs like it.

All the while there is utter bedlam from the lambs next door.

Now for the tricky bit.

I’ve a rack in their stable set at the right height from which the lambs feed. All I have to do is fix the bottles in there without trapping a lambs head, or leg, or ear in the bar that secures the bottles in place. Once the bottles are in place, then the bundle can begin.

They all scrum for the same bottle. I’m pulling lambs off and poking their mouths at a spare bottles, and they look like they’re going to go for it… and then they charge back so they can all fight over the same one again.

Eventually I get them all plugged in.

They are little sucking machines, and don’t stop for boring things like breath. Their tails wag, their little tongues poke out from beneath the teat and their tummies swell like a balloon being blown up.

The goats, now milked and free to wander out and about for the day, come over to investigate, and nudge them a bit with their nose. The lambs pay them no attention. The geese go by, the chickens pop in, the dog nips in and out and the sheep stand outside and stare. The lambs ignore the lot of them.

Breakfast is a very serious business you know.

When they’re done, they spend a pleasant minute head butting me affectionately on the leg, before cuddling up together in a corner where the sun pools in the mornings.

That’s how we do breakfast. And in a few hours, we’ll do the same again for lunch. And then the same again in the afternoon. In total, it’s five times a day.

One Year On

A year ago this week my first book came out. I can say first because I've just signed a contract to write a second *jumping up and down like Lewis Hamilton on the podium, and looking pathetically happy!*. A lot has changed in that year. I feel like I've learnt so much, and i think I've changed a lot as a person too. Certainly all those years of wondering and worrying if it's worth pursuing the dream of getting published have been worth it, and just that in itself has a huge impact. The thing is, when you sign a contract to write a first book, from that second on you're fumbling in the dark. There's no president. The writing process, putting the manuscript together, send it off, the publicity, promotions, it's all new and you're just doing your best moment by moment. It's pretty scary because if you muck it up, that's it baby, you've blown your chance and there's no way back. I loved writing the Self Sufficiency Bible, but now i know a little more, I'm going to love writing this next one a whole lot more. The first chapter is already written (that's what the publisher bought), so I've eleven more to write, and i can't wait to get started. I feel like... you know the night before you start a new job, when you're anxious and worried, but excited at the same time? Well that's how i feel right now. I'll have a bath on Sunday night, iron some clothes, and on Monday morning, I'll start. At least i know the coffee will be okay.

Keeping cool and awake!

I had never put everyone together in a field before. Never had the need. Until now.

I spent a day making the chicken field as safe as I possibly could, removing anything that wasn’t nailed down. By the time I’d finished it looked rather smart, certainly neater than it had in years.

First thing the following morning I took the horses Georgie and Alfie, the goats, the sheep, the chickens, ducks, geese, my dog, and of his own volition probably because he felt he’d be missing out otherwise, Niko the cat, and put them all in the one field together.

I’d kind of expected them to check each other out, to argue and generally misbehave, but what I hadn’t expected was how loud they’d be. It sounded like an orchestra tuning up, with loads of independent and unconnected sounds battling to be heard above the rest.

The geese screeched, the horses neighed through their noses, the cockerels crowed, the goats yelled, the ducks whacked, my dog barked, the cat fled and the sheep went for a lay down. And walking through the middle of them all was me, shushing.

Quite what I thought I was doing I have no idea. They didn’t pay me any attention anyway. But I’d become determined in my shushing. I was the boss of the field, I was in control. They should respect my shushing.

So I started yelling it, shushing at the top of my lungs. They didn’t go quiet, they just saw me a competition and got louder. Well two can play at that game. Just as we reached our crescendo, two trucks bumped down the path, parked up and disgorged men armed with chainsaws.

We all fell quiet and I leaned against a gate post, a vision of cool. If I’d had a piece of straw, I’d have chewed on it.

Several of the hedges around some of the other fields had sprouted trees big enough to threaten the electricity cable that ran above them, and they needed cutting back. These were the guys to take care of it. Four chainsaws started in unison – I could hardly hear the RAF jet flying overhead.

In our field we all kind of looked at each other, and with a collective understanding, thought no, we can’t compete with that noise. The ducks and geese wandered off to perform their morning ablutions in the stream, the horses found their hay, the goats went in search of something they shouldn’t eat, my dog found something smelly to roll in, and the chickens went off to lay an egg each.

The only one without anything to do was me. So I went and sat down. I knew I should be doing things, there was plenty to keep me busy. But somehow it’s hard to get motivated when there are others around you working. I kept telling myself that my little smallholding was only big enough for so much hard work, and that these guys were using it all up. There was no room left for anymore. So I sat there, sipping coffee from a flask and reading.

It was quite nice actually.

By midmorning I knew I was getting dangerously close to feeling sleepy. I’d done nothing more energetic than some enthusiastic shushing, but my eyes were feeling heavy and I couldn’t stop yawning.

By sheer force of will, I managed to stay awake until all the hedges were neatly trimmed, the chainsaws put away and the guys had left. Then I slumped down in some hay and fell fast asleep, not waking up until a chicken walked across my face.

Pandora - a warrior on her way to heaven

In certain cultures, when someone important dies they tip back their heads and scream at the sky, not in grief, but in warning to the heavens that a warrior is on their way into their midst.

Late last night, I had to have one of my horses put to sleep.

I’d been in London at a meeting with a book publisher and caught the lunchtime train out of Paddington. The train was empty and fast, and even including a change at Exeter, I was still back in Barnstaple by four thirty.

Hungry and tired, I drove the twenty miles home as quick as I could. There’s nothing like reaching home after a stressy day, and even though it hadn’t been long since I’d seen my dog, he greeted me like I’d been away for months.

I heard the quad bike pull up outside and hoped Debbie would greet me just as enthusiastically. She did, but not in the way I’d thought.

“Pandora’s down!” Debbie yelled, even before she’d opened the door, the words pouring out so fast I could hardly catch them. “I thought she was laying down in the field but she wasn’t. She couldn’t get up. I got her up in the end and moved her away from the others into another field. But she went down again, and now I can’t get her back up!”

Still in my suit I threw on a coat, jumped into a pair of wellys and said, “Get help. Phone the vets. I’ll meet you down there,” as I ran out the door.

I found Pandy tangled against the fence almost upside down. She looked like a different horse, tucked-up and skinny – how can a horse suddenly look so skinny and frail? – and pasted head to food in thick mud.

Pandora came to us two years ago on loan as a companion for Georgie. Last week I introduced Alfie to them so they were a trio and they settled down into a comfortable routine. Georgie fell instantly in love with Alfie, and Pandy just let them get on with it. Pandy is around 30 years old.

With a friend we managed to get Pandy away from the fence, on her feet and smothered her in rugs to keep her warm. The vet arrived soon after.

The vet was wonderful, fussing and talking to her as he made his examination. There were a few problems and they were all related to old age. Still, never say never, he gave her some pain relief and left us for a couple of hours to see how she’d respond.

It was late. It was dark. It was cold and it was only fair the friends who’d rallied round went home. I was really grateful for their support.

So I stood with Pandy and talked to her, kept her alert and stopped her from going down. She even ate a little hay.

When the vet came back, it was clear the pain relief was wearing off and she’d deteriorated. It was just her time. She was old and tired and it was just her time. Earlier that day she’d eaten breakfast, was perky and happy and half a day later… If you’re going to go, and all that.

She slipped away just before ten with me and the vet talking to her, Dex my dog beside us, and an owl hooting in the distance.

I didn’t tip my head back and scream at the sky because I’m British and we don’t do that, but just the same, I want to warn the heavens that a warrior is on her way into their midst, and this warrior, this perky, brave little warrior, is called Pandora. Rest in peace baby girl.

Having Issues with the Disco

It was spitting with rain, but after a while it stopped doing that and started raining properly. I pulled into the verge and began setting the Land Rover for bad weather, which involved hanging a bucket from the rear view mirror to catch some of the rain that leaked inside the car, and replacing the fuse for the windscreen wipers that had developed a habit of switching themselves on whenever they felt like it.

Then I set off again. Very slowly. The suspension had given up behaving itself and gone flop. Not all of it, the front was still okay, but the bum of the car was now only about an inch off the ground so driving it felt like I was doing a wheelie.

Pootling along at 15 miles an hour, I couldn’t help thinking evil thoughts about Auto-Slaughter, and GBH; Grievous Banger Harm. It was all I could do to stop myself from pulling over, grabbing a branch and giving the thing a Basil Fawlty thrashing, or driving a stake through its heart.

Vampire, that’s what it was. It sucked blood. Some cars are nice, and some are just downright nasty, and this one was wicked to the core. The radio hadn’t worked since the day we got it, the heated seat would only work on the hottest days of summer and was so pleased with itself it would ignore all attempts to turn it off, and the electric windows would only go down, not up.

Fill it up with diesel and you empty Kuwait.

I pootled on.

The windscreen had cracked in the snow, a big split from one side to the other. Vampire car—where was the heart of a car anyway? The engine? Probably. That’s where I’d drive the stake. Hammer it in, all the way in, in the… the… well under the bonnet in the big metaly bit. I’m not great with mechanics.

Didn’t Stephen King write about a possessed car? Christine, I think it was called. My lump of Land Rover certainly wouldn’t have a girl’s name. There was nothing pretty about this Disco.

I pootled on.

At one point I had a string of cars and vans and lorries behind me. Along a straight bit I hugged the side and let them all pass, ignoring all the irritated hand gestures.

The thing is I need a big 4x4. I need something that will go off road and onto my land, something that will tow the animals about. I guess as much as the Land Rover hates me, I hadn’t exactly been kind to it. It hadn’t had an easy life.

Still, I felt no sympathy.

It’s amazing how bouncy it gets without suspension. Hit a pebble any bigger than a marble and the whole thing shudders as though it’s driving over its own private earthquake. But worse, much, much worse, is when it hits a pot-hole.

I hit a pot-hole just at the moment a Police car overtook me. I’m pretty sure it’s not an offence to drive a knackered car, albeit a legal one, slowly to a garage, but it’s still a worry. They went past slowly and I tried hard to look relaxed, like I do this every day. Then two things happened simultaneously, I lifted my hand in friendly acknowledgement, and hit a pot-hole.

I rattled about that much I could have lost fillings. The Police continued up the road, probably too busy laughing to bother pulling me over.

Cursing the vampire car, I pootled on.

Making the garage in record slow time, I pulled in.

“Well, I’m not certain what’s wrong with it,” I stammered, unable to meet the mechanic’s eye, “but I don’t think it’s serious. Just needs a bit of TLC, and it’s such a good car, never lets me down.”

The General is home!

I threw down the tailgate and announced, “Give it up and go nuts everyone, the General is back!” The General ignored me and so did all the rest of the pigs. He made his way out of the trailer and stepped into his old pen for the first time in more than a month, sniffed the air and ignoring the pigs and food in the middle set off on a reccy around the perimeter fencing.

Meanwhile I’d gone from a fine rendition of, The General’s Back in Town by Thin Lizzy to Robbie Williams Let Me Entertain You, mashing it up with some Wurzles I’ve Got a Brand New Combine Harvester. I was pleased to see him back if no one else was. I wanted them all to go mad but pigs can be very conservative at times. Unlike me.

Having lost my glasses the week before and now using an old pair with an old prescription that severely limited my eyesight, I was confident nobody was around to see me acting a fool, working on the ancient rule of if I can’t see them, they can’t see me.

Just as I reached the chorus, fifty stone of handsomeness sauntered along the last few feet of the perimeter and stopped in front of me. Truth is, I’d really missed him. He’s my mate and I’m his. While he was away I’d missed not being able to talk to him, not having someone with whom I could share how I was feeling and gossip about what was going on.

I guess we all need a confident and I felt comfortable with the General as mine. I stopped singing and larking about and went quiet. For ages we just stood next to each other. I put my hand on his shoulder and leant against him and he leant back. Then he wandered off.

He walked over to the group. It was dinnertime and they were tucking into pig nuts and barging one another about, which is normal. I try and limit competition for food by spreading it as wide as I can, but even so they’ll still congregate and argue over the same bit even though they’re surrounded by goodies.

The General didn’t bother eating. He just bumped into all of the pigs one by one in a kind of greeting, the way we might shake hands or hug.

Bump: Hey, General, you’re back!

Bump: Good to see you man, what’s happening?

Bump: Do you mind, I’m trying to eat my dinn—Oh, it’s you! How you doing General?

Pigs only have seven audible sounds with which they communicate, and they’re reserved for the big emotions, fear, food, sex, etc. Behind that, all the subtlety of conversation is conducted in body language. Pigs are masters of body language. Of course it’s all interpretation, but when you watch them communicate amongst themselves it’s laugh out loud funny.

I don’t know if he was seeking out Whinny, whom before he went off was his special girlfriend, or if she was seeking out him. But they found themselves together. She turned her back on him and he nudged her bum. She ignored him. He nudged harder. She still ignored him. When he went to walk off, she turned and charged and bit him on the shoulder. Hard.

He immediately went into full love seduction mode and she went, oh no, no, no, no, no! And bit him again. Then she started squealing and running away while looking back over her shoulder at him, and he lumbered after her. We were all pleased to see him home.

Shep & Jo BBC Radio Devon

How is it possible to love doing something that makes you so nervous?

I’ve been lucky enough to get a regular spot on the radio talking about self sufficiency and giving fun tips. Yesterday was my first show.

I was on at five past four in the afternoon, so I started prepping for it about 10 hours earlier. I sussed out what I wanted to say and then paced the length of a marathon up and down my lounge as I rehearsed and rehearsed it. I desperately wanted it to come across as fun and interesting and witty, and I sounded great… right up until I went live.

The produce phoned me up and put me through to Shep and Jo, the presenters. We had a quick chat while some music was playing, and then they introduced me.

It’s like your brain splits in two. One half is concentrating on what you’re saying while the other half is kind of commentating, saying things like, ‘you’re live on the radio man, don’t mess this up… Oh! What did you go and say that for!... Don’t sound nervous, don’t sound nervous, DON’T SOUND NERVOUS! Ow, you’re sounding nervous…’

It’s really weird.

Shep and Jo are just so nice and so good at what they do. You don’t realise how clever and how much work goes into making the show sound so effortless and smooth until you’re part of it and get a tiny glimpse behind the scenes. I know with the writing, which is more of what I’m used to, to make it sound easy is actually really hard, and they do it brilliantly.

So next time I’m on will be the 1st March. I loved being on yesterday, really loved it and I can’t wait to do it again, and next time I won’t be so nervous!

Shep and Jo are on every weekday afternoon on BBC Radio Devon 103.4fm / 95.7fm and dab. Even if you don’t live in Devon, give them a listen.

I’m on the BBC iplayer for the next few days at www.bbc.co.uk/.../Shep_and_Jo_Part_One_Self_sufficiency/

Right, this media tart is off to muck out some pig poo. It’s a charmed life I lead.