Captain's log: Star date 2011.
Captain James T. Kirk was lucky.
He was off on a voyage of discovery where "To boldly go where no man had ever gone before". Well, today, I want to be that man.
James T. Kirk avoided the deluge which passes as a Scottish summer, dodged bored children who pulled each other's ears, never had to do a supermarket shop with ear pulling, kicking at each other, bairns. There was no evidence of any Dog which had rolled in something 'organic' on the S.S. Enterprise.
He may even have had time to care for his appearance....
In a moment of madness, the television was switched off and the children were ordered outside to play. In the rain.
They did not play, they skulked. For all of, ooh, two minutes then came in again.
"It is wet and we heard thunder"
"Right, we will get the paint and crayons out and do potato prints". I completely lack imagination when it comes to either children's activities on a wet day or what to cook for tea each evening.
If it does not involve pasta or potato prints, then I'm scuppered.
The phone and broadband have been acting up too. Infuriating as I had several calls to make plus needed my daily fix of the news and Mumsnet.
It is raining again this morning, The Farmer is away checking the sheep and cattle, children are still asleep but will soon be up.
The fantasy for today does not include anything agricultural. The reality is that the big shed needs emptied of dung, power washed then the sheep pens set up for the shearing.
Beam me up, Scotty.
The farm at the back of beyond.
Tuesday, 12 July 2011
Saturday, 9 July 2011
Leaks, fumes and the Co-op.
The Tranquility of Deer vibe lasted, ooh, about three minutes. Then reality kicked in. And a bit of carbon monoxide.
The Farmer and I are working on drainage just now so set off with the children, the big trailer and some sandwiches to pick up some pipe.
We got about a mile down the road as the car began to fill with a blue smoke and acrid smell. Burst exhaust.
"How long has this been burst?" I asked The Farmer.
"A while".
We are in his (battered) pick up. The one where the bumper has been bumped and is held on with bailer twine. The one where the rat chewed through the gear stick cover and ate the crumbs from the child seat and half the child seat. And a Twix.
The pick up which looks and smells like it belongs to a farmer and half the farm.
The Farmer has been knocked sideways with the heart medicines he has been taking since April and I worried that they were making him confused.
A burst exhaust and fumes pouring into his cab would not be helping.
We reversed (badly) and returned to the farm with our heads out of the windows like PieDog does.
Pick up has been booked in to be fixed and The Farmer (rather huffily) has taken to getting about with the tractor to the extent of going to the Co-op for bread and milk in it.
Transport issues aside, we now have to try and dry out the farmhouse which is a tricky one given that a large chunk of roof is missing. I empathise with Prometheus and his liver problem but have a new wide brush to sweep the water outside. Each sweep is powered by mutterings of Anglo Saxon aimed at the landowner and his shirking of repairing the fabric of the building.
I will note your envy at our wonderful kitchen ceiling - Sistine Chapel it is not.
The good part is the emergence of arms like a farmhouse cured ham. I make a mental note to take up arm wrestling after all this.
The Farmer and I are working on drainage just now so set off with the children, the big trailer and some sandwiches to pick up some pipe.
We got about a mile down the road as the car began to fill with a blue smoke and acrid smell. Burst exhaust.
"How long has this been burst?" I asked The Farmer.
"A while".
We are in his (battered) pick up. The one where the bumper has been bumped and is held on with bailer twine. The one where the rat chewed through the gear stick cover and ate the crumbs from the child seat and half the child seat. And a Twix.
The pick up which looks and smells like it belongs to a farmer and half the farm.
The Farmer has been knocked sideways with the heart medicines he has been taking since April and I worried that they were making him confused.
A burst exhaust and fumes pouring into his cab would not be helping.
We reversed (badly) and returned to the farm with our heads out of the windows like PieDog does.
Pick up has been booked in to be fixed and The Farmer (rather huffily) has taken to getting about with the tractor to the extent of going to the Co-op for bread and milk in it.
Transport issues aside, we now have to try and dry out the farmhouse which is a tricky one given that a large chunk of roof is missing. I empathise with Prometheus and his liver problem but have a new wide brush to sweep the water outside. Each sweep is powered by mutterings of Anglo Saxon aimed at the landowner and his shirking of repairing the fabric of the building.
I will note your envy at our wonderful kitchen ceiling - Sistine Chapel it is not.
The good part is the emergence of arms like a farmhouse cured ham. I make a mental note to take up arm wrestling after all this.
Thursday, 7 July 2011
Milk, two sugars and a lump of arsenic.
The team with the gizmo turned up this morning.
The farmhouse kitchen was under its usual inch of water due to the torrential rain and I tried to sweep the water outside but it is like picking up mercury.
There was the man with the machine, the woman I had spoken to on the phone and another man who had no discernible role other than he had a nice tie.
This is one of the walls and the cream paint is from Homebase.
Mr Gizmo applied the probe to the cream paint.
"That is from Homebase" I said.
He ignored me.
After a short while the gizmo flashed and beeped. "It's fine" he said.
"Yes, that is the Homebase paint, could you test the green paint please?"
He sighed a little and poked the gizmo into the green paint - more flashing and a beep.
"Oh" he said.
"Is it arsenic?" I asked him (through slightly gritted teeth)
"No, it is reading a high on lead and chromium"
"Chromium?"
"Yes".
Apparently, this was seen as a safer alternative to the 'Paris green'. It was mixed with copper, lead and iron.
"Is that ok then?" I asked with a feeling it was not ok. Chromium used to be used when dying wool and it was not ok at all.
"Oh yes, just don't breathe the dust'
I looked at the floor swimming in water and the missing ceiling then said that our house may have faults but dust was not one of them. The water streaming down the wall saw off the dust.
"So what do I do now?". God, it was like getting blood from a stone.
"Dry the wall out, don't breathe in the dust (smirk) and repaint."
I was too gobsmacked to ask him if he would allow his children to live there and touch the lead/cadmium paint.
"May I offer you tea and nice scones, almond and cherry?" (faint taste of Bitter almond, sir)
They all looked quickly at each other.
"No thank you".
I felt a bit hurt. I felt a bit murderous, actually.
They left and I looked at the wet wall with the iffy paint. It was everywhere.
Later, despite my lurking all afternoon with said scones, the plumber never turned up.
I stomped off in a huff for a quiet puff, well away from dodgy paint and the evil plumber. The children had found a large pile of mud and were sliding down it. Happily.
As I puffed and muttered to myself, I felt as if I was being watched.
We looked at one another for ages and she exuded a tranquility which was missing from life at that moment.
Poison walls and leaky roof was forgotten. Even my cigarette was ignored.
She eventually decided that a tempting patch of grass was infinitely more interesting than the angst ridden woman sitting in a huff.
She gracefully moved on without a backward glance.
I have taken this as a Sign.
The farmhouse kitchen was under its usual inch of water due to the torrential rain and I tried to sweep the water outside but it is like picking up mercury.
There was the man with the machine, the woman I had spoken to on the phone and another man who had no discernible role other than he had a nice tie.
This is one of the walls and the cream paint is from Homebase.
Mr Gizmo applied the probe to the cream paint.
"That is from Homebase" I said.
He ignored me.
After a short while the gizmo flashed and beeped. "It's fine" he said.
"Yes, that is the Homebase paint, could you test the green paint please?"
He sighed a little and poked the gizmo into the green paint - more flashing and a beep.
"Oh" he said.
"Is it arsenic?" I asked him (through slightly gritted teeth)
"No, it is reading a high on lead and chromium"
"Chromium?"
"Yes".
Apparently, this was seen as a safer alternative to the 'Paris green'. It was mixed with copper, lead and iron.
"Is that ok then?" I asked with a feeling it was not ok. Chromium used to be used when dying wool and it was not ok at all.
"Oh yes, just don't breathe the dust'
I looked at the floor swimming in water and the missing ceiling then said that our house may have faults but dust was not one of them. The water streaming down the wall saw off the dust.
"So what do I do now?". God, it was like getting blood from a stone.
"Dry the wall out, don't breathe in the dust (smirk) and repaint."
I was too gobsmacked to ask him if he would allow his children to live there and touch the lead/cadmium paint.
"May I offer you tea and nice scones, almond and cherry?" (faint taste of Bitter almond, sir)
They all looked quickly at each other.
"No thank you".
I felt a bit hurt. I felt a bit murderous, actually.
They left and I looked at the wet wall with the iffy paint. It was everywhere.
Later, despite my lurking all afternoon with said scones, the plumber never turned up.
I stomped off in a huff for a quiet puff, well away from dodgy paint and the evil plumber. The children had found a large pile of mud and were sliding down it. Happily.
As I puffed and muttered to myself, I felt as if I was being watched.
We looked at one another for ages and she exuded a tranquility which was missing from life at that moment.
Poison walls and leaky roof was forgotten. Even my cigarette was ignored.
She eventually decided that a tempting patch of grass was infinitely more interesting than the angst ridden woman sitting in a huff.
She gracefully moved on without a backward glance.
I have taken this as a Sign.
Wednesday, 6 July 2011
Arsenic, old lead and a ceilidh.
Today is going to be one of those days, I can feel it in my waters, as my Grannie would have said.
A team of people are coming up to the farmhouse as there is something strange happening to the walls.
The (unmended) roof has leaked so much that the water is pouring inside the house, causing the paint to fall off in the kichen/ hall/ pantry areas. This has exposed the original paint which has gone fluffy and smells so disgusting that it is actually productively nauseating. Sorry if that is too much information.
The original paint is a dull green and was a popular choice in the early 1900s. It is exotically called 'Paris Green', invoking images of gentile Parisians in parks or 'Dejeuner sur la herbe' (Yes, French was never a strong point at school).
In truth, this popular paint contains lead and arsenic. Harmless, I am told, unless it becomes damp and then it releases a gas which is not harmless, I am told.
The smell can only be described as a mixture of damp mouse nest and ransomes; a form of wild garlic, with a thump of an aftersmell which is so acrid that it causes instant gagging.
The children and Pie are forbidden to go into the house.
We have moved into a caravan, a lovely caravan which had wooden floors. Had being the operative word. The Farmer did the plumbing and one pipe came off- of course, of all the pipes to come off, it had to be the one which brought water in so the entire place was under inches of water.
An industrial vacuum was brought in and the water was sucked away as best as. Oh well, at least it is not dusty any more.
A *proper* plumber is coming up this afternoon to put a *proper* pipe in. Not a piece of hosepipe held on with a jubilee clip......
The Farmer will miss all the action today as he will be at cardiac rehabilitation.
Today, it will just be the children, Piedog and I, a Health and Safety team, a contamination person, a plumber and a damp caravan so a ceilidh as they say in the Highlands. A ceilidh in its truest sense; a meeting of people, a strupach of tea, maybe even a scone.
It will be nice to have folk in but something tells me the tea and scones will be tactfully declined.
A team of people are coming up to the farmhouse as there is something strange happening to the walls.
The (unmended) roof has leaked so much that the water is pouring inside the house, causing the paint to fall off in the kichen/ hall/ pantry areas. This has exposed the original paint which has gone fluffy and smells so disgusting that it is actually productively nauseating. Sorry if that is too much information.
The original paint is a dull green and was a popular choice in the early 1900s. It is exotically called 'Paris Green', invoking images of gentile Parisians in parks or 'Dejeuner sur la herbe' (Yes, French was never a strong point at school).
In truth, this popular paint contains lead and arsenic. Harmless, I am told, unless it becomes damp and then it releases a gas which is not harmless, I am told.
The smell can only be described as a mixture of damp mouse nest and ransomes; a form of wild garlic, with a thump of an aftersmell which is so acrid that it causes instant gagging.
The children and Pie are forbidden to go into the house.
We have moved into a caravan, a lovely caravan which had wooden floors. Had being the operative word. The Farmer did the plumbing and one pipe came off- of course, of all the pipes to come off, it had to be the one which brought water in so the entire place was under inches of water.
An industrial vacuum was brought in and the water was sucked away as best as. Oh well, at least it is not dusty any more.
A *proper* plumber is coming up this afternoon to put a *proper* pipe in. Not a piece of hosepipe held on with a jubilee clip......
The Farmer will miss all the action today as he will be at cardiac rehabilitation.
Today, it will just be the children, Piedog and I, a Health and Safety team, a contamination person, a plumber and a damp caravan so a ceilidh as they say in the Highlands. A ceilidh in its truest sense; a meeting of people, a strupach of tea, maybe even a scone.
It will be nice to have folk in but something tells me the tea and scones will be tactfully declined.
Sunday, 3 July 2011
Recycling
I pulled an enormous pair of cord trousers out of the machine this morning. They were unfamiliar, very heavy and had button bits for braces.
The Farmer found them in the loft and had no idea who they belonged to but he thought they had been in the loft since the early sixties. The style suggests the 1860's.
I have no earthly idea what to do with them but they have come up like new. No doubt they will be dried and put back into the loft for another 50 years until a grandchild finds them and thinks that his predecessors were large of bum.
I wonder if this large wearer of said cords had a hand in making the fertilizer spreader which sits where it was left many decades ago.
It is a real stroke of ingenuity and an object of rusty beauty, I think.
The axle has come from a Model T Ford and I have no idea what the hopper once was but the entire thing was put together for the ease of spreading fertilizer over the top (and least fertile) field.
It is quite large and very heavy, just like the owner of the mystery cords. I wonder if he had a hand in drawing the fertilizer up the steep hill and how it got up there? Was it pulled by horses or an early tractor?
The trousers have a faint line at the calf which suggests that twine was wrapped around them to stop rats running up the leg. Touchingly, there is a little handful of oat seed in the pocket.
Today, I will think about the big man who worked here.
The Farmer found them in the loft and had no idea who they belonged to but he thought they had been in the loft since the early sixties. The style suggests the 1860's.
I have no earthly idea what to do with them but they have come up like new. No doubt they will be dried and put back into the loft for another 50 years until a grandchild finds them and thinks that his predecessors were large of bum.
I wonder if this large wearer of said cords had a hand in making the fertilizer spreader which sits where it was left many decades ago.
It is a real stroke of ingenuity and an object of rusty beauty, I think.
The axle has come from a Model T Ford and I have no idea what the hopper once was but the entire thing was put together for the ease of spreading fertilizer over the top (and least fertile) field.
It is quite large and very heavy, just like the owner of the mystery cords. I wonder if he had a hand in drawing the fertilizer up the steep hill and how it got up there? Was it pulled by horses or an early tractor?
The trousers have a faint line at the calf which suggests that twine was wrapped around them to stop rats running up the leg. Touchingly, there is a little handful of oat seed in the pocket.
Today, I will think about the big man who worked here.
Charlie, me and Bobby McGee.
The Farmer woke just as I was getting to bed, it would seem.
I never heard him go out but he returned early morning, covered with diesel and a big grin on his face.
"Morning, what have you been doing"?
"Oh, I have fixed the cutter and it's a nice day and everything".
He was not looking at me directly but speaking to the fridge (which was a lot more awake than I was).
"What are you saying?" He had a Plan and I think he had volunteered myself without my knowledge.
"Well, maybe the end rigs could do with a cut and made into silage?" "Everything is ready" he said with hope.
Of course, everything was not ready. There were pieces to make, bottles of juice to be filled, sunglasses, midge repellant, cigarettes and lighter for after lunch, lip balm and a tractor to be washed as nobody could see out of the windows.
We set off together as I always have a Fear moment when I forget how the tractor works, how big and powerful it is, where is the PTO switch and which one lifts the cutter.
He did the first cut and the long grass fell into neat strips, releasing the most wonderful smell into the cab.
The second round of the field was with me at the wheel but The Farmer sitting behind me keeping me right. I felt nervous at first then slowly remembered the sequence and settled into cutting for a good part of the day.
As the settings were at 'slow rabbit' and I was to sit at 4.3mph, it seemed to take an age doing each circuit of the field so despite wearing an ear muff (singular as PieDog had chewed the other earpiece), I decided to listen to the one cassette tape which had stuck in the tape recorder years ago and nobody bothered to remove.
The Best of Charlie Pride.
It takes me right back to my teenage years when the local boys would show off in their Minis, four tracks blaring Charlie Pride. And only Charlie Pride.
Fifth cut in, Charlie and I were like peas and carrots again.... "Where did she drag you, Charlie?"...."Well she dragged me through the streets of Baltimore".
I sang 'Me and Bobby McGee' at the top of my voice and fancied that it had a touch of Janice Joplin but maybe that was the fags.
The work went quickly and did not feel like work at all. The Farmer did the steep sloping field which gives me The Fear and there is just one left to do.
Hopefully, the weather will hold and the cattle will have good, sweet silage for winter.
Me and Bobby McGee helped make it.
I never heard him go out but he returned early morning, covered with diesel and a big grin on his face.
"Morning, what have you been doing"?
"Oh, I have fixed the cutter and it's a nice day and everything".
He was not looking at me directly but speaking to the fridge (which was a lot more awake than I was).
"What are you saying?" He had a Plan and I think he had volunteered myself without my knowledge.
"Well, maybe the end rigs could do with a cut and made into silage?" "Everything is ready" he said with hope.
Of course, everything was not ready. There were pieces to make, bottles of juice to be filled, sunglasses, midge repellant, cigarettes and lighter for after lunch, lip balm and a tractor to be washed as nobody could see out of the windows.
We set off together as I always have a Fear moment when I forget how the tractor works, how big and powerful it is, where is the PTO switch and which one lifts the cutter.
He did the first cut and the long grass fell into neat strips, releasing the most wonderful smell into the cab.
The second round of the field was with me at the wheel but The Farmer sitting behind me keeping me right. I felt nervous at first then slowly remembered the sequence and settled into cutting for a good part of the day.
As the settings were at 'slow rabbit' and I was to sit at 4.3mph, it seemed to take an age doing each circuit of the field so despite wearing an ear muff (singular as PieDog had chewed the other earpiece), I decided to listen to the one cassette tape which had stuck in the tape recorder years ago and nobody bothered to remove.
The Best of Charlie Pride.
It takes me right back to my teenage years when the local boys would show off in their Minis, four tracks blaring Charlie Pride. And only Charlie Pride.
Fifth cut in, Charlie and I were like peas and carrots again.... "Where did she drag you, Charlie?"...."Well she dragged me through the streets of Baltimore".
I sang 'Me and Bobby McGee' at the top of my voice and fancied that it had a touch of Janice Joplin but maybe that was the fags.
The work went quickly and did not feel like work at all. The Farmer did the steep sloping field which gives me The Fear and there is just one left to do.
Hopefully, the weather will hold and the cattle will have good, sweet silage for winter.
Me and Bobby McGee helped make it.
Seventeen rounds with Mike Tyson
It has been glorious weather here, finally.
When the sun shines, it illuminates all the shady corners of the farm, the ones which harbour waist high thistles and creatures which scuttle.
We are waiting for the penultimate calf; Mothercow has been pregnant for all of Eternity, it seems but in truth, the bull started the season energetically then flagged a bit picking up again much later so the calving has stretched far longer than usual.
The cowshed is so quiet now, just the two cattle plus a posse of hens who have moved in and scold when you intrude on their patch.
I told the cows that I did know how they feel; that heavily pregnant feeling whereby you just want to lie in a heap and support the weight of your swollen belly with light industrial scaffolding whilst sipping Mint Juleps without the Julep bit.
There was no sign of an imminent calving so I had a look around to see what else to do. Tackle the forest of weeds which were waist high in places. The seed heads of the dockens and thistles would soon burst forth so needed cutting.
Some of the thistle stalks were unbelievably thick and the strimmer just nudged against them before snapping the line and it was quicker using a tree lopper to hack them down.
Quicker, yes, jaggier and midgier, yes.
Great fat plumes of midges rose up from thorny nests and swarmed onto my eyelids. I suppose it is the thinnest part of my body (make that absolutely the thinnest part of my body, the brats) so easiest access to the blood they need.
The tree loppers got heavier and the midges got fatter.
"Do we not have a machine to do this?" I asked the Farmer, irately.
"Yes, but the chain is broken."
Now this seems to happen every year. The machine which gets trundled out on The Day always has something wrong with it and needs complicated mending. Complicated mending to me is when the mendee is lying on a sheet of cardboard under the machine only to emerge covered in diesel and gleefully brandishing an indeterminable lump of metal. It is birthlike in its ritual.
This is then followed with Going For The Part and a lengthy journey round the agricultural parts departments dotted around Perthshire.
We take sandwiches and everything and I am always tempted to hang streamers out the car window as it is an Annual Event like the Sunday School picnic where you went in a big bus to somewhere exotic like Strathpeffer and spilled your bottle of Pola Cola on the grass.
I digress.
The war between weed and woman continued for hours. I was sustained by the mantra 'bingo wings' and hacked savagely at the thistles. They hacked back.
The children were happy playing on a huge sand pile just beside the jungle bit I was in and the Farmer mended the chain from the safety and sunny area of the one Nice Bit of the farm.
I stopped about half past eight at night as I could no longer think but had made a difference. The thistles would not blow their fairylike seedheads all over our barley.
We were all filthy, sandy muddy filthy, diesel filthy and seventeen rounds with Mike Tyson and midges filthy. There was even blood.
I never made it upstairs until 3am as I fell asleep on the sofa. I hate doing that. You wake up feeling bewildered and sore and as if you have had a monumental night out imbibing whisky and cocktails and laughing.....
I am going for round two today. The Sequel; Bits I Missed.
I hope it is not Bites that Missed me.
When the sun shines, it illuminates all the shady corners of the farm, the ones which harbour waist high thistles and creatures which scuttle.
We are waiting for the penultimate calf; Mothercow has been pregnant for all of Eternity, it seems but in truth, the bull started the season energetically then flagged a bit picking up again much later so the calving has stretched far longer than usual.
The cowshed is so quiet now, just the two cattle plus a posse of hens who have moved in and scold when you intrude on their patch.
I told the cows that I did know how they feel; that heavily pregnant feeling whereby you just want to lie in a heap and support the weight of your swollen belly with light industrial scaffolding whilst sipping Mint Juleps without the Julep bit.
There was no sign of an imminent calving so I had a look around to see what else to do. Tackle the forest of weeds which were waist high in places. The seed heads of the dockens and thistles would soon burst forth so needed cutting.
Some of the thistle stalks were unbelievably thick and the strimmer just nudged against them before snapping the line and it was quicker using a tree lopper to hack them down.
Quicker, yes, jaggier and midgier, yes.
Great fat plumes of midges rose up from thorny nests and swarmed onto my eyelids. I suppose it is the thinnest part of my body (make that absolutely the thinnest part of my body, the brats) so easiest access to the blood they need.
The tree loppers got heavier and the midges got fatter.
"Do we not have a machine to do this?" I asked the Farmer, irately.
"Yes, but the chain is broken."
Now this seems to happen every year. The machine which gets trundled out on The Day always has something wrong with it and needs complicated mending. Complicated mending to me is when the mendee is lying on a sheet of cardboard under the machine only to emerge covered in diesel and gleefully brandishing an indeterminable lump of metal. It is birthlike in its ritual.
This is then followed with Going For The Part and a lengthy journey round the agricultural parts departments dotted around Perthshire.
We take sandwiches and everything and I am always tempted to hang streamers out the car window as it is an Annual Event like the Sunday School picnic where you went in a big bus to somewhere exotic like Strathpeffer and spilled your bottle of Pola Cola on the grass.
I digress.
The war between weed and woman continued for hours. I was sustained by the mantra 'bingo wings' and hacked savagely at the thistles. They hacked back.
The children were happy playing on a huge sand pile just beside the jungle bit I was in and the Farmer mended the chain from the safety and sunny area of the one Nice Bit of the farm.
I stopped about half past eight at night as I could no longer think but had made a difference. The thistles would not blow their fairylike seedheads all over our barley.
We were all filthy, sandy muddy filthy, diesel filthy and seventeen rounds with Mike Tyson and midges filthy. There was even blood.
I never made it upstairs until 3am as I fell asleep on the sofa. I hate doing that. You wake up feeling bewildered and sore and as if you have had a monumental night out imbibing whisky and cocktails and laughing.....
I am going for round two today. The Sequel; Bits I Missed.
I hope it is not Bites that Missed me.
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