Ancestral Head Cheese

The head was in the freezer for 10 months, each half wedged down the side. When you're in search of the solace only a bowl of ice cream can provide, you do not want to see a rigor mortis smile or frozen eye-lashes on closed eyes that will never open. Alongside the head was a bag of trotters. They're not there any more. They are in the fridge. They are neither head nor trotters any more. They are brawn. In North America it is called head cheese. Why would anyone do that? Call it head cheese I mean, not make brawn.

Before I go any further it is only fair to warn you that if you scroll down you are at risk of encountering gruesome pictures of grizzly detail of the transformation of raw pig head to tasty brawn. These are pictures that at the very least will make you curl up your upper lip and say "yeurgh", and at worse have you waking in a cold sweat from nightmares of being chased by a fleshless disembodied pig head. Just saying.

Step one. Remove your defrosted pig head from the fridge. At this point I offered David an out. There's no shame in admitting this is a step too far in nose to tail eating. But no, he would see this through.

Step two. Cut off the ears and clean out the wax. Ha ha ha ha! And yes, he did, and yes, the ears were waxy. I found the hole where ear met head disturbingly intriguing, insisting on pointing it out several times. The ears have subsequently been roasted and eaten as a crispy snack by Teri. The dog. She loves the pigs. We don't think she knew it was a pig ear. 

 

Step three. Soak your pig head in brine for 24 hours, after shaving it to remove hairs. Ha ha ha ha! It gets funnier and funnier. There was no way David was going to work up a nice foam and give the pig a shave. And besides, you can't shave off an eye lash. Can you? I gave him my tweezers. He didn't pluck for long before announcing we would not be using the skin in the brawn. I wasn't prepared to be the plucker so who was I to argue.

 

Step four. Boil your brined pig head with herbs and spices for 4 hours. Phew, we could now hide the head under greenery and vegetables. Uh oh, we're gonna need a bigger pot! Push the trotter under the water. Up pops the trotter. Push the trotter under the water. Trotter bobs back up. Push the trotter under the water. Hi there, me again! 

 

Step five. Pick the meat off the head. No, no, no, no .... it's still smiling at me. Though the smile is now so much more gruesome than it was before it was boiled. I waivered at step 5. "But I thought it would be nice to do it together", said David. Keep the magic alive, pick over a boiled pig head together. I conceded. He did the head. I did the trotters. Keep the magic alive, compromise. I screwed up my face a lot. I winced when the canine popped out the jaw bone. I peered across the table and said "is that the brain or the eyeball?". Curiosity started to over come squeamishness. A pig's teeth are fascinating, a rugged mountain range of toothy crags, perfect for grinding stones and chewing on wooden pig ark panels. 

 

Step six. Mix the meat with herbs and spoonfuls of the gelatinous stock and pack into a press. At last, the fruits of our labours began to look like real food instead of a terrible farming accident. Our family heirloom butcher's press, which had spent five years gathering dust and general detritus in the corner of our utility room, was now shiny and clean, ready for its moment of brawn glory, having lain unused since David's grandfather's butchers shop in Portsmouth closed its doors.

 

 

Step seven. Two days later, realise you forgot to line the press with cling-film, cross your fingers, hold your breath, ease the brawn out of the press. Hey presto, a thing of beauty, a feast, a labour of love, a meaty delight, a brawn David's grandfather would have been proud to have made.

The Mart

Sometimes there's absolutely no point whatsoever in pretending you know what you're doing, and Tregaron livestock market is definitely one of those times and places where you'll never get away with it.

We'd been given a blow by blow account over a beer or two in the pub of how our morning at the mart might unfold; when to arrive, what to say to the auctioneer and when - "I'm disappointed", "on the market" - what sort of price we might expect, who would buy our stock, what to order for breakfast in the portakabin canteen. Despite all this, the day didn't start as planned when Myfanwy hurdled the hurdles (yet again, when will I learn), signing Lulu's death warrant in the process. Two sheep had to go to market and neither Lulu or Rhos had yet to develop Myfanwy's leaping skills or sense of self-preservation, so when three became two in the pen by default Lulu had to accompany her half-brother to market. This unplanned turn of events left me a little tearful. I'd said my goodbyes to Rhos and Myfanwy and mentally prepared myself for their departure. Myfanwy had been nothing but trouble for the past year, but Lulu had never put a hoof wrong in her year on the smallholding. Nevertheless, a change of plan is a change of plan whether I like it or not, especially given that Myfanwy's escape was entirely my fault for not predicting the predictable effect on her of the sound of the approaching truck and trailer.

As advised, we arrived at market soon after the 9 a.m. permitted arrival time to ensure our sheep got into the first auction shed. Luckily this also gave us the chance to confess our ignorance and inexperience to the auctioneer and stockman without an audience (as if they didn't know from the look of us, in our clean clothes, with our incomer accents, and not a flat cap between us). To their credit, both were friendly and not at all dismissive of our "idiot's guide to the mart" questions. What was said once we'd turned our backs we shall never know, though I'm pretty sure somebody said something to someone before the day was out as news of our performance at mart got back to me three days later in the local shop via someone who wasn't even there at the time! Infamy, infamy ....

The time difference between opening time and starting time wasn't included in our pub mart briefing, so having whiled away the two hours to auction by having a coffee, buying a newspaper, browsing the agricultural store (always educational), playing Candy Crush Saga on the phone, sipping mugs of tea and nibbling at pieces of toast in the canteen, we ambled back to the mart. By now the first auction shed was full and the second filling quickly as trailer after trailer unceremoniously unloaded an assortment of sheep who trotted over the concrete to their allotted numbered pen.

In our absence, Rhos and Lulu had been given pen mates, including a big ugly ram with scary bulging eyes. Judging by the nasty bite he gave his owner he wasn't happy about being at the mart. I couldn't bear to look at Rhos and Lulu, both of whom were hanging their heads and trying to hide at the back of the pen (I must not blub at the mart, I must not blub at the mart).

 

There was a fair crowd in the auction shed by now, but I still felt conspicuous in every way - female, under 50, wearing a jacket from Mole Valley Farmers in Somerset, more worried about welfare than price. Then the hubbub died down, everybody shuffled to the end and the auction began. Subtly raised fingers, inexplicable chatter, shouted prices, out with the spray marker, sold. And repeat. Nothing hi-tech about this stock market, with transactions recorded by a man with a clipboard using pen and paper. Rhos and Lulu were up next. All eyes turned to us. Clearly we were supposed to say something to kick the bidding off. Remembering our pub briefing I offered up "yearling wether" in a far from confident very English sounding voice. Correct answer. "Teeth up?" Eh? What? No, yes, don't know, what does that mean? The stockman stuck his fingers into Rhos' mouth. "Baby teeth", he announced to the assembled throng. "Baby teeth", "baby teeth", ripples around the group clustered by the pen. Was that good or bad? No time to ponder, bidding was underway. Sold for £73.50. And off we went again with Lulu. "Baby teeth!". Bidding. A pause. The auctioneer looked at us. We looked at him. Had someone asked a question? Was this where we say "I'm disappointed"? Hands reach between bars to give Lulu a squeeze. Ha! This time I knew what was going on. They were checking her body condition score. A number was shouted out. Bidding resumed. Sold for £63. Phew, it was all over for us. At this point the big Welsh chap who'd bought them both (who, according to what I saw scribbled on the clipboard, was exactly who we'd been told would buy them) said something incomprehensible. It sounded like "pound for helpy". Eh? "Pound for helpy?" Smile and laugh. "Pound for helpy?". Smile, laugh and keep walking. I still have absolutely no idea what was being asked of me. Three years of Welsh lessons had failed me. Come to think of it, I have no idea if he was speaking Welsh or English or Wenglish. Did he want me to give him £1 for buying our sheep? Is that some strange custom deliberately omitted from our pub briefing? Had I inadvertently committed a faux pas that would have me banned from the mart forever? I shall never know, as bidding began at the next pen everyone's attention turned back to business and we wandered out, eyes blinking in the morning sunshine as we emerged from the gloom of the auction shed. The deed was done. I didn't feel good about it. Walking away, leaving Rhos and Lulu in that shed, felt like a betrayal. My fifty pieces of silver would arrive a week later.

You're going to have put your hand in!

Each year we learn something about lambing and put what we learn into practice by doing something different the next year.

In the first year we learned the signs of impending birth but never saw them coming, so in the second year we watched the ewes closely through binoculars.

In the second year we learned not to intervene too early but that it's easier to intervene in a smaller area, so in the third year we fenced the ewes into a small corner of the field.

In this third year we learned that when you really, really have to intervene, a small pen would have been better than a small corner of the field.

Other facts that Margo's tricky delivery taught me are:

• A lamb can survive a surprising length of time with just its head protruding from its mother's back end, including surviving its mother sitting on her back end.
• A pregnant ewe with a lamb's head protruding from her back end can still move fairly quickly given sufficient incentive.
• It's hot, wet and slimy inside a ewe's uterus.

Yes, if putting my hand inside a ewe had been on my bucket list, I could now strike it off. Lube or no lube, slipping your whole hand in alongside a protruding head is not easy. I feared choking the poor gasping lamb. I felt Margo's pain. Gently pushing the head back in was not an option as the birth sac had burst and the lamb had taken its first (uncomfortable) breaths. The Shepherding Helpline (long suffering but very calm and very patient Simon who lives up the road) advised me to get my hand in, find the front legs (which should have come before the head), and ease them out one by one. Alas, I couldn't find the legs. Margo was giving birth to a legless lamb!

Frustrated by my failure, tearful for fear of losing lamb and ewe, the first emergency call was made. Simon arrived within minutes that felt like hours. After a quick examination the second emergency call was made, this time to the vet. Serious stuff. "No one can come out to you" was not the response I had hoped for. "Can you get her to us?". Really? Seriously? With both Dave and Simon being indisposed at Margo's side and inside respectively, this would require me single handedly hitching the trailer up to the truck, dis-assembling the electric fence, driving the truck and trailer to Margo whilst simultaneously preventing Myfanwy, Rhos and Lulu from crossing into the delivery corner and causing havoc. And then we would have to heave a prone, moaning Margo into the trailer, and bump her along the lanes for the 25 minute drive to the vet. The vet might as well have asked me to take Margo to the moon!

Returning to the bloody scene in the field, I shouted the bad news over the fence. "We've got a leg out", came the reply. Hallelujah! Once one leg was out, Simon could soon ease the other one out, and with one heave from Margo, out slipped the rest of the lamb. Despite the trauma, Margo immediately set to work licking her new born and, after cleaning the remaining gunk from the lamb's mouth, we all stepped back to let mother and lamb bond. A job well done. And then out slithered a much smaller gunky parcel. Lamb number two! A third set of twins for our flock!

All three of us stood back and marvelled as within 15 minutes both lambs were making their first wobbling attempts to stand and nudging around for the first suckle. What a feeble species we are to take so long to stand on our own two feet and feed ourselves.

Elated, exhausted, relieved. And that was just me, who hadn't given birth, hadn't held someone down who was giving birth, hadn't saved three lives and helped the birth happen! But there's always next year ....

Margo with three day old Simon (the head first lamb) and little sister Simone

I don't make this stuff up!

Today I saw something happen that I know happens every day but which I have never actually seen happen. I saw an egg being laid. I don't mean that I saw a chicken on the nest and then saw an egg emerge from beneath her feathered bottom as she rose and strutted off. I mean that I saw an egg emerge from the chicken's egg producing hole (more properly known as her vent, and the only hole she has, so yes, that means she poops out the same one). Anyway, the whole episode happened like this...

As you'll know from reading "Bob-bob in the House", Cochen has been having foot issues. Since she's been back free ranging we've been keeping an eye on her. So today, when I saw her all alone in an awkward looking stance in the middle of the yard I went across to ask her if she was okay. Not receiving a satisfactory answer, I squatted down to her level to ask her again. Still no satisfactory answer, so I got down on elbows and knees to inspect her feet, legs, eyes, breathing. Nothing obviously out of the ordinary for a chicken with a dodgy foot, so I shuffled forward for a closer look. Her stance was decidedly odd, and the very fact that my by now very close, eye to eye proximity did not cause her to flinch or move away was even more odd. Then I noticed a slight pulsating motion towards the rear end (hers not mine), I shifted my prone position from eye to eye to eye to vent to discover said vent was protruding - like a pouty pair of puckered lips. Sorry, that really is the best description. This being late afternoon, some seven hours past normal egg laying time, I concluded that maybe she was simply having a really big poo. Having no desire to witness this, I was about to get back on my feet when something quite different began to emerge. Bloody hell, out it came, a foot from my nose, slowly at first and then landing on the gravel with a plop, a perfectly shaped, glistening, soft-shelled egg. Translucent at first, but quickly becoming opaque. Being overcome with the wonder of it all I failed to notice that I hadn't been the only one to witness this event. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the rest of the flock rushing over. There was no mistaking their intent and with seconds to spare I cupped my hands over the egg. So there I was on elbows and knees in the gravel, protecting a freshly laid softie, suffering the persistent, insistent pecks to hands, arms and head of four greedy chickens with a thirst for yolk. Thankfully, after a few minutes of this assault, and mercifully before either of the decorators up on the scaffolding painting the house saw me, the chickens lost interest in futile pecking and wandered off. By now the soft shell was sufficiently dry for me to lift it, ever so gently, from the ground. Alas I didn't get far before Teri bounded over, knocked it from my hand and swallowed it whole. Just another stitch in the rich tapestry of smallholding life.

Struck Down

A smallholder's life is not all sunshine, bountiful produce and skipping gaily through meadows (that's just on a Tuesday). If you keep animals it's your responsibility to keep them healthy. When you lack Dr Dolittle's conversational skills, keeping animals healthy can sometimes be a struggle, and if we're talking cats and pills, pigs and needles or sheep and anything, that struggle can quickly escalate into a battle of both wills and bodies.

As any pet owner knows, doling out fistfuls of cash for worming pills, flea treatments and annual booster injections is the price you pay for affection, loyalty and companionship (and in the case of two out of our three cats all are grudgingly given, accompanied by the swipe of a claw-laden paw or not on offer in the first place). Add chickens, pigs and sheep in to the mix and the cash (yours for them) increases while the affection (theirs for you) decreases. Actually, to be fair, in our experience pigs are the least troublesome animal health-wise as long as they're fed and watered and have company and plenty of rooting and playing space. Understandably, given the size and weight of a healthy 6 month old sow, if play or food envy gets overly boisterous there can be injuries. This is usually nothing more harmful than a scratched ear, but having once been called upon to administer an anti-inflammatory injection I can confirm that the skin of a porcine posterior is not easily pierced.

In contrast, when caring for chickens you can find yourself engaged in some rather strange and sometimes icky tasks - dripping drops in a pus oozing eye, wiping blocked snotty nostrils, clipping solidified poo from bottom feathers, gently massaging a swollen balloon like abdomen, dabbing soothing cream on pecked parts, providing warm baths and blow drys (I can tell by the low level cluck, cluck, clucking in my ear that they LOVE a trip to the hen salon).

Which brings us to sheep.

I love my ewes. I know their individual characters. I recognise their faces. I've looked deep into Babette's eyes and seen myself reflected back. Given the effort that goes into keeping the girls tickety-boo I choose to take the head butts, stamping and occasional hoof to the back of the leg as signs of affection and gratitude. Recent events, however, have made me see the seemingly endless folding, tipping, trimming, dagging, fluking and dosing as enjoyable tasks, tasks I would gladly repeat ad infinitum if someone, anyone, would promise that we would never ever have to deal with fly strike again. I thought "tax returns" were the scariest two words in my life, but not any more. The "fly" is the blow fly. The strike is its offspring hatching out in moist, warm wool and then munching their way into the flesh of your sheep. Hideous, Horrific. Horrendous. And other "h" words that fail to convey quite how awful fly strike is. Try this instead: "Eggs hatch within 24 hours and first stage larvae penetrate the skin using their hook like mouthparts and secrete enzymes which liquefy and digest the tissue. Larvae are very active and cause further skin and muscle liquefaction with secondary bacterial infection as they develop". Have I put you off your food yet? Don't worry, there are no photos to accompany this. Well, no "during" photos anyway.

In June we cried wolf - the signs of fly strike in Myfanwy which induced panicked calls for help turned out to be nothing more than grumpy, hot and bothered, out of sorts behaviour. So the next time we saw the same behaviour we were less quick to react. Hindsight is a wonderful thing, and hindsight tells me that this is where we should have intervened. Meanwhile, without the benefit of hindsight, we let ourselves be distracted by the development of a limp. Nothing unusual, easily treated, and hiding the real problem. When the hanging back from the flock, lurking in the shed and back nibbling started, Rhos and Lulu were rounded up for inspection. Suspecting fly strike, but never having seen fly strike before, I expected to see maggots in the fleece. No maggots. Lots of crusty scabby skin, but no maggots on the back of either lamb. So not fly strike then. With only three days to go until the one way trip to the abattoir, an insecticide dosing was not an option. A day later and the situation hasn't improved. Both lambs were reluctant to move, with Rhos only dragging himself to his feet to run when approached. Knowing that sheep have a blind spot immediately behind them, I even got down on all fours to crawl up behind him and inspect his back, but still failed to see any sign of writhing maggots in the fleece. Mystified, we called for help. Something was desperately wrong but we didn't know what or how to treat it.

Help arrived the next day, with his dog (a proper working one not our fake one). Being at work all I could do was wait for the phone to ring with news and moan and wail at anyone who would listen. I didn't have to wait too long. The diagnosis was in, fly strike confirmed, Rhos in a bad way, another day's delay and that would probably have been his last. We'd been looking in the wrong place, the fly strike was on the flanks, down to the belly, great handfuls of maggot riddled fleece falling away exposing bloody eaten flesh. Oh the guilt, the "why didn't we do x when we saw y" self-recriminations. Liberal spraying with huge doses of insecticide, isolation from the flock, the bleating and wailing, followed by daily, then every other day, then weekly inspections for re-strike, lifting off scabbed dead skin, smearing with protective and anti-septic cream. For weeks Rhos was blue with insecticide and yellow with cream, a brightly coloured sorry looking specimen, but alive. And here he is now .....

... still a little yellow and crusty at the rear, but I'm pretty sure there's a smile back on his face. The fleece is gradually growing back, the first soft downy regrowth masked the track marks left by the maggots. Lulu was never as bad, the fly strike was caught early. But neither will be heading for the abattoir any time soon, if at all. Any "real" farmer would laugh, any "real" farmer would know this isn't a financially viable way to run a smallholding, but there's something about bringing an animal back from the brink of death that makes it harder to then send it to its death. Nonsensical. Soft-hearted. Sign of a g guilty conscience. But one thing's for sure, we never want any of our flock to suffer fly strike ever again.

As pink as a pink pig

There was method in our madness when we chose the runt of the litter. Black pigs, like little Midge and her bigger sister Mary, don't burn.

Mary

Midge

Pink pigs like Mungo, however, get pinker and pinker and pinker.

Mungo

Despite this Mungo just loves to lie in the sun nose to tail with her dark skinned siblings. Mungo refuses to use the wallow. She refuses to stay in the shade. Even when she lies in the ark she finds the spot in the straw where the sun streams in through the door. And the unsurprising result of such reckless disregard for her skin colour? Why sunburn, of course! And Dippity Pig Syndrome. Yes, that's right, Dippity Pig. I hadn't heard of it either, but apparently it's common in pot bellied pigs (the specific breed not just greedy beer swigging pigs of any breed) and according to my pig forum research the symptoms of Dippity Pig Syndrome - dipping of the back and dropping of the rear end, bum, legs and all, to the ground - are also brought on by sunburn. Perhaps this eases the tension of tight, sore skin. Whatever the reason for it, although Mungo didn't appear to be in any distress, she clearly couldn't get any more burned than she was already. Besides, I'd already heard one too many jokes about crackling. So Mungo now smells of Nivea sun lotion, and Mary and Midge snuggle up to her creamed up skin and go to sleep dreaming of holidays on Mediterranean beaches. They'll be wanting a lilo for the wallow next!

The Miracle of Life

I watched “All Creatures Great and Small” in the 1980s. Once I even managed to endure a few episodes of “Lambing Live”. I know the words to “Little Bo Peep” and “Baa Baa Black Sheep”. I sent Dave, the King of Courses, on a course (of course). I read every chapter of “The Sheep Book”, even the yucky parts about retained placenta and advanced mastitis. I scared myself with the front leg, back leg, no leg, breach birth diagrams. I discussed the merits of a long slender hand and arm and the importance of trimming long nails before putting a hand anywhere near a sheep’s back end. I toured a lambing shed, oohed and aahed over newborns, tried not to well up over deformed lambs and confronted the reality of a bag of dead lambs. I sent Dave shopping for baby bottles, lubricant and iodine. Be warned, I now own a shiny new castrator.

Yes, as usual I went well and truly over the top to ensure we were prepared for our first lambing. Even the sheep shed got an overhaul, transformed from bus shelter to bigger bus shelter.

 

Meanwhile, Babs, Margo and Myfanwy got bigger and hungrier. Week one of the lambing period came and went. Nothing. Every day Dave would peer at the rear end of a sheep with her nose in the trough and declare “any day now”. And then it happened. Early one Sunday morning, the thudding of boots running upstairs roused me from my snuggle deep down under the duvet - “I think we’ve got a lamb!”. Panic, clothes over pyjamas, grab the lambing kit, bucket of hot water, hurry, hurry. But Mother Nature had no need of us and on a crisp, sunny Easter Sunday morning the first lamb was born at Banceithin. Babs did it all by herself. By the time we arrived on the scene Babette was already licked clean by mum and happily drying and dozing. I’m not ashamed to admit that there might have been a little tear in my eye as I gazed in wonder at this new life.

Over the course of the day, the next day, the day after that, and the day after that, we diligently checked on the flock every two hours. And every two hours the pigs went into a frenzy thinking it was tea time again and again. It seems there really is no limit on the number of times a pig can expect to be fed. There was one lambing false alarm. I could have sworn that the lamb on the other side of the fence was on our side, but nevertheless I promised that in future I would double check and triple check before racing back to the house in a panic. Not once did I see any signs of impending lambing. No thrown back heads or curled lips. No pawing at the ground. No water bag protruding and bursting. Just chewing the cud. So for a second time it happened while our backs were turned. Myfanwy popped into the bus shelter and popped out a ram lamb. We were on the scene more quickly this time though and mum was mid clean and Ceredig mucky and unsteady on his feet, falling not once but twice, my heart lurching not once but twice, “something’s wrong”, “he’s dying”, “he’s dead”.  Ever the optimist.

As spring went from cold to colder, the rain stayed away and the wicked east wind continued to scorch the pasture, the lack of grass for our new mums was becoming a problem. Dave hastily constructed a hay feeder in the pig run fence and we upped the ewe nut rations.

Still without her own lamb, Margo was shunned by Babs and Myfanwy, both of whom quickly developed a “them and us” air of smugness to go with their “feed me now and hurry up about it” attitude. Margo grew bigger and morphed into a giant rugby ball shaped cloud teetering around on tiny legs. Surely it would be twins? And twins means trouble. Two hourly inspections continued. While Margo carried on eating, Ceredig grew in size and Babette grew in size and confidence. The lack of fear of scatter-brained OCD collies is a genetic trait passed from ewe to lamb.

 

Yet again, without showing any sign of going into lamb, Margo squeezed out our third and final lamb. No twins, but from birth Alan was bigger, whiter and fluffier than his cousins. Lady Luck was on our side this year. Three trouble free births. Three healthy lambs. Three diligent mums. I’m told that if you don’t come out of the lambing period shattered, with knackered knees, back ache and smelling of a sheep’s arse, then you’ve had it too easy! What did I do in a previous life to deserve such good fortune?

Nursery Rhymes for the Modern World

“This little piggy went to market,

this little piggy stayed at home, …

… the other little piggy was sold for an obscenely low price that didn’t even cover the cost of petrol to get piggy to market, let alone all the feed that piggy had eaten.”

The closer the day came for our first visit to the monthly Carmarthen pig market, the more apprehensive we became. I’m not entirely sure why. Fear of the unknown perhaps. Would we be ridiculed and exposed as the ex-townie newcomers with not a drop of agricultural blood between us? Would a careless flick of the wrist or sideways glance at the auctioneer land us with a £300 prize boar? Would row upon row of unhappy squealing pigs in filthy cages leave me running from the shed in tears? In reality, nobody laughed at us, all I bought was a Welsh cake, and the pigs snuffled straw in their clean roomy pens seemingly unfazed by proceedings.

 

All of which somehow made the lack of buyers and the low prices being commanded by these perfectly healthy pigs seem all the more tragic. I left the market with a heavy heart. Just £4 for a 3 month old porker. How can that be right? This is the British pork industry being hammered by cheap lower welfare imports from continental Europe. I rarely blog from atop a metaphorical soap box but let me just say this, please, please, please support British pig farmers. There’s a reason why some imported bacon is so cheap - I’ve seen the photos and they don’t make for happy viewing.

Meanwhile, back at base, we decided to stick with our principle of buying weaners direct from small local breeders. Meeting the farmer and the sow can tell you a lot about what you’re buying (and buying into). What we hadn’t bargained for was just how eventful the trip to collect our three new weaners would be.

“For want of a nail, the shoe was lost,

for want of a shoe the horse was lost, …

… for want of four tight screws the trailer wheel was lost”.

Halfway down the drive, clunk, crash, brake hard, lop-sided one-wheeled trailer. Screws picked out of the grass. Wheel re-attached. Off we go again.

“The wheels on the bus go round and round, round and round, round and round, …

… the wheels on the trailer go flying off, overtake you on the inside and heads off down the hill”.

This was not a happy day. Not once but twice the wheel fell off the trailer, leaving a smashed rear light, a bent wheel arch , a trailer up on bricks abandoned in a lay-by for the night and a very grumpy Dave.

“Humpty Dumpty sat on the wall,

Humpty Dumpty also sat on his sunglasses and flattened them”.

And believe me, this did nothing to improve his mood. Thankfully all this happened on the way there as otherwise we would have been either dodging traffic herding three frightened weaners all the way home or strapping them in the back seat of the trailer like a trio of toddlers on a family day out.

Eventually George, Snowy and Mary-Beth made it to Banceithin.

I’m not entirely sure how happy they are about their new home as since arriving they have been very vocal. Actually, that’s playing it down. They’re screamers. They are so not enjoying the weather. And who can blame them when there’s nothing but a scant covering of pale blond hair to protect that pink piggy skin from the east wind that brings the Russian winter to West Wales. The wind howls through the trees, one pig screams, all three bolt out of their shelter, race around the pen, scream, then back in the shelter. And repeat. I’d give them a blanket, but I suspect it would end up being a woolly snack. That’s not the kind of fibre a growing pig needs. So we pile more straw into the ark and feed them energy boosting milk, yoghurt and banana smoothies.

 

I bet the Danish pigs don’t get that for tea!

Bo v. The Wickerman

Why did God create sheep? Where’s the logic in creating an animal for which every day is an end is nigh day and every rumination is a potential last supper? Was it a prototype for a higher being that He forgot to shelve or a last minute bish bash bosh, bit of this bit of that pukka creation a la Jamie Oliver?
Don’t get me wrong, I am starting to warm to my flock of three, especially now their true characters are starting to show through – Myfanwy the shaggy girl, ringleader and chief trouble maker; Babs the greedy girl with spotty ears and a “don’t mess with me” attitude; Margo the shy girl and ditzy blonde of the flock who’s always on the wrong side of the fence at feeding time.
Maybe I expected too much from an animal which, according to “The Sheep Book for Smallholders” (available from very few good book stores) is “intrinsically tied up with almost every momentous episode in the history of mankind”. Where were your sheep when JFK was assassinated? Can you be sure they weren’t in the Book Depository or on the infamous grassy knoll? Maybe the original design was flawless, and it’s hundreds of years of man’s tinkering with breeds to suit his needs that has left me with a flock of three with fluff for brains and a genetic predisposition to acquire any infection, disease, mite or worm that passes within a 50 mile radius of their field.  
There’s a very good reason why the pig is recommended as the ideal animal for the smallholder – give them a warm bed, rooting opportunities aplenty, buckets of nosh and the occasional belly rub or back scratch, and all is well in the land of the pig. Meanwhile, over in sheep world, there’s hoof trimming, foot spraying, bum cleaning, coat shearing, then vaccinations, drenchings and squirting stuff into their mouths. None of which can be done at arms length, all of which require you to catch the woolly escapologist in the first place. And to think that the vet advised us to spray Myfanwy’s dodgy hoof twice a day – the funniest joke I’d heard since hearing some fool advocate beekeeping for smallholders because bees require “minimal upkeep”!
Surrounded by hills, we live in a natural amphitheatre, with our field the stage, and every hilltop farm a seat in the Gods from which to view the daily performance of “shepherding for idiots”. We’ve experimented with various herding methods. There are the carrot techniques involving troughs of sheep nuts cunningly positioned in a narrow corral alongside the pig pen - tears from me as a hurriedly closed gate slices open my little finger, sighs from Dave as yet again Myfanwy demonstrates her high jumping skills, squeals from Blanket the pig as she grabs a mouthful of Myfanwy’s fleece through the fence, and ill-suppressed sniggers from all as Squaddie Dad launches himself at a hastily departing sheep and is dragged to his knees as Myfanwy exits stage left. Then there are the stick techniques involving a motley crew of assorted family and friends stumbling across the field, arms outstretched, being given the run around by our wayward sheep while the bemused dog either hides in the corner of the field or maintains a safe distance behind the electric fence. Now I know why the show is called “One Man & His Dog” and not “One Man, His Wife, His Parents, Two Friends, A Pig & His Sheep-shy Sheep Dog”.
(A giant appears to be tweaking Dave’s ear!)
But carrot and stick are nothing compared with the lesser known “Wickerman” technique. You won’t read about this in “The Sheep Book for Smallholders”. In fact I doubt any farmer in the whole of Wales has hitherto deployed the secret weapon of sheep husbandry that is the “Wickerman” (although that’s probably more to do with lack of necessity than lack of knowledge). It’s ideal for the inexperienced sheep owner who, like us, has a completely useless sheep dog, not enough bodies on hand to form a sheep proof human chain, but whose flock consists of the fastest sheep in the West. All you need is a father-in-law and two very, very long tree branches. Place a branch in each of your father-in-laws hands, stretch his arms out, get him to walk slowly across the field towards towards your flock and hey presto, you’ve mastered the Wickerman technique! Guaranteed to corral even the most unruly of sheep. Be warned there can be unexpected side effects. Symptoms of excess use of the Wickerman herding technique can include outbreaks of cowboy impersonations ….
Squaddie Dad, available to hire for weddings, bar mitzvahs and all your sheep herding needs – payment accepted in red wine and cake!

Time please, gentlemen!

The last time I pulled a pint it was 1995, the pub was called “Harkers”, and I was a 22 year old law student earning minimum wage serving up flavoured vodkas and pints of strong continental lager to the townsfolk of Chester. Fast forward to 2011, it’s the “Rhos Yr Hafod”, and I’m a 38 year old ex-lawyer earning nothing at all serving up fags, crisps and pints of real ale to the farmers of Ceredigion. Had the Ghost of Careers Yet to Come whisked my 22 year old self into the future, such an unexpected twist in the anticipated career path would have come as quite a shock. Just as well my 22 year old self didn’t have a vision of her 39 year year old self in an agricultural store buying Myti-Lite Foot Rot Shears and a can of Foot Master violet livestock spray or someone might have been calling for the crash cart, warming up the paddles and shouting “clear”!

Way back when, in a fit of foolish enthusiasm and under the influence of alcohol, Dave and I offered to mind the local pub if ever the need arose. Six months later and there we were, behind the bar, serving up pints with a head you could stick a flake in and pass off as a Mr Whippy in a glass.

Working in a pub licensed to serve until 2:30 a.m. came as a shock to someone whose finely tuned body clock thinks bedtime starts with a mug of Ovaltine at 10 p.m. On our first night we were both so knackered by 1 a.m. that Dave grabbed a horn from the wall display, wiped the dust off the mouthpiece and called last orders with a squeaky parp – I’m not sure who was more surprised that he’d done it, him or the last remaining hardcore locals who were promptly turfed out into the night. Once we’d dusted off our mental arithmetic, spilled a few beers, messed up the till a few times and generally tested the patience of the customers, we got into the swing of things and actually started to enjoy our evenings behind the bar.  The silver lining on the cloud of late nights and sleepy, grumpy mornings was getting to know the locals. And what a fine bunch of people they are….

… the evening starts with Iwan drinking his 5 o’clock pint of Youngs, telling stories peppered with “flipping ‘ecks” and singing the occasional dirty song, then there’s Mark who played rugby, his daughter Jess who goes out with Rhodri, whose brother is Alisdair, who works for Charles who runs the local shoots and is married to Liz, who always drinks coffee and tomato juice, both of whom are friends with Gareth who collects military knives and calls me Sue Perkins and drinks with the other Charles, who wrote a song that was stolen by Phil Collins, together with George who owns the caravan park and Dafydd who’s a local councillor and Bill who wasn’t well, all of whom are driven home by Kevin who drinks coke. Then there’s Paul with the crazy eyes who goes out with Sian who hated her haircut so much that she cried, Dai who was in the Welsh champions tug of war team but now rows across oceans even though he only learned to swim in his fifties, Roger the tax man who Dave over charged by £60, the other Dai who’s married to Mary who plays darts with Paul and Sian, the other Dafydd who plays darts with Mary, Paul and Sian, and a David who speaks with a Welsh-Essex accent and plays darts with Mary, Paul, Sian and Dafydd…. are you still with me? So there’s Will Chips whose surname isn’t Chips but is known as Will Chips ‘cos he ran the first fish ‘n’ chip shop in Aberaeron, Tiny Tim who fell off his tractor and fractured his heel bone but isn’t to be confused with Skinny Dave who is someone else entirely, and last but not least there’s Gwilym whose dog saved his life, wants to sell us Welsh cattle and loaned us The Veterinary Book for Sheep Farmers even though he’s never owned a sheep.

D’you want ice and lemon with that?

The Honey Monster

Have I told you how amazing honey bees are? If you’re not convinced, get hold of a copy of “The Buzz About Bees” and then tell try telling me they’re not one the most incredible creatures on the planet. As my first full season as a “beek” (that’s cool geek speak for beekeeper) draws to a close, I have a new found respect for the honey bee and as daft as it sounds I’m really rather fond of my colonies. It may come as a surprise to those who have the misfortune of hearing my frequent wails and tales of woe (most notably my long suffering husband, parents and parents-in-law), but I’m glad I persevered, and just a little proud of myself for doing so as over the year the rollercoaster ride of beekeeping has seen rather more dips than rises (unless you count the financial investment in bees & kit, in which case it’s a ride with a rise to leave the Blackpool Pepsi Big One in the shade!). There has been many an occasion when the words “give up” have loomed large in my mind, but each time those words teeter on the tip of my tongue, ready to drop as the next disaster befalls a colony, wiser beeks than I insist there are good times ahead. And they were right.

My first colony has weathered some serious bad times. First there was the flood (my grasp of basic physics failed me and I inverted the feeder of sugar syrup over the open hive without waiting for the vacuum to form). Then there was the famine (as I was safe & dry indoors during 2 weeks of heavy summer rain, the colony ate it’s way through all the honey stores & were on the verge of dying of starvation). Then, after the colony pulled through and made it through another long cold winter, all hell broke loose after summer turned up in April, the swarming began, I flapped & faffed and the colony ends up without a queen! No queen, no eggs, no brood, no new bees. Whoopsie. A wise beek came to my rescue, yet again, and lo the colony proves it will not be beaten by inexperience, incompetence, neglect and stupidity. How do I thank them for being so marvellous? I steal their honey!

Give them fields of rosebay willow herb and clover, and let them work their bee magic …

 

… sticky hands, sticky arms, sticky everywhere, spin the extractor & out it flies …

  

…. my oh my, such delicious, glorious, golden honey. Thank you muchly my fuzzy, buzzy critters.

As I swirl this deliciousness on hot buttered toast I feel a twinge of guilt. I’ve never felt guilt over honey eating before. But then up until now I’ve never really appreciated the effort that goes into its production, the miles flown, the energy expended in maintaining hive temperature at just the right level as another Welsh summer lives up to expectations. I feel sadness as well as guilt, for as the end of the nectar flow draws nigh and the bees strive to bring in those last drops to replace stolen stores, my beek rollercoaster plummets down another dip because evil doers await my bees – the wasps descend. Last week, colony 3, my apple tree swarm, was overrun with the yellow peril. I rushed to their aid with jars of jammy water to distract the wasps from the scent of honey. Within hours the jars were awash with drowning wasps, but still they came. Having all but wiped out colony 3, the wasps drifted over to colonies 1 and 2. I’ve squished the wasps with my hive tool. I’ve cursed them. I’ve emptied jar after jar of jam into wasp traps. I’ve washed hundreds of wasp bodies down the stream. Yet still my poor bees are besieged. I fear the worst but dare not open the hives for making the situation worse. Fight bees, fight!

How many bees make five?

Back in May I thought I caught a swarm of bees. Silly me. Turns out that was no swarm, just a few bees out on a jolly on a sunny afternoon. A REAL swarm is really big, huge, ma-hoosive, biblical, of epic proportions. No really, I’m not over-egging this.

Once upon a Saturday I went about my business as usual – changing beds, hoovering, nagging Dave, making cake – before taking Teri for a stroll up the lane. As I wandered back up the drive, dreaming of a cup of tea, piece of cake & some quality time with “Cosmos, Earth & Nutrition” (it’s a book about biodynamics, burying horns, planting by planetary movements and all that jazz), I became aware of a background hum, that became a buzz, that became a roar. Oh me, oh my, the sky was black with bees, a serious amount bees. Think Exodus and the ten plagues of Egypt! Obviously I remained calm and at no point did I suffer flashbacks from a night watching the 1970’s film “The Swarm” and I certainly didn’t run to the front door shouting “disaster, disaster, let me in, LET ME IN!”.

While I fumbled with my bee suit zipper, Dave watched in awe as the swarm condensed into a cloud & slowly drifted en masse over the roofs of the cottages, up the drive, looking for a temporary home. So there they were, tens of thousands of bees clinging in a clump 12 foot above the ground in an apple tree. And there was I, climbing up a ladder, sweating in my bee suit yet again (note to self, must get suit dry cleaned), box in left hand, brush strapped to a pole in right hand, heart in mouth. With every step up the ladder, the tree swayed and the curtain of bees swung & wobbled like a living jelly with multiple legs, wings & stinging things. Urged on by brave Dave standing at a safe distance, I looked a bee in the eye and swiped at the swarm with the brush. And again. And again. “You missed a bit!”, came the helpful cry from the ground.

The bees were now everywhere – the air, the box, the tree. I just had to hope that my swiping had knocked the queen into the box. We bundled the box into a blanket to create an enticing dark space with a wee gap to allow bees separated from the swarm to find their way back to the colony. All we could do now was wait and hope, and greet the arriving guests (of the paying human variety rather than the unexpected non-paying buzzing variety)!

Bees are truly amazing creatures. Word got round that the queen was in the box, and in they came, crawling through the gap in their hundreds, literally a river of bees flowing inside. An hour later, as dusk descended, we had a box full of bees, with only a few stragglers still hanging around the apple tree as the last wafts of the queen’s pheromones dispersed.

A few shakes of the box and some bee spillages into the grass later, the swarm was ensconced in a hive with a sugar syrup welcome hamper to feed on. And lo, two hives become three. I think that means I can now officially call that patch of field an apiary!