Ducks Behaving Badly: Part Deux

This morning began like any other morning at Newhouse Farm. As soon as it was light enough to let the animals out (which mercifully is a bit later on now it's winter) I dragged myself away from the warmth of my bed, piled on layer upon layer of clothing to keep out the bitter cold, and thrust my feet into a pair of wellies as I headed outside. James, Dick and myself take it in turns at the farm to let the animals out of their houses each morning, which they sleep in during the night to keep them safe from predators such as foxes. The animals don't know the meaning of the phrase 'lie in' and are always bouncing off the walls with enthusiasm to start the day as soon as possible - the cockerels are by far the worst and will start crowing at 3am! What's more they're always ravenously hungry and as soon as they see me approaching they'll start honking, grunting, or gobbling noisily until their food containers are topped up with their daily ration of feed.

The chickens were the first stop on my list. They sleep in a large indoor enclosure at the rear of the potting shed, which contains a series of wooden perches suspended at different levels for the hens to roost on. It's here that the hens demonstrate the meaning of the phrase 'pecking order', as the most superior hens (including William the chief cockerel) sit on the upper perches and the inferior hens sit on the lower perches: the lower the height of the perch the lower down in the ranking the hen is, and the higher the risk becomes of being pooped on from above. Such is life! The hens were already wide awake this morning, clucking animatedly, with the cockerels letting out piercing cock-a-doodle-doos that blasted away the last vestiges of sleep from my mind more effectively than any alarm clock. I pulled open the door of their enclosure and they went charging towards the outside world as if there was simply no time to lose. Clearly there was lots of very important pecking and scratching to be done  today. I topped up their feeder with corn and gave them a little more grit to help digest their food. I've found it's always slightly risky topping up the chicken feeder first thing in the morning, as this involves walking into the chicken enclosure whilst some of the hens are still trying to jump down from their perches. Hens aren't the most elegant birds when it comes to flying, and in order to join the morning rush hour they often fling themselves from their perch like a feathered missile, as if they've been launched out of a catapult. Time my entrance incorrectly and I could end up with a mouthful of feathers and a flapping chicken in my face!

Next stop on my morning round was the pond enclosure where the Muscovy ducks live along with a couple of geese and a pair of Indian Runner ducks. It had been raining heavily throughout the night, so walking through their enclosure was like stepping onto a muddy ice-rink with the ground  perilously slippy beneath my wellied feet. I slipped and skidded towards my first port of call, a solitary house positioned to the west of the pond that is home to Nigel. For those of you not in the know, Nigel is a rescued Muscovy duck who came from the RSPCA and occassionally suffers from depression. His son, Mork, used to live with him but they must have had a falling out because nowadays Mork refuses to stay in the same house as Nigel. Instead Mork has moved into the house situated across the pond from Nigel's, in which several young Muscovy females live. I've tried talking to Mork and Nigel about it but, hey, what can you do? They'll have to work this family disagreement out for themselves!

It's a tough neighbourhood down by the pond. Nigel, who's a bit old and arthritic, used to get badly beaten up by the young Indian Runner duck punks. To put it bluntly, they used to rape him, not a very pleasant sight and I'm sure particularly unpleasant for Nigel. So to make Nigel's live easier nowadays he receives special treatment: every morning he gets let out of the pond enclosure so he can spend his days contentedly sitting beneath his favourite tree unperturbed by the Indian Runner ducks. So this morning, as I let Nigel out of his house he waddled over to the enclosure's gate and waited for me to open it for him. He clearly loves his new freedom and as he walked towards his favourite tree he bobbed his head, hissed contentedly and wagged his tail. Once Nigel was safetly outside I let all the other ducks and geese out of their houses, and this was when the chaos began. There was a squawking, a flapping, a honking and a hissing as all the birds tried to ram as much corn down their gullets as quickly as they possibly could. But there's a strict pecking order for the animals by the pond too: the geese firmly rule the roost and woe betide any greedy duck who gets between a goose and its breakfast. As the cacophony of breakfast time commenced, I walked away from the pond and continued on my morning round.

Now it was time to head towards the pigs and the turkeys, who live in neighbouring enclosures on the upper paddock. I could hear the pigs whining and grunting long before I could see them, and as soon as they clapped eyes on me they upped the volume and started squealing as if they'd never been fed before in their lives. After the night's rain the pig enclosure was one big mass of mud, and their feeder was half submerged in a particularly muddy puddle. Before I could give the pig's their breakfast I was going to have to extricate their feeder from the mud... MUCH easier said than done. To do this and remain in one piece I knew I had to distract the pigs so they wouldn't trample me whilst I moved their feeder. After a bit of cogitation I decided the best way to distract them was to put some of their feed in a large plant pot and put it in another part of their enclosure to keep them occupied, which ought to buy me a few minutes of time. It worked, the pigs were distracted by the food, and I straddled the electric fence and tried to tug the large metal feeder clear of the mud. It was stuck fast, and to make matters worse... so was I. My left foot had sunk into the mud like it was trapped in quicksand, and my right foot was still the opposite side of the electric fence, leaving me staddled perilously across it and in a bit of a pickle. Trying to keep my balance I heaved at the heavy feeder, my fingers slipping as they tried to grip it through a thick layer of mud. I knew that as soon as the pig's noticed what I was doing they'd come charging over and my fate would be sealed in a muddy stampede. I gave one last desperate tug at the feeder and with a slurping sound it came free from the mud and I hauled it over the fence. I tugged at my left leg and freed my foot from it's muddy prison, escaping from my precarious position astride the electric fence just in the nick of time. Phew!

I re-positioned the pigs' feeder in a rocky area of their enclosure, filled it with their ration of feed, and headed towards the turkeys as the pigs greedily munched on their breakfast. I opened the door of the turkey house and saw the turkeys still standing on their perches, giving me a startled look as if to say: "Who are you?". Once I stepped away from the door they started launching themselves off their perches and into the outside world. The previous statement I made about chickens launching themselves off their perches like feathered missiles applies to turkeys too, except that turkeys are about three times the size and therefore thrice as dangerous! The previous morning I'd moved the fence of the turkey enclosure to give them some fresh greenery to peck and scratch at, and I watched as the turkeys made a bee line for this fresh area this morning. They were such funny creatures, bald headed with strange dangly snouds above their noses, and I'd developed a certain degree of fondness for them. Suddenly it occurred to me what the day was - 27th November - the turkeys had less than one month before Christmas. With that ominous thought I left the turkeys in peace.

Last stop on my morning round was at a little wooden hut with a sign above the door that read: 'The Hollies'. I always looked forward to this place the most, as this was where the goslings (now fully grown geese) that I had incubated and raised lived. I scattered some corn into their feeder, slid back the bolt in the door and bid them a cheery good morning. They looked up at me, softly honked, and then ran outside, flapping their wings vigorously to greet the day. Some mornings I happily spent time with 'The Hollies', walking around their enclosure with them and watching their funny and endearing behaviour. But not so this morning... I still wasn't feeling fully awake and desperately needed a cup of coffee! I headed back to the house, the two farm cats and Molly the dog tagging along beside me. These three had a habit of accompanying me on my morning round, trotting along by my side as I walked from one enclosure to the other, watching me curiously as I dealt with the various ducks, pigs and turkeys.

Just as I was about to enter the kitchen a strange flapping noise coming from the roof of the farmhouse caught my attention. It sounded like a pretty big bird had alighted on the roof, so I took a few paces back to see what it was. I couldn't believe my eyes: two of the young Muscovy ducks had flown out of their pond enclosure and were now sat on the roof directly above my bedroom. "Oi!" I yelled at them, "What the hell do you think you're doing?!" They ignored me, and simply bobbed their heads and looked around from side to side. I recognised them: they were two of the young females that Mork had moved in with, and had a tendency to escape from their enclosure to go after Nigel's food. I'd never seen them fly this high before though. Then in a burst of excited flapping another Muscovy duck flew up to join them. This duck was bigger than the previous two and wobbled precariously as he tried to get his balance on top of the roof. "Get down now!" I shouted, but after looking in my direction the ducks ignored me once again. "You're in big trouble!" I yelled a final time, then realised how empty this threat was. For one thing they were ducks and therefore couldn't understand a word I was saying, and secondly there was no way I'd be able to reach them on top of the roof anyway. I could either stand here all morning shaking my fist and yelling at the sky, or I could go inside, have a cup of coffee, and make sure that the following morning I clipped their wings so they wouldn't be able to fly out of their enclosure again. Clipping wings means that the flight feathers on one wing are cut short, unbalancing the bird so that they aren't able to fly. "I'll show 'em" I thought as I walked towards the kitchen, "There'll be no more ducks behaving badly from now on."

Will I actually get round to clipping the duck's wings? Story to be continued...

Pigs of Happiness

I saw this and thought of the two pigs at Newhouse Farm, happy pigs despite the heavy weather. I hope the pigs spread a little bit of happiness your way too!

Friday 13th Strikes the Wheelbarrow

Friday 13th brought with it torrential rain, thunder and lightening storms, and severe weather warnings that threatened 80 mph winds across Cornwall. Here at Newhouse Farm we decided to batten down the hatches in preparation for the heavy weather. Dick headed down to the bottom of the valley and lowered one of the wind-turbines whilst Steve, the farm's handy-man who had been spending much time up rickety scaffolding this week as he rendered the exterior of the farm house, decided it was best to pack up work and head home. Peering out at the wild weather I decided it was best to stay indoors... after all it was Friday 13th and there was no way I was going to tempt fate by venturing outside to continue planting onion and garlic sets on the top paddock.

And how thankful am I that I did. Just moments ago, as the wind whipped the farmhouse, Dick called hastily to James and I to look outside. Grabbing rain coats and wellies we all dashed out the door and ran up the steps to the top paddock, where we discovered that the ancient cherry tree had come crashing down onto the vegetable beds. This beautiful old tree had died a few years ago, but rather than chop it down for firewood the Strawbridges had decided to leave it where it was as it made such a magnificent spectacle. Covered in a thick layer of green lichen, the tree was draped in fairy lights which lit up like Christmas decorations whenever the waterwheel was generating too much electricity.

But alas the Cherry Tree hadn't been able to survive the thundering storms of Friday 13th. Dick, James and I all stood aghast as we looked at the fallen tree. It lay sprawled across the vegetable beds where the wind had blown it over, narrowly avoiding the brussel sprouts. The pigs and the turkeys looked on from a safe distance as we surveyed the damage. Then suddenly we noticed something... crushed beneath the trunk of the tree was Newhouse Farm's only decent wheelbarrow, now a useless piece of crumped metal. All the other wheelbarrows at the farm were fairly rusty, but this wheelbarrow was a new addition and I'd propped it up against the trunk of the tree only a few days ago after I'd been preparing the vegetable beds for planting. Although it was a shame to lose the only decent wheelbarrow I was pretty glad about one thing... thank goodness I had decided not to do any work on these vegetable beds, or I might have ended up like the wheelbarrow!

How I nearly got a Goat and ended up with a Fiddle

I'd been thinking for some time how great it would be to get a goat at Newhouse Farm. It would make a lovely addition to the menagerie to have an animal that we wouldn't have to end up killing for its produce. The ducks, geese, pigs and turkeys at the farm were all delightful creatures, but I couldn't let myself get too attached to them as I knew they're all destined for the plate. But a goat would be the sort of productive farm animal that I could allow myself to develop more of a friendly and lasting relationship with. An idyllic notion was rapidly developing in my mind as I pictured myself contentedly milking a goat each morning like Tess of the D'Urbervilles or some other country heroine! I'd even be able to give the goat a name, probably Betty, something I'd refrained from doing with the other 'meat' animals so as not to personalise them. I knew on a practical level that keeping goats could be extremely high maintenance but, heck, they were just so cute.

Now that the dream of having a goat and becoming a milk maid had taken hold I poured myself into research. What exactly did goat keeping involve, and what would be the right sort of goat for me? Firstly I started researching the different types of goats and fell more and more in love with them with every picture I looked at. Pygmy goats were especially adorable, but these miniature animals weren't of any use for milk or fleece and sounded like they could become quite a handful. Angora goats with their beautiful coats caught my eye next, and although they weren't useful for milking their fleeces could be turned into mohair wool. Maybe I should ditch the milk maid idea and picture myself instead with a spinning wheel, contentedly spinning wool to knit into lovely mohair mittens for the chilly winter ahead.

But it was a type of goat called the Golden Guernsey that really caught my eye. These sweet tempered animals were known as 'smallholder's goats' or 'backyard goats' because they were a little bit smaller than most breeds and therefore didn't require as much space. Admittedly because of their size they didn't produce as much milk, but then I wasn't planning on going into business and selling it by the bucket load. I just needed enough for me, James' and Dick's daily coffee and tea requirements. What's more, after a few phone calls I discovered that there were a couple of 6 month old Golden Guernsey kids for sale not too far away... my dreams of having a goat could become a reality sooner than I had anticipated and I was filled with excitement.

Yet the more I researched goats the more I began to doubt whether this was really such a good idea. For starters, I wouldn't be able to have merely one goat. Goats were herd animals and needed company, so to keep one by itself would be tantamount to cruelty as a single goat would soon become depressed and unwell. If I wanted to become a goat-keeper I'd have to get two goats at the very least, and possibly even four. And then the sheer responsibility of the daily commitment goats would require started to daunt me. After a goat has had a kid it needs to be milked twice a day, without fail, come wind, rain or shine. I wouldn't be able to miss a day's milking or the goat could develop mastitis. And obviously to produce a kid the goat needs to be mated, so that would involve adding a billy goat to the herd or borrowing the services of a stud from a neighbouring goat keeper.

I had to admit it, the peaceful image of milking a goat in the sunshine was starting to crumble, especially as the harsh November weather with it's relentless wind and rain continued to batter the farm house. I began to feel concerned that keeping goats would require an intense daily commitment which I didn't feel ready to make. I might feel like milking a goat when the sun was shining, but a cold, wild, wintry night would be another matter. If I didn't get milking goats I could still get a couple of meat goats, but that would defeat the purpose of building a long term 'relationship' as they'd soon end up as dinner. Angora goats were utterly gorgeous creatures but I had to be honest with myself: I didn't knit, I didn't know how to spin wool, and quite frankly it was unlikely I was going to learn. An angora goat would just end up as an exceedingly hairy pet that wasn't contributing to the productive nature of the farm.

Eventually, after much deliberation, I decided that getting a goat right now was just too much too soon. It would be a bit like having a baby: nice idea, but there was no way I was ready for that kind of commitment just yet! I realised that the advantage of raising animals for meat was that we rarely had to deal with the stresses of old aged animals. With exception of Nigel the depressed duck and Megan the ancient 3 legged cat, at the farm I was surrounded by youthful exuberance and with that came a sense of freedom. As soon as an animal was fully grown it was ready to be killed for its meat, and I could start the process of incubating and raising youngsters all over again with a clean slate. My reasoning may sound harsh, but I didn't want to feel restricted by having to care for a herd of dairy goats, cute as they may be.

Satisfied that I'd made the right decision, I still felt a bit dejected that I'd had to be so practically minded. Goat-keeping would have meant learning how to milk and how to churn cheese, skills that would have been enjoyable to learn. As the picturesque image of milking goats faded from my mind, another fanciful notion took it's place... fiddle playing! For some time I'd had the desire to learn a musical instrument, as we often had musicians visiting the farm and I always wished I could join in with them when they played. I'd had a musical childhood learning first the piano, then the clarinet and guitar, but it had been years since I'd played and the ability to make a pleasant sound had left me. What I needed was a new instrument to practice through the long wintry evenings that lay ahead, and as I love bluegrass, cajun, folk and gypsy music what better instrument could there be to learn than the fiddle. Yes, this was a much better idea than getting a goat... I'd only have to practice the fiddle, not milk it! All I needed to do was to find a teacher nearby. Lo and behold a few evenings later, as I leaned against the bar in the village pub, I found one.

Story to be continued soon...

Happy Pigs = Happy Pork

The incessant rain we've had at Newhouse Farm all week has turned the outdoors into an absolute quagmire, but there's a couple of animals who seem to be in their element... the pigs. There was a brief window today when the sun burst through the rain clouds and I ventured outside with the camera. I found the pigs rooting through the mud, heaping it into mounds as they searched the softened ground for hidden roots and shoots. As soon as the pigs saw me approaching they started squealing hungrily, a noisy and melodramatic act to try to convince me that they've never been given a morsel of food before in their lives! Ordinarily I simply tell the pigs to shush, but today I relented and threw several handfuls of radishes from the vegetable patch to quieten the pigs' incessant pleading.

I stayed for some time and watched the pigs as they munched on the fresh greens I'd given them, and then began to root through the earth again. Muddy and messy, snuffling and softly grunting, they were as happy as a pair of pigs could hope to be. Watching them I felt torn as my head and my heart struggled for supremacy. My head told me to remain stoical about the fact that these pigs would soon end up as pork, whilst my heart kept veering towards sentimentality - those pigs were just so funny and adorable and I didn't want them to be killed. Now that I live alongside livestock I keep being faced with this struggle, and I can't help but become attached to the animals I've spent so much time caring for. But I know my head must win out - if I'm going to eat meat then I've got to ensure that it's lived a humane and happy life.

I know that I'm fortunate to be able to have this experience of caring for animals that will become the food that ends up on my plate. After all not everyone can fit a couple of pigs in their back garden, or get to see them living free-range in the countryside. So I wanted to share a few of the moments that I captured on camera today when the pigs really made me smile. If they make you smile too that's great, but if they make you question the pork you buy in the future that's even better. I hope you'll see that happy pigs = happy pork. Enjoy! And don't forget you can click on these pictures to make them super-sized.

Mud, mud, glorious mud...







"Feed me!" & How to make a radish disappear.

"It must be here somewhere" & "Do I have something on my face?"

London Revisited

Last weekend I decided to return to London and see old friends. When I quit the city to move to Newhouse Farm in February I left behind a very firm circle of friends with whom I shared many fond memories. It was hard to say goodbye to them, and there were more than a few tears shed when I bid them farewell. In fact I think it was having found such good pals that had kept me in the city for so many years, long after the passion for acting had expired which was my initial reason for living there. Perhaps if I hadn't had such an ambition to improve other aspects of my life I could easily have stayed in the city for several years to come?

I hadn't been back to London for many months, and the absence of a proper social life was suddenly starting to take its toll. I still loved being at Newhouse Farm and found James and Dick's company delightful, but something was making me feel a bit down in the dumps and I couldn't put my finger on what it was. I didn't want to move back to London, I was fairly sure of that. So I figured that it might just be the lack of having anything familiar around me from the 'good ol' days', such as my friends or even the flat I used to live in, that was affecting me. I was craving some girly gossip, banter and giggles with my chums, something to remind me of who I used to be before I became the 'land girl' that I am now. So a trip back to London seemed like the best medicine.

There was something else I'd been craving too... sushi! Sushi simply isn't very easy to find in the depths of rural Cornwall, and making it at home just isn't the same. I suppose you can take the girl out of the city but you can't take the city out of the girl, and I was longing for those over-priced little parcels of raw fish on rice! I arranged to begin my weekend in London by meeting my friends in a new sushi restaurant that had opened in the neighbourhood where I used to live.

Before I met my friends I couldn't resist taking a trip to walk past my old flat. I'd lived in a little one bedroom flat in an area of London called Stoke Newington for 3 and a half years, and without doubt my flat had been the location of some of the happiest times of my city life. When I'd shut my front door I'd shut out all the chaos, hostility and angst of the city. My flat had been a place of solace to me, somewhere to relax and recharge my batteries, and I'd spent many nights sat with friends around my kitchen table, talking and laughing and drinking wine into the wee small hours. I couldn't predict how it was going to make me feel to see my old home again after all this time. As I walked along my street I realised I was feeling nervous, but as I turned to look at my old front door I felt... nothing. There it was, that familiar cheery shade of blue with a black letter box, but the feelings of longing I worried I might feel for my old flat just didn't appear. I'd moved on and this wasn't home any more.

I met up with my friends and we somehow managed to stuff our faces with sushi in between talking at each other at full pelt. After our appetites were satisfied we continued our evening in my old local, yet another familiar place filled with memories. It was great to see my friends, there was no doubt about that, and it was almost as if time had stood still and I was still the same old Holly who used to meet my friends in this pub every weekend. But of course time hadn't stood still and something inside me had changed. As entertaining as it was to be surrounded by all my old chums, who'd all made a special effort to come and meet me and were on top form, the magic had gone. When the bell rang for last orders in the pub I was almost relieved: this place held no special appeal for me any more either. As if to compound this feeling even further, as we stepped out of the pub the police began to cordon off the entire street with tape. There'd been a stabbing further up the street: London had displayed it's hostile nature once again and I suddenly felt a long way from the tranquility of Newhouse Farm!

Over the course of the weekend I met up with more close friends and had more enjoyable conversations. To my surprise, a couple of my friends told me that they were seriously considering moving out of London as well. In fact the friend who I considered to be the biggest city slicker of the lot, a girl who'd lived in New York and loved the high life, confessed that she was planning on moving into a little cottage in rural Sussex with her boyfriend. I hadn't seen this coming at all, and I doubled up in laughter as it dawned on me that this friend of mine had come over all soft and wanted to move to the countryside and leave the heady lifestyle of New York and London behind her. My friends were evolving and moving on, just like I had, and I realised that even if I had chosen to stay in London my friendship group would have gradually started to dissipate anyway.

As the weekend came to a close it was time to return to Cornwall. I boarded a train and as I settled into my seat I reflected that it was the friends I'd missed, not the city. With a hiss and a shudder the train pulled out of Paddington station and I breathed a deep sigh of relief: I was going home and I couldn't wait to get there!

Escapee Turkeys

We have quite a menagerie of animals of varying shapes and sizes at Newhouse Farm: pigs, geese, ducks, hens, dogs, and even a three-legged cat. Each type of animal has it's own unique set of characteristics, and this is certainly true of the most recent addition to the farm, the turkeys. We bought a dozen turkeys at the end of July in order that we could fatten them up for Christmas. When they arrived the turkeys were scrawny, vulnerable looking creatures, but now they're fully grown and are covered in glossy black feathers that have truncated tips. The male turkeys show off by puffing up their feathers so that they all stand on end, their wings dipped so that the tips touch the ground, flicking their tails from side to side like a flamenco dancer. In this inflated pose they glide along amongst the oblivious females, and this strange sight always makes me think they look like a fleet of magnificent black-sailed galleons.

The turkeys have also become the farm's greatest escape artists. Not a day goes by now without some, if not all of them, breaking out of their enclosure as if they're trying to escape from Fort Knox. Their great escapes generally take place first thing in the morning after I've let them out of their enclosure, or last thing at night as I'm trying to get them to bed.

In the morning I can tell when the turkeys are on the loose because they emit a very loud and gobbling/warbling sound which sounds exactly as if they're very excited to be doing something they know they oughtn't to be doing. I'm tuned into this sound now, and every time I've heard it I've discovered that the turkeys are on the loose. One day the turkeys were half way up the lane to the village! But the most amusing time this has happened was a couple of mornings ago. At the farm my bedroom has a door that leads directly outside to the gardens, and on this particular morning I was just getting ready to go downstairs for breakfast when I heard the loud gobbling noise right outside my bedroom. I opened the exterior door and who did I see looking up at me but 8 startled turkeys. Whether they'd come to say hello to me or to Nigel the depressed Muscovy duck (who also spends most of his time in the grassy area near my bedroom door) remains unknown!

Despite their mischievous escape tactics I have found the turkeys to be surprisingly obedient once they've actually been caught in the act. They never try to run away from me, instead they obediently walk back towards their enclosure as I shepherd them calmly along. Once near to their enclosure I walk ahead and open up part of the fencing to let them in. Here I try my best 'Pied Piper' tactics by letting rip a strange gobbling sort of sound that I've developed over the past few months to lure them home. It sounds a little bit like I'm impersonating a Native American Indian, and I'm sure if anyone from the village can hear me making these bizarre noises they must think I'm completely barking. But whether I'm crazy or not I don't care because the sound works. The turkeys simply walk sedately back into their enclosure whilst I lure them in with my strange high-pitched gobbling noises, the males always coming in last because they can't resist puffing up their feathers to show off!

In the evening when it's time to put all the animals to bed the turkeys, along with the badly behaved Muscovy ducklings, are invariably the animals who are the most ill behaved. By the time I get to their enclosure most of them tend to have flown up onto the roof of their house where they sit stubbornly in a row. The turkeys' house is about 8 to 9 foot high, and it takes a lot of persuading to get them back down to ground level. My preferred technique is to gently nudge them with a large stick until one by one they flap off. However the turkeys have a cunning defence strategy: they fire poop at me! If I don't keep my wits about me a freshly aimed turkey poop will come rolling down the roof and splat me in the face. And turkey poop really smells - even worse than goose poop - so this would be a particularly unpleasant experience!

If they're not perching on their roof they'll be perching on the aqueduct, which although it's lower down and therefore easier to push the turkeys off, means that I generally get splashed in the face with stream water and God knows what else as the turkeys flap their wings in protest. And the worst case scenario of all was when one of the turkeys decided to perch on the roof of one of the barns. That time I gave up completely and had to call James to help out. To this day I still don't know quite how he got that turkey down from the roof!

Why do the turkeys seem to be determined to escape? Do they know that Christmas is coming? I doubt it! But one thing is for certain: I never realised that a creature most people think of simply as Christmas dinner has so much personality.

NB Saturday 7th November amendment: this morning there was a brief respite in the rain so the turkeys finally had their wings clipped. No more great escape attempts for them!

You Can Take a Goose to Water...

A couple of months ago some friends of mine from London ventured out of the city in order to visit me at Newhouse Farm. James and I kept them busy by getting them to help us turn a vast pile of steaming compost, and also to help us dig a large pond for the geese. For those of you who are new to this blog, these were the very same geese that I raised from egg to adult and who have pulled on my heart strings a number of times, so I have a large amount of affection for them. They live on a grassy slope next to the farmhouse, and until now their only source of water has been a large plastic tub which I've topped up with fresh water on a daily basis. When the geese were little the plastic tub suited their needs well enough, but now they're fully grown the tub was nearing the end of its lifespan and a new source of water was urgently needed.

The geese had developed a habit of 'chewing' the rim of the plastic tub so that it was slowly weakening and starting to disappear. Whenever I was sat in the room we use as an office at the farm I could hear the geese gnawing (as much as any animal with a beak CAN gnaw!) away at the tub, the sound of beak on plastic having the same effect as fingers down a blackboard. And when the geese weren't gnawing at the tub, the two male geese would try to climb in it as some sort of high status thing. The tub certainly wasn't big enough for the both of them, and after a fair amount of pushing and shoving a fight would always break out between them. One male goose would try to grab the tail feathers of the other male goose, who in turn would try to grab the tail feathers of the first male goose. Once both their beaks were locked on they'd start chasing each other in a never-ending circle, whilst the 4 other female geese would watch and honk loudly as if they were shouting "Fight, fight, fight!"

So when my friends came to visit this seemed like the perfect opportunity to end the hullabaloo over the plastic tub by providing the geese with an impressive pond. We each grabbed a pick-axe and a shovel and took it in turns to hack away at the earth, cheering each other along as we dug the hole deeper and wider. Eventually the pond was complete and ready to be filled. There was no source of water on the slope where the geese lived, so we decided to run a long length of hose from the ram-pump at the bottom of the valley, which would pump the water magically uphill to the pond from the stream below. The pond filled up, my friends cheered, but once the water supply from the ram-pump was switched off the water in the pond drained away again. The earth we'd been digging in was thick with clay, so James and I had hoped that this would be enough to hold the water. But, alas, it seemed like we'd have to line the pond after all. Disappointed, my friends left for London.

Fast-forward to today and the pond has been lined with plastic and filled with water from the ram-pump once again and looks pretty impressive. We've decorated it with logs and rocks and willow plants, and made a smooth area with pieces of broken paving to help the geese get in and out. It's virtually an eco swimming pool. If I were a goose I'd want to go in it. Sadly, the geese don't seem to be of the same opinion. They won't go in it. In fact, for several weeks they wouldn't even go anywhere near it! They were scared of it: the pond was something new and therefore potentially dangerous so they opted to steer clear. Several days passed by as the geese eyed the pond, honked at it, but refused to dip their webbed feet in the water. Eventually Dick and I lost patience. Like a pair of sheep dogs we attempted to herd the geese into the pond. Of course, this plan was NEVER going to work. The geese made several attempts to escape between our legs and when we eventually did manage to herd them into the pond there was a great deal of flapping, honking and splashing and the geese charged out of the pond as if we'd made them enter the bowels of hell. Oh dear! It seems you can take a goose to water, but you can't make it swim!

NB: I am aware that geese are creatures of habit, or creatures with very little brains depending on your point of view. They can take a long time to change their behavioural patterns when presented with something new, as was the case earlier this year when we extended their grazing area and they refused to explore their new expanse of grass for several weeks. But I'd have thought swimming might've been something the geese would be looking forward to. After all I used to take them on expeditions to the stream when they were little where they'd dive bomb the water and swim to their hearts' content. So if any of you have any tips as to how to tempt a timid goose into the water I'd be delighted to find out. However if your suggestion is to put on a wet suit and flippers and try to tempt them in that way, I don't want to know... I may have the nickname of Goose Whisperer, but I'm not going to try anything too stupid!

It's Just So Cold!

October was a month of mixed weather, and on occasion there were a few days that felt like a last plaintive grasp at summer. However the further into the month we progressed the more dismal and chilly the damp, grey days became, until finally November arrived in a blast of torrential downpours which turned Newhouse Farm into a squelching mud pit. Attempting to walk through the duck and goose area is now very slippery business, and there's been a few times when I've nearly ended up on my backside whilst I've chased Mork the mindless Muscovy duck round and round his house as he refuses to go to bed. Parts of the pig area has turned into a veritable mud bath, where the mud has become so thick and treacherous that it nearly oozes over the top of my wellies. Stand still for too long and I'm sure I'd start to sink as if I was in quicksand!

There's no doubt about it: winter is definitely on it's way. I've been spending a lot more time behind my desk in recent weeks and less time working outside now that the growing season has past its fervour, but I'm still affected by the weather far more than I ever used to be in the city. For one thing, the farmhouse is just so cold! There's no central heating at Newhouse farm, instead the house is heated by several beautiful wood-burning stoves and something called a whole-house ventilation system. Theoretically this is meant to help the warm air circulate around, but to be perfectly honest I haven't noticed the tiniest difference.

What's more the stoves aren't lit very often, because James and Dick seem to be impervious to the cold! My skin hasn't evolved to deflect the cold yet, and I still feel like the soft city girl who's dependent on a central heating system to stay warm in winter. We also have quite an amusing Catch 22 situation that isn't helping matters: because I feel the cold a lot more than James I only feel snug and comfortable in the living room once a blazing fire is lit, but James' allergies seem to kick in with the dry heat that the fire creates and he starts coughing and sneezing and has to open the living room door to let all the chilly air back in so his allergies subside. Whatever are we going to do?! And as James keeps pointing out, we're still not really in the depths of winter yet, so goodness knows what I'm going to be like when the truly bitter weather hits.

Obviously there's a very good reason why the house is chilly. Central heating systems emit a huge amount of carbon emissions, and as we probably all know by now it's far better for the environment to put on a jumper to keep warm rather than turn up the heating. Newhouse Farm is a large and ancient building: parts of it are at least 400 years old and some of the walls are about 5 foot thick. All in all it makes it a difficult house to heat, and the fact that the house is chilly is just something I'm going to have to adapt to.

To combat the cold I've adapted my wardrobe to help keep me from shivering. I've found that if I wear 2 pairs of trousers, 2 or 3 layered tops with my fleecey outdoor jacket over the top, a scarf and thick socks with boots, then I'm actually quite nice and warm. Oh, by the way, that's not my outdoor outfit... that's what I wear around the house! Outside I often feel warmer than I do indoors, probably because I'm much more active and the blood is pumping round my body. It's indoors that the chill really sets in, especially if I'm sat in front of my computer for hours. To help me out Dick has given me a couple of fleecey wrist warmers which he says are an old army trick. Apparently if you wrap wrist warmers round your wrists it warms the blood up before it flows into your hands, so your hands stay warm if you're not wearing gloves. I tried this out the other day and it did work for a while... then I think I got so cold that warmed wrists didn't make a difference anymore!

I've decided that there's only one thing for it: after years of resisting I'm going to have to start wearing thermal underwear. My mum's been trying to get me to wear it for years, and I've strongly resisted because I think that long johns and long sleeved thermal vests look hideous. But style has gone out the window now that I'm permenently chilly. Mum, you've won! Let me guess what's going to be in my Christmas stocking this year!

Dick Strawbridge's Biodiesel Course

I've learned a thing or two about caring for animals and growing vegetables since I've moved to Cornwall, but when it comes to engines and all things car related my knowledge is somewhat lacking. So when I got the opportunity to attend one of the Biodiesel courses that Dick Strawbridge runs at Newhouse Farm I leapt at the chance. Dick and James run several courses at the farm to share their eco advice and experiences, including how to harness wind power, make the most of your water, and an introduction to sustainable living, but it was the 'how to make your own biodiesel course' in particular that I'd had my eye on for some time.

Why would I want to learn about biodiesel? Well, I've been able to drive for years but when I lived in London I had no need of a car because the public transport system was so thorough, and a car would have been more of a hindrance than a help. But now I live in the countryside it's a different matter. Yes, there are buses and trains, and if I'm in no particular hurry and don't want to go off the beaten track they're great. But to have any real sense of independence and freedom there's really no option but to have a car. Obviously running a car is expensive on your pocket as well as the environment, so being able to run a car off biodiesel instead of regular diesel seems like a great idea. After all, as Dick had told me, making biodiesel only costs 14p a litre! I just had to learn how to do it.

I was worried that I would be completely out of my depth on the biodiesel course, but I need not have worried. By mid morning I'd learned about the difference between a diesel and a petrol engine, how a diesel engine works, how to turn waste vegetable oil into biodiesel, and could say the word 'transesterification' without stuttering! Then the rest of the day was spent learning about how a biodiesel reactor works, and then got all hands on and made my very own batch of biodiesel. It was fun and exciting... I felt like I was Marty McFly in Back to the Future with Dick being Doc Brown explaining to me how the flux-capacitor worked! Ok, so maybe I have an over-zealous imagination, but I hadn't expected to understand how to make biodiesel so easily. If you've ever been interested in learning about biodiesel I'd highly recommend it.

Since I attended the biodiesel course I've been helping Dick and James to come up with more ideas for extra courses to run in 2010. These include: Eco-engineering, build an earth oven in a day, poultry for beginners and managing a sustainable smallholding. If you fancy attending a course all you need to do is send an email to me at Newhouse Farm saying which course you're interested in!

October's Over

Photos to be added shortly... going to focus on writing first!
It's pretty hard to type when a cat is climbing all over your keyboard and walking around your desk. So if you see any typos I'm blaming them on Horatio. I also wanted to apologise for my absence: I've been away from my blog (in body not in spirit) for about a month, so today I intend to do some catching up.

October was an unusual month and it seemed to disappear in a flash. After James and I returned from France my daily routine at the farm became quite different. I started off learning all about biodiesel on one of Dick's courses here at Newhouse Farm, then spent some time trying to encourage the geese to go into their new pond, and after that failed I trekked all the way 'up north' to make a long overdue visit to my mum. On my return, rather than working solely in the gardens, I spent a long time in front of my desk utilising my slightly rusty media skills to make alterations and changes to the Newhouse Farm website. My body clearly didn't appreciate spending so much time cooped up in doors like it used to be in London, so it retaliated by allowing me to come down with my first illness of the year, a truly horrendous sick bug. The healthy lifestyle I'd been living at the farm till this point had meant that I hadn't been suffering from the usual colds or run-down illnesses I was afflicted by in the city, so this illness was a bit of a shock to the system. Oh boy, it was a bad one! Suffice it to say that I recovered and went on another long overdue trip to revisit London.

I'll write about all the highlights in more detail in my next posts. Horatio failed to disrupt my typing after all and it seems this post has escaped typo free. I had to shoo him away after he got a little over excited and pawed at my hair and ended up sticking a claw in my face. Ow!