From London to Land Girl

Reader, I married him...

2010-07-20T21:16:00.003+01:00

As you may have noticed, I've been a somewhat distracted from my blog these past few months, and now it's time to offer an explanation as to why. During late spring and early summer, life at Newhouse Farm became busier by the day. There were so many seedlings to be planted and tended to, weeding and digging that would cause my back to ache and burn in the sun, and of course the animals perpetually needed to be cleaned out, rounded up, or in the case of the chickens, defended from rat attacks and the overly amorous attentions of the cockerels.

I began to realise that, instead of constantly having to ask for advice from Dick and James, I was starting to develop an air of confidence and independence around the garden. I knew what needed to be planted and where, and what tasks to keep myself busy with during the lengthening sunny days in order to ensure the vegetable beds looking ship-shape and productive. I'd been living at Newhouse Farm for over a year now, and I was no longer the befuddled city slicker who arrived one snowy February morning and couldn't tell her beans from her brassicas. With a perpetual layer of dirt beneath my fingernails, and a healthy tan from long days in the outdoors, it appeared that my transformation from city girl to land girl was almost complete.

By the beginning of Spring, whilst the fruit trees were covered in delicate blossom, I acquired three little garden helpers. Unable to resist the temptation that lurked within a mound of smooth, alabaster eggs that I found hidden in the goose house beneath a bed of straw and feathers, I decided it was time to whip out and dust off the Brinsea 200 Octagon Advance... in other words, the incubator. Less than a month later, and catching me unawares and unprepared once again, three goslings burst out of their shells and into the wide world. These three little hooligans rapidly grew and started following me around the garden as I went about my daily activities. They'd sit with me whilst I sowed seeds and potted up seedlings, tear leaves off tender young plants whenever my back was turned, and generally made a very adorable nuisance of themselves.

But now it's time to be totally honest with you, and confess to a secret I've been keeping ever since I started this blog. And no, it isn't to do with geese, or pigs, or turkeys, or ducks or any of the other animals that have provided a constant source of inspiration for me to create this blog around. It wasn't merely the increasing list of garden tasks and the attentions of my latest incubated brood that was keeping me distracted from my blog. Something of an altogether more romantic nature was filling every spare minute of my time. Newhouse Farm was to host a grand event in the early summer that the entire household was getting increasingly excited about... a wedding.

It wasn't solely the appeal of working in the great outdoors that finally tempted me to leave everything I had in London and head to Cornwall. A certain person had more than a little to do with convincing me to take the plunge and head for the unknown. As the seasons went by I fell in love with this alternative lifestyle and the realm of new possibilities that were opening up before me. And what's more, I also fell in love with the aforementioned certain person... James Strawbridge. We first met in an air-conditioned television office in Central London, he proposed to me whilst I was sweaty, grubby and somewhat grumpy after a long day of bramble bashing, and I am absolutely delighted to announce that we married at Newhouse Farm this June surrounded by our family, close friends, and farm animals.

James and I chose to hold our wedding celebration at Newhouse Farm as it was the very environment that had brought us together in the first place. Booking ourselves into an anonymous stately home just wouldn't have felt right. What's more, we wanted to strive to make our wedding as 'green' as possible, with local and seasonal food, British grown seasonal flowers, and even good ol' fashioned slow transportation in the manner of two Shire horses and a cart. Alas, despite my efforts to the contrary, I still ended up buying a dress from a high street shop, but hey... nobody's perfect!

Which brings me, sadly, almost to the end of my blog. I've decided that for the time being I cannot devote as much time to keeping it up to date as I'd like to, so I feel it's best to end well on a happy note. However there's one last tale to tell... of Honeysuckle the gypsy caravan and Pegasus the tractor. Coming soon...

HOW TO STRIVE FOR A 'GREEN' WEDDING... a few tips from me

Food, food, glorious food. We are absolutely spoilt rotten with glorious locally grown, seasonal food in this country. So why not build your menu around local ingredients that are in season, and therefore absolutely delicious, at the time of your big day. Rather than being restrictive, this is actually great fun and provides a unique, memorable and downright tasty experience for your guests.

Flowers. Local and seasonal aren't just terms that apply simply to food, but also to flowers. More and more florists are springing up that cater for the increasing demand for seasonal flowers, grown in the UK rather than abroad, and that are not only pleasing on the eye but come with a much smaller carbon footprint. Once again, thinking seasonally with flowers provides a chance to really get imaginative and creative. With a June wedding, I chose to go for a 'hedgerow' kind of look, and found a marvelous flower company who managed to transform my hazy ideas into some beautiful bouquets. www.flowerpatchcompany.co.uk

Dress. I've got to admit it, this one is a really tricky one, as I'd argue that a bride's dress is perhaps the most important item of the day and, as I confessed, I hit a stumbling block here. There are couple of options for the eco-minded bride: either to buy a second hand dress (there's lots of websites where once worn dresses are listed), or buy a dress (or have a dress made) that uses organic fabrics that are produced in a sustainable way. I came across some gorgeous fabrics made from hemp, organic cotton and peace silk... it just takes a bit of searching.

Transport. The problem with weddings is that they tend to involve people trekking from all over the country, and often from all over the world, in order to attend your special day, and all this traveling tends to cause a whole load of dreaded carbon emissions. But fortunately, all is not lost, as there are several measures that you can take to help. a) Try having your wedding reception near to the place where your wedding ceremony occurs to cut down on transport needed inbetween. b) Encourage your guests to travel by train, or help to organise car sharing for those traveling from the same area. c) Rather than booking a limo or a classic car to whisk you away, why not use horse power instead, such as www.piknashirehorses.webeden.co.uk. What could be more romantic than heading off into the sunset with a horse and carriage?!

Booze. There's a huge variety of organic wines available today, but if you really want to impress your guests then why not consider UK grown wine. We're a bit spoilt for choice in Cornwall with several local vineyards that produce some delicious wines and proseccos: Camel Valley, Polmassick Vineyard and Bosue Vineyard to name a few favourites. And there's plenty of other British vineyards to choose from, as well as an amazing selection of local ales. However if your budget is limited, why not make your own booze! Depending on the time of year you could consider making elderflower champagne, mead, cider, sloe gin, pea pod wine... the possibilities are endless!

Cake. Don't let the hens suffer for the sake of your cake! Free range eggs from happy hens... simple! Any decent cake maker should be able to bake you a cake made with free range eggs, and if they don't then I don't think they're worth even considering no matter how fancy their icing is! And if they're using UK grown sugar, organic flour and butter, so much the better. Personally I'm not a fan of marzipan or tons of dried fruit, so a traditional wedding cake was off the menu for me. And also my budget was running pretty low by this point, so I opted to bake my own mountain of cupcakes crowned with a goose and gander! If you can't be fussed to do it yourself there's load of companies out there, but here's one I can recommend that has one of the best named websites ever: www.cakeadoodledo.co.uk

A Crab Apple, With Love

2010-03-11T15:13:00.003Z

Mother's Day always seems to sneak up and catch me unawares, one way or another. Last year as Mother's Day arrived, so did seven and a half goslings that I'd been incubating, who decided to hatch out of their eggs several days ahead of schedule, much to my surprise and delight. So caught up was I with becoming 'Mother Goose' to these gorgeous yellow fluff balls who totally captured my attention, that I have no recollection of whether I actually remembered to send my own mum a card and a present to make her day.

So in order to make up for my ineptness last year, I've been thinking long and hard about what to get my mum for Mother's Day this year. Mum - if you're reading this, look away now! Because my mum lives at the opposite end of the country from me, a good 350 odd miles away, the easy option would have been to send her a mail order bunch of flowers. After all, who doesn't love a bunch of gorgeous flowers? Well, me and my newly developed eco-conscience, that's who.

Since I moved to Newhouse Farm I've been learning a huge amount about the questionable ethics and ingredients behind many of the household products we take for granted, mail order flowers included. 'Locally grown' and 'seasonal' are terms that have become mainstream and accepted when it comes the to fruit and vegetables, but it seems to me that the same logic hasn't been transferred to cut flowers. I never used to think twice about ordering a big bunch of cut flowers to send to my mum as a birthday or Mother's day treat, but I never once considered where the flowers were grown and whether or not they were in season.

Now I've discovered that lots of mail order cut flowers are seriously bad news, as many of them are grown overseas in hot houses that use up a lot of fossil fuels to heat the flowers and transport them to the UK. What's even worse is that some flower producers, in order to produce the perfect blooms, use up a huge amount of water from the surrounding area, meaning that the local population has to pay extra just to get enough water to drink. So without wanting to get too doom-and-gloomy, perhaps you can now understand why I knew I couldn't possibly send my mum the usual bunch of flowers for Mother's Day, as my land girl 'green' credentials simply wouldn't allow it.

Instead I've decided to send my mum an alternative Mother's Day gift. Mum - if you're still reading this, you really must look away now! A little while ago I stumbled across a brilliant little company called Tree2MyDoor, who send UK grown trees through the post as an alternative to cut flowers. As my mum is about to move into a new house with an unestablished garden, I thought a growing tree gift would be a much more appreciated than flowers. After all, a bunch of flowers would only last for a few days, whereas a tree will hopefully last for years and years to come.

The tree I opted for was a Crab Apple tree, which has a beautiful blossom and after a few years will bear lots of bitter little fruits that can be made into jelly or wine. I was intrigued to discover that the crab apple was also known as the 'Tree of Love' by the Ancient Celts. Apparently many beliefs stem surround the humble crab apple, mostly to do with love and marriage partners. One example is that if you throw the pips into the fire whilst saying the name of your true love, if the pip explodes the love is true. Admittedly, I'm choosing to interpret the whole 'tree of love' thing as a more mother / daughter type of love, so hopefully the Ancient Celts won't disapprove.

Happy Mother's Day mum! I hope you like your tree!

To incubate, or not to incubate... that is the question

2010-03-08T20:58:00.000Z

Oh dear, I've been having a spell of writer's block, which meant that February has disappeared without a trace. But I'm back and have plans to write with a vengeance.

In short, February at Newhouse Farm meant cold, mud (lots of it), some very short glimpses of delightful sunshine and spells of warmth, and much preparation in the garden. The polytunnel has been cleared and the beds have been filled with compost; the greenhouse has also been cleared and the glass has been cleaned so that it gleams; the outdoor beds have been forked over and weeded; and the whole garden seems to be holding it's breath in anticipation of the spring planting. Of the overwintering plants, the garlic and onions that have been stoically growing through the deep winter chill have survived the frost, and the broadbeans are popping their heads up above the soil and adding welcome splashes of green to the otherwise empty beds.

February also meant that the animal inhabitants of Newhouse Farm became incredibly frisky. I shan't go into details (don't want to attract the wrong sort of readers to this blog if you follow my drift!) but the ducks, geese and chickens have been permanently 'at it' for the past four weeks! This is not a good time of year to be a female duck, goose or hen, because every five minutes a drake, a gander or a cockerel is attempting to do you-know-what to you in broad daylight. The Muscovy ducks in particular have been so overwhelmed with spring fever, so tunnel visioned in the throws of their passion, that I'm sure a fox could simply waltz up and walk off with one of them without raising a quack of alarm.

The pigs are still with us, and have grown even bigger and hairier. They've also developed a delightful habit of frothing saliva and dribbling great long threads of spittle whilst I prepare to feed them their dinner. I really ought to teach them some table manners, especially as my hand got coated in their frothy saliva this evening when I attempted to scatter their feed into the trough. I've also been moving the boundary of their enclosure several times, to give them fresh grass and weeds to root through and churn over. The pigs, when they realise they have a new expanse of grass to roam in, get very excited and playful, and start charging around their new enclosure and squealing happily. When I moved the pigs into the turkey's old area, that had a couple of large wooden stakes used as perches, the pigs were elated and started using the stakes as back and bottom scratching posts. Seeing a pig in seventh heaven as it scratches it's behind against a wooden post is a pretty entertaining spectacle, take my word for it!

But the big question on my lips during the past month has been an egg related matter: to incubate, or not to incubate. The geese have been laying so many big, beautiful, pearly white eggs, that whenever I've picked one up and cradled it in my palm I've been filled with a yearning to look after goslings all over again. I've ummed and ahhed, and gone backwards and forwards in my deliberating. It's not a simple case of just popping a few eggs in the incubator and forgetting about them until they hatch - last year learning how to incubate was an emotional roller coaster, and I spent many an anxious night and shed more than a few tears during the highs and lows of the incubating process. No, it is not like watching paint dry! It is a very exciting and tense procedure and the closest thing I've had to a sense of motherhood so far. If this makes me a desperately sad person, I don't care!

So, what's been the result of my incubating pondering? Well, earlier this evening - after a long day of bramble bashing under a brilliant blue, but bitterly cold sky - I found myself lifting a dusty box off one of the shelves in the potting shed, and determinedly carrying it into the kitchen. I pulled back the edges of the box and lifted out none other than (drumroll please) the Brinsea 200 Octagon Advance... my lean, mean incubating machine! Now it's all plugged in and ready to go, and tomorrow morning I'll be carefully placing some goose eggs inside its cradle. You guessed it, come what may I'm intent on being mother goose all over again!

Last year's goslings that hatched on mother's day.

Hens' Visit to the Polytunnel Spa

2010-01-28T18:50:00.002Z

The big chill had swept snow and swathes of ice in a freezing blanket across the UK, causing temperatures to plummet and sales of wild bird seed to soar. Even Newhouse Farm had received a liberal dusting of snow and ice that had transformed it into a picturesque winter wonderland, despite being in close proximity to the sea which usually prevented the snow from settling. The morning round of letting the animals out of their houses and feeding them now involved bashing and breaking the thick layers of ice that had formed on the various water containers during the night.

The snow-covered ground was soon covered with the tracks of the various animal residents of the farm: some pawed, some clawed, and some that were trottered or webbed. The tracks meandered their way across the snow in a manner reminiscent of the weasels and woozles that perplexed Winnie the Pooh, and revealed the many different journeys that the animals of Newhouse Farm habitually made throughout the course of each day. Nigel the depressed Muscovy Duck's webbed-footprints were the easiest to identify: each shuffling step was placed closely one in front of the other, and his tracks led to his favourite tree where he spent most of each day snoozing, or to the back door where he had a habit of pooping and pinching the dog's dried biscuits.

Inside Newhouse Farm the mission was on each morning to get the fires blazing and raise the temperature within the house above bitterly cold. Soon the sweet smell of woodsmoke surrounded the farm, adding to the crisp fresh scent of the wintery countryside. It was colder than I could ever remember the winter to have been, but the clear blue skies, frosty landscape, and phenomenal sunsets more than made up for the bitter temperatures. What's more the wintry weather necessitated me piling on the many layers of thermals, hand-knitted woolly jumpers, and fingerless mittens that I'd received for Christmas.

The ducks and geese seemed to be oblivious to the cold, jumping into the pond for an icy dip each morning as soon as I'd opened the doors to their houses to let them out. But the pigs weren't at all fond of the icy conditions. They'd spend even longer snuggled up together inside their house having lengthy afternoon naps, until the evening came when they tentatively stepped across the frozen muddy ground to eat their dinner. We made sure that they had plenty of straw inside their house to keep them cosy during the long cold nights.

One of my first activities of the year was to prepare the polytunnel and greenhouse for planting. The beds were still littered with skeletal tomato plants and a few limp rows of baby leaf salad, which needed clearing out and tidying ready for me to dig in a load of compost. As I was clearing the polytunnel of last year's plant detritus I suddenly remembered what James and Dick had told me about the hens. They'd said that each year they put a few hens into the polytunnel to help clear it of slugs and snails that might be hibernating in there, waiting to munch their way through any spring seedlings, plus any fallen fruits that had gone mouldy. I particularly love it when I discover that the animals at the farm can be used to help with tasks and chores, such as the pigs who are natural rotivators and geese who are nature's answer to the lawn mower. So without any hesitation I headed straight over to the chicken run to grab myself a few hens.

Trying to avoid encountering William the cockerel who would be bound to object violently to me stealing his ladies, I snuck into the hen house and as stealthily as possible, grabbed a hen and carried it over to the polytunnel. I repeated this procedure several times until I'd assembled a small gathering of hens. After providing them with some corn, and making sure there was enough water in the pond to quench their thirst, I sat back in a wicker chair in the polytunnel, put my feet up on a stool and waited to see what would happen.

Because the polytunnel was enclosed and protected from the chilly elements outside the ground was dry and dusty. As soon as the hens were placed in the polytunnel they immediately made a bee-line for the dustiest spot and started to take dust baths. First they'd lie on one side and vigorously scratch and flap so that dust would fly all over them, and then they'd repeat this process on the other side. James had told me that dust baths are very hygenic for hens, as the dust helps to kill off any parasites and mites. The hens clearly seemed to be loving the opportunity to pamper themselves, as soon they were all scrabbling around kicking up the dust into clouds, rolling from one side to the other as they preened themselves.

Although there was snow coating the exterior of the polytunnel, the bright wintry sunlight caused the temperature inside the polytunnel to feel quite mild. It suddenly occurred to me that this visit to the polytunnel dust baths was the poultry equivalent of a trip to a spa, and I vowed to treat all the hens to this luxurious experience the following day. After a lengthy session in the dust baths, the hens soon got to work scratching at the earth in the raised beds that lined the polytunnel, pecking at any hidden grubs that they uncovered. They were doing a fantastic job and saving me a huge amount of time and effort by digging over the beds.

The following morning I caught the hens one by one and carried them to the 'spa', putting half of them into the polytunnel and the other half into the greenhouse. Within no time the hens were busy bathing and scratching around for bugs, whilst the cockerels remained outside in the snow looking a bit perplexed. Every now and again the cockerels would emit a plaintive "Cock-a-doodle-doo" as if to say "Where are youuuu?", but the hens weren't listening. This was a girls' day out at the spa, and there was going to be no interference from pesky males to spoil their fun today!

Once I was happy that the hens were content and had plenty of water and corn available I went inside to check my emails, only to laugh out loud at one that I received from a close group of female friends in London. These friends wanted to know if I fancied meeting them for a girls' weekend outing to Bath, where the plan was to spend time pampering ourselves at a spa. The comparison between me and my friends nattering away on our girly spa weekend and the group of hens clucking away in the polytunnel 'spa' was just too funny, and I quickly emailed my friends to let them in on the joke.

Shortly before sundown I returned to the greenhouse and polytunnel to provide the hens with their transportation back to the safety of the henhouse. This meant catching the hens and carrying them one by one, but did the hens want to be caught, oh no they did not. They'd all clearly had a very pleasant day at the 'spa' and they didn't want to leave. Hens can run pretty damn fast when they put their mind to it, and I had to dodge and dive in the dirt in an attempt to get my hands on them. There was a lot of clucking, flapping and swearing as we all charged up and down and around the polytunnel as the sun gradually sank lower in the evening sky. Eventually, dusty, angry, and with a very sore back I managed to return the final hen to the hen house. The hens had clearly had a great day's respite from the wintry weather, and had thoroughly repaid me by eating up lots of hidden grubs, but from now on only one us was going to be visiting a spa and that was me!

(Pictured to the right: Hobbes the cat having a sneaky afternoon nap amongst the clucking ladies.)

Hello World!

2010-01-27T12:49:00.001Z

It amazes me how many hits my blog seems to get from international visitors. Who'd have thought that my tales of turkey traumas, gallivanting geese and depressed ducks could be of interest to people across the Atlantic ocean, or from even further flung climes.

This has been heightened in the last 24 hours thanks to an article written by somebody called Tim Handorf which gave a lovely mention of my blog and placed it 4th on a list of 30 farm blogs. Bizarrely, this news seems to have been picked up by a news site in Croatia, which means I'm getting an extraordinary number of Croatian visitors. Zdravo!

To all my new international visitors I'd like to bid you a very warm hello, thanks for visiting, and I hope you enjoy your trip to this blog based on an eco farm in Cornwall. This makes the world seem like a very small place indeed.

An Unusual Travelling Companion

2010-01-27T12:10:00.012Z

It was the evening after we had dispatched the Newhouse Farm turkeys for Christmas, and it was my turn to do the rounds and put the animals safely away to their beds. It was a bitterly cold evening, and on the horizon the clear sky was stained a molten orange as the sun sank behind a hill. The ground had remained frozen for most of the day, and as I walked to and fro from one animal enclosure to the other the icy grass crunched beneath my feet.

My final stop was at the pigs' enclosure, where the two sows were already waiting for me to arrive with hungry excitement and wild squeals of impatience. I tipped a bowlful of food into their trough, smashed the ice in their water bowl with a large stick, and then walked across and stared at the now vacant lot of the neighbouring enclosure. The turkeys had been next door neighbours to the pigs, but now their grassy enclosure was deserted and the perches that lined the shed were empty. The plucked turkeys were hanging upside down from a beam in one of the outbuildings, their flesh chilled by the freezing air, where they'd be left to hang for a week until Christmas Eve.

The only evidence to show that the turkeys once lived here were a mosaic of their footprints in the mud, frozen in place by the cold. The sight of these footprints triggered a sudden surge of sadness within me, my face crumpled, and for the first time that day I allowed myself to let out my feelings for the loss of the turkeys with a tremendous onslaught of tears. Perhaps I was just being an overly emotional city girl, or was simply over tired after the lack of sleep the night before, but after a few minutes of crying and sniffling, backed by the sounds of contented munching from the pigs eating their dinner, I felt a whole lot better. Wiping my face on the back of my sleeve and bidding a quick "Good night!" to the pigs I walked briskly inside. I had packing to do, because tomorrow I was leaving Newhouse Farm for the North.

I was going to spend Christmas this year at my mum's house, which lay 380 miles to the north in Cumbria. I had planned to get there by train because a) I was a very firm believer in using public transport wherever possible, and b) because I didn't have a car and therefore had no option! However as I was booking my tickets my green credentials were sorely tested when I discovered just how long the journey was going to take and how expensive the train tickets were. After a bit of research I realised that it was considerably cheaper and far quicker to travel by plane, but after five minutes of humming and hawing and muttering my anger at the train company for their lack of cheap tickets, I realised that I couldn't possibly live with myself if I took a domestic flight and I was of course going to travel by train. I'd been relying on trains as my main method of transportation ever since I left home at the age of 18, and there was no way I was going to relent now. Besides I had managed to go this entire year without flying, despite having taken a holiday abroad, and there was no way I was going to break that record with a cop out domestic flight. My eco-credentials could remain intact and my green halo in place!

Although I was leaving Newhouse Farm for Christmas I had no intention of travelling on my own. I was insistent on having one particular travelling companion, namely Featherweight the turkey. After six months of caring for the turkeys, and having helped to dispatch and pluck them today, there was no way I wanted to miss out on eating a Newhouse Farm turkey on Christmas day. The journey ahead was long, and I was already laden down with heavy suitcases and bags filled with presents, but the turkey was coming with me and that was that! It was the smallest turkey of the lot, only weighing in a 8lbs: I could surely manage that. Yet for all my enthusiasm, I was slightly concerned about whether the meat would become contaminated after spending the best part of a day on a train blasted with hot air conditioning. However Dick reassured me that so long as the turkey was drawn and frozen, and transported in a freezer bag, it would survive the journey in perfect condition.

The following morning I stood waiting for the first of several trains that was to take me home to the North. I was filled with excitement and Christmas cheer and surrounded by bags, one of which contained my travelling turkey and another of which contained a delicious picnic complete with a plate, cutlery and even a mini-bottle of champagne. Unfortunately the journey to the North soon became the journey from hell! My first train was cancelled, the replacement train had no spare seats and passengers were crammed in like sardines and mumbling and grumbling about the rail service in typical British fashion. There was absolutely no room for me to attempt to tuck into my picnic. As the journey progressed and I had to change trains and haul my luggage from one platform to another my bags became heavier and the turkey felt like it weighed a tonne. An hour spent at Birmingham train station was a particular low point: by the time the final train left my Christmas cheer had all but evaporated. Eventually, hours later, the train arrived at my destination and I bundled myself and my baggage onto the platform to be greeted with a huge hug from my mum. I'd made it. Christmas could officially begin!

The turkey had survived the journey in perfect condition, and on Christmas Eve I began the preparations for Christmas dinner. Before I moved to Newhouse Farm I'd been vegetarian for 15 years, so this was the first time I'd ever prepared a turkey. I was excited and nervous: I wanted to do right by the turkey and make sure I cooked it perfectly so that the meat would taste as good as it ought to. Although I'd never cooked a roast turkey before I knew there were a couple of key things I had to look out for: the breast had a tendency to be dry so I need to ensure it retained it's moistness; and the bird wouldn't be fully cooked until it's leg juices ran clear.

After perusing a few cookery books, it was good ol' Jamie Oliver who came to the rescue. Being a considerate chap he'd made a whole series of programmes on how to cook the perfect Christmas dinner, and I followed his suggestions, improvising now and again to make up for missing ingredients. I made a butter rub with chopped apricots and sage which I stuffed and spread beneath the skin on the breast. The stuffing contained breadcrumbs, lemon and satsuma zest, local sausage meat and more fresh sage. I experimented with homemade gravy, using the turkey's neck and a glassful of mulled wine to add extra flavour. And finally I placed a couple of halved satsumas and a handful of fresh herbs inside the cavity, which would apparently steam whilst in the oven and add a delicate zesty flavour to the flesh. A few hours later and Featherweight the turkey was dressed to the nines and ready for Christmas.

On Christmas day a delicious aroma filled my mum's kitchen... essence of turkey. It had been cooking for several hours and was now resting on the side whilst the rest of Christmas dinner was being cooked. My mum's dog seemed hypnotised by the smell, with a kind of glazed expression on her face as she sniffed the air and licked her lips. My mum was vegetarian and we realised the dog would probably never have smelt turkey before and it was quite clear the smell was driving her crazy.

After several hours of cooking Christmas dinner was finally served. This was the moment of truth: how would the turkey taste, and would I be able to eat it? I knew of quite a number of people who couldn't stomach the meat of an animal they'd raised, and although I was fairly sure this wasn't going to be the case with me the proof was going to be in the eating. Before I tasted anything else on my plate I took a bite of a piece of turkey breast and chewed expectantly. "My goodness!" I exclaimed. I ate another piece, "Oh boy!" And another, "Oh wow. Mum I know you're a veggie but you've got to try this!"

I am very proud to say that Featherweight the turkey tasted absolutely delicious. Admittedly I didn't have much frame of reference as I'd only ever eaten turkey once or twice before. But the meat was tender, juicy, and full of flavour, nothing like descriptions of dry, tasteless and chewy meat I'd heard people describe turkey as being in the past. What's more the homemade gravy was divine, and even my mum conceded to trying a morsel of turkey and agreeing it was very tasty.

All in all the turkey was a complete success. After clearing my plate I slumped back in my seat, a look of contentment on my face as I rubbed my full stomach. This former vegetarian had managed to raise, kill, cook and eat a turkey, and I realised I'd happily do it all over again. I thought of all the other turkeys from Newhouse Farm, and wondered if they had been eaten yet too. The only trouble now, I thought as I looked at the remainder of my roast turkey, was how on earth was I going to manage to eat all that leftover meat?! An 8lb turkey had sounded small to me at first, but I'd only managed to make a dent in it and there was still an awful lot of gorgeous meat left. It was going to be turkey sandwiches for breakfast, lunch and dinner and I'd be carrying that 8lb turkey back with me on my return journey, but this time on my thighs! Just then I caught sight of my mum's dog, who was looking more entranced by the smell of turkey than ever. "I think it's going to be a very merry Christmas for you too" I said, to which she pricked up her ears and wagged her tail.

As a postscript to this story, I successfully made it back to Newhouse Farm after polishing off the rest of the turkey with assistance from a very eager canine helper. Being involved in the process of producing meat for Christmas dinner has been a phenomenal experience. Despite at times being overwhelming, I feel privileged to have had this experience which has allowed me to truly appreciate why it is so important to eat good quality, free range meat. I'd never have eaten turkey for Christmas otherwise, or any other meat for that matter. I don't want to get preachy and start on an animal welfare rant, but I hope that any one who has managed to read this lengthy turkey tale considers where their meat comes from before they put it in their shopping trolley. I know I'm lucky, I get to be able to raise my own meat and ensure that is has a decent quality of life, but not everyone gets the opportunity to do this or would want to for that matter. But if we could all start buying humanely produced, local produce, ideally from a local butcher's rather than a supermarket, these little changes could make a big difference.

Goodbye Turkeys, Hello Christmas

2010-01-22T15:52:00.000Z

Why is it that the night before a big event it can be difficult to sleep? Just when we need our bodies to get fully charged so we're at our best the following day, falling asleep can seem like a simple magic trick we've forgotten how to do. The harder we try to sleep, the more it evades us.

The night before the 11 turkeys at Newhouse Farm were due to be dispatched I couldn't sleep a wink. The thought of what was going to happen the following morning kept me tossing and turning and wrestling the duvet. Visions of the turkeys, the upside down traffic cone, and the long pair of broomsticks that would be used to dispatch them kept whirring around my sleepless head. No matter how many sheep I tried to count sleep continued to evade me. Adding to my frustration was the knowledge that the less sleep I had, the more likely I was to feel overly emotional and upset as the turkeys were killed. I really wanted to be involved in the process of dispatching them, there was no way I was going to chicken out now, but sleep deprivation was going to make an intense day even harder to handle. At some point in the early hours of the morning I must, finally, have slept, as the following day I woke abruptly to see beautiful winter sunlight pouring in through my bedroom window. The day to dispatch the turkeys had finally arrived.

As I was about to discover, each year the day of dispatching marks the start of Christmas at Newhouse Farm and therefore takes on an air of festivity and celebration. When I came downstairs to the kitchen for breakfast I found that the table was spread with warm freshly made soda bread, homemade butter and plum jam, and warm mince pies. It seemed we were going to prepare ourselves for the task in hand with a mini feast. As James and myself started tucking into the food, Ben the landlord's son from the New Inn (our village pub) came to join us. As we were giving away our turkeys as Christmas gifts, with one of the turkeys destined for the dining table at the New Inn, the day started to develop not only a celebratory feel but also one of community. These turkeys weren't just going to feed ourselves, they were going to make Christmas dinner all the merrier for our family and friends too.

As we finished up the last of the sodabread Dick poured us each a glass of sherry. Ordinarily, I was told, the sherry would be accompanied by a cigar, but as the Strawbridge household had officially given up smoking in 2009 the celebratory cigars had to fall by the wayside. We chinked glasses, quaffed the sweet sherry, and after wrapping ourselves in countless layers to keep out the winter chill we headed outside to begin the task in hand. It felt right to celebrate the dispatching of the turkeys: after all we'd spent 6 months raising and caring for these animals, ensuring they had the best possible existence before the inevitable happened. Not only did it feel like we were celebrating the arrival of Christmas and the end of the years' work, but also that we were being thankful that the turkeys were about to provide us and our nearest and dearest with a feast fit for a king.

We walked together to the outbuilding where the dispatching was to occur, our breath misting into puffs of cloud in the frosty air. In the outbuilding the upside down traffic cone with the cut off tip had been placed on a small table, with a small set of steps on the ground leading up to it, and a large metal tray beneath the cone. What was about to happen was the traditional smallholder's method of dispatching large birds such as turkeys and geese using broomsticks to break the neck. However the addition of the upside down traffic cone lined with bubble wrap was a makeshift version of something known in the business as a killing cone, used to restrain the bird and make it easier to dispatch it swiftly.

Dick handed each of us an apron, and then with calm precision began to explain to me exactly what was about to happen.

"I'm going to go up to the turkey shed with James to get one of the turkeys," Dick explained. "When I come back I'm going to hold the bird by its feet let and hang it upside down for a few seconds. It'll flap around a bit and then it'll go still."

"Ok", I said, listening intently.

"When it's still I'll lift it up and place it head first into the traffic cone. That's when I need you to help fold in its wings so it'll fit inside the cone comfortably. The bubble wrap will help to cushion it. Once it's snugly inside that's when I need you to hold it by the legs."

"Ok", I said again.

"You won't need to support it's weight, that's what the traffic cone is for. You just need to firmly hold it's legs so that it doesn't get pulled down into the traffic cone whilst James and I place the broomsticks on either side of its neck, squeeze and twist. We're going to quickly stretch its neck backwards until we've separated two bits of vertebrae and its neck is broken."

"It'll wriggle around a bit at this stage," James interjected, "but once it's neck is broken it'll be unconcious."

"So it doesn't feel anything after that?" I asked.

"No, not a thing." Dick said. "Breaking its neck should cause it to die immediately. Then I'll run a sharp knife across its jugular to drain the blood, which will confirm that it's dead. As soon as the blood has drained we'll take it out of the traffic cone, hang it up by its legs and start plucking it."

"Just to warn you, it still might flap its wings a bit when we start plucking it," James said, "but that's just its body's last spasms. It happens to all animals when they die. It's a bit freaky but don't worry, the turkey will definitely be dead."

"Ok" I said once more, trying to sound brave. Then after a moment's pondering I asked, "Why don't you just chop it's head off?"

"Some people do, but it's not something we'd recommend." Dick said. "There's more room for error. Your hand would have to be near to where the axe will fall in order to restrain it's head, and you could easily chop off your fingers instead of the turkey's head, or chop badly and cause the bird more pain."

"And," said James, "there's a theory that an animal that's had it's head chopped off retains conciousness for a while afterwards. So you could argue that it isn't as humane doing it that way instead of breaking it's neck so that it blacks out straight away."

I nodded, reassured that we were about to kill the turkeys in the most humane way possible, and with that James and Dick headed up towards the turkey shed whilst I took my place at the top of the set of steps. The dispatching was about to begin, and 11 live turkeys were about to start their transformation into Christmas dinner.

I heard the door to the turkey shed open and close, and a few moments later Dick and James returned, with Dick carrying a turkey gently in his arms. It was one of the female turkeys, and she looked a little puzzled but not at all panicy. "There's a good girl" Dick said quietly, and then carefully tipped her upside down, holding her by the feet. She flapped her wings for a few seconds, trying to right herself, and then hung upside down quietly with her wings held elegantly out in a kind of upside down pirouette. Dick lifted the turkey up and I carefully helped to lower her into the traffic cone, making sure to fold her wings neatly by her side. "Well done, it's all right" I said quietly, unsure of whether I was speaking to the turkey or to myself, as I firmly took hold of her legs. "All set up there?" Dick said, as he and James positioned the broomsticks. "Yes" I nodded, and then stared directly ahead at the turkey's feet, bracing myself and the bird for what was to come.

Suddenly I felt a firm downward pressure as Dick and James twisted the broomsticks, and the turkey tried to kick her feet and flap her wings. Now I could see why the traffic cone with someone at the top holding the legs was so useful to restrain the bird, otherwise she'd have been flapping all over the place. "That's enough," Dick bellowed to James, "it's broken. We don't want to twist too far or her head'll come off!" And with that Dick reached for the knife and ran it across the turkeys' neck. I'd vowed to myself earlier that I wasn't going to watch this bit, but with morbid fascination I snuck a peak downwards and saw bright red blood start to spill into the metal tray. The turkeys' legs wriggled again, but this time in a different way, more like a kind of rhythmic pulsing movement which I assumed was the body's reaction to the dying process. After a few more seconds the bird went still and Dick wrapped a piece of kitchen towel around the cut on the bird's neck, securing it with a rubber band. The deed was done, and in less than a minute the bird had gone from being alive to dead.

But now the real work began. Dick lifted the turkey out of the traffic cone, hung her up by the legs and we all immediately set to work plucking her. I felt a bit more confident with this as I'd helped to pluck the Indian Runner duck that we'd dispatched several months ago, but it was still a bizarre feeling to start plucking whilst the bird's wings were still twitching. James was right, it was a bit freaky, but looking at the bird's head I could see she was most certainly dead and I knew that it was much easier to pluck a freshly killed bird than one that has gone cold. With four of us plucking one bird the feathers soon began to fly. I took control of the breast, Dick and James set to work on each of the wings, and Ben got lumbered with the back and the bum! "You need to use sharp, downwards movements" Dick instructed, "but be careful not to take too many feathers at one time or you could rip the skin, and we don't want that!"

Like a bunch of demented hairdressers we plucked away at the turkey, and within minutes the glossy black feathers started to recede exposing the milky white flesh of the turkey beneath. Plucking at the breast I noticed a strange dry patch of skin on the turkey's chest, which Dick explained to me was where the turkey rested its weight when it roosted, and a sign it had not been intensively farmed. Soon the floor of the outbuilding was covered in a blanket of soft black feathers, and a nude turkey hung from a beam, the remainder of its body warmth rapidly disappearing in the frozen air. One down, another ten to go. This was going to be an exhausting morning!

One by one Dick carried the turkeys from the shed, and we placed them in the traffic cone and I held their legs and stared at their feet as they died. Interestingly the stags (male turkeys) seemed to die quicker and with less fuss than the hens (female turkeys), which was odd considering that they were so much bigger and I'd have assumed they'd have put up more of a fuss. But in fact the stags, once in the traffic cone, seemed to be more resigned to their fate, whilst the hens wanted to hang onto their life for as long as they could. As swift and humane as this process was, none of these creatures wanted to die, of course they didn't. I realised that the desire for life is at it's strongest when our neck is, in the turkeys' case quite literally, on the line. What Dick, James, Ben and I were trying to do was to snuff out that life as quickly, painlessly and with as little stress as possible. Yes, we wanted to eat these birds, but we didn't want them to suffer. And I realised that one of the difficult joys of smallholding is that you get to experience this journey every step of the way, caring for these animals but ultimately killing them. I'd been a vegetarian up until the day I'd moved to Newhouse Farm in February, and this was still a very difficult concept for me to get my head around.

Finally it was time for the 11th and final turkey to be dispatched. Dick and James went to collect the bird, who must surely have been wondering by now where all its friends had gone. When they returned with the turkey, a magnificent and sizeable stag, James started discordantly humming the funeral march, another Strawbridge household tradition. For some reason it was at this moment that the events of the day combined with only a few hours sleep caught up with me. I caught sight of the last turkey and felt my eyes prick as they filled with hot tears. I really had grown to care for these birds, despite their bald heads and their foul smelling poop, and I wished they didn't have to die. To prevent myself from bursting into tears in front of everyone I stared fixedly at the traffic cone, and gave the turkey's feathers a quick stroke as Dick and I lowered him into it. A firm tug, a bit of kicking, and the bird went limp. After a final vigorous bought of plucking we hung the final turkey up alongside his bedfellows. It was 2.30pm, my fingers were dry and sore, and the turkeys were no more.

It was exhausting work, emotionally as well as physically, like nothing I had experienced at the farm before. Now that all the birds were sucessfully dispatched it was time for another glass of sherry, and oh boy did it taste good! We stood there, covered in black turkey feathers, delicately sipping from our tiny sherry glasses as if it was the height of sophistication. It was then that the giggles started. We'd had small burst of gallows humour throughout the course of the morning, but most of the time we'd been fairly quiet and focused. But now that the turkeys were dead and all we had left to do was to weigh them, the weight of responsibility seemed to visibly lift off our shoulders and we started giggling away as if we'd each downed a bottle of sherry, not drank a thimble-full.

All that was left to do was to weigh the turkeys and record their weight in a notebook so we could work where to allocate each turkey, depending on the size. Before weighing the turkeys we each placed our bets as to which we reckoned was going to be the heaviest. James told me that last year's winner was a beast of a bird they'd called Arnie. He was a huge muscly creature, and as he was being dispatched he thrust out his limbs and all the adrenalin caused them to lock solid, making him nigh on impossible to fit in the oven! Our bets placed we weighed each turkey: the lightest weighed in at 8lbs and the heaviest weighing in at an impressive 20lbs. The lightest we named Featherweight, and the heavy big boy we called Bruce. I don't know why, but for some reason the name stuck. A close runner up at 19lbs was Goliath, but it was good ol' Bruce that was destined for the Newhouse Farm Christmas table.

Yet my adventure with the turkeys wasn't going to end there. I had another journey to go on, a seven and a half hour long one to be precise, and a certain Featherweight turkey was to be my travelling companion. Christmas for me was going to be held 380 miles away from Newhouse Farm in the frozen north at my mum's house. I just had to figure out a way to take the turkey with me!

Story to be continued soon...

The Turkeys' Great Escape

2010-01-07T08:08:00.008Z

The turkeys' last full day on earth before Christmas had arrived at Newhouse Farm. The following day they'd meet their end at the traffic cone of doom, but today the sun was shining, the air was mild in an unexpected respite from the wintry weather, and the 11 turkeys were blissfully ignorant of their fate. I'd tipped the remainder of the turkey pellets into their feeder in order to give them a bountiful last supper. They could gorge themselves as much as they liked today as we'd certainly have no use for turkey pellets from tomorrow.

I say the turkeys were ignorant of what was due to happen to them, but during the weeks leading up to Christmas these birds had started to make a few bids at escape. Mostly these attempts were a bit feeble, and would result in half of the birds jumping over the fence that surrounded their enclosure only to hang around on the opposite side looking a bit gormless. I'd find them in the evening when it was time to put the animals safely to bed, and would shoo them back inside their enclosure with little fuss. This was hardly anything to rival the Great Escape, although James and I were slightly bemused as to how they were getting out as we'd clipped their wings in order to stop them from flying.

But with time these escape attempts started to get a bit more adventurous. One morning as I was getting dressed before heading downstairs for breakfast I heard a suspiciously loud blast of gobblegobbling coming from directly outside my bedroom. I flung open the door to my room that led directly out into the garden to see 10 startled turkeys standing on my doorstep, looking a bit sheepish. Once again, with little resistance, I herded the birds back towards their enclosure. Only one of them had remained inside the fencing, a little put out that it had been left behind. Then about a week later, after a period of good behaviour, the turkeys escaped again. Half of them were spotted sneaking up the lane leading out of the farm into the village, their excited gobbling alerting us to the movements of this escape posse. Perhaps the turkeys knew Christmas was coming after all?!

True to form, now that their last day on earth was here, turkeys attempted their boldest escape plan yet. I was spending the day alone at the farm as business had taken Dick and James to London. They were due back tomorrow, when we'd jointly perform the dreaded deed of dispatching the turkeys one by one. Today I was busying myself around the farmhouse, trying to distract myself from thoughts of the turkeys' fate so as not to get upset. This was the perfect opportunity the turkeys had been waiting for, and this time not a single turkey was to be left behind.

Somehow all 11 plump birds managed to sneak over the fence of their enclosure undetected. They stealthily walked past the pig enclosure whilst the pigs were having their afternoon nap, still undetected. One by one they hopped along the steps that led to the lane, and still no one was in sight to thwart their plans. Sensing freedom tantalisingly close the turkeys became overwhelmed with excitement. All 11 birds emitted a loud fanfare of gobblegobbling at the same time, and in the farmhouse kitchen I heard this distinctive sound and realised what the turkeys were up to.

I ran out of the door and through the gardens in the direction the sound came from, where I found 11 turkeys half way up the lane. Caught in the act they tried to look nonchalant, pecking innocently at nearby berries and leaves. The 6 stags (male turkeys) were particularly pleased with themselves, and puffed up their glossy feathers like puffer fish, strutting around and showing off to each other. "Where d'you think you're going?!" I cried, to which the turkeys replied "Gobbleobbleobbleobbleobble" excitedly. "I don't think so" I retorted, "Come on, back you go." and shooed them back down the lane towards the farm. "Gobbleobbleobbleobble!" the turkeys proclaimed again in unison.

Once I'd safely ushered the turkeys out of the lane and along the steps towards the top beds (halfway back towards their enclosure) I stopped for a moment to watch them. Despite having been caught in the act, the turkeys were clearly very pleased with themselves. The six stags kept puffing up their feathers and gliding around, flaunting their black plumage which shone in the beautiful wintry sunlight, whilst the seven hens (female turkeys) eagerly pecked at blades of grass and bits of bark as if they'd never seen them before. It was a moving sight, knowing that this was the last time the turkeys would get to experience these things, and so I decided to allow the turkeys some 'play time' before I shooed them back into their enclosure once and for all.

For the next hour I slowly walked the turkeys around the top vegetable beds. With a little encouraging the turkeys would follow me wherever I went, so I led them first up towards the greenhouse and then back towards the fallen tree that had fallen down so spectacularly during the Friday 13th storm. The pigs, who had been disturbed from their usual lengthy siesta by all the fracas, watched perplexed from their enclosure as the turkeys strutted along behind me whilst I led them around like the pied piper. When my merry band reached the fallen tree they leapt excitedly onto its branches, hopping from one branch to the other as if it was a climbing frame, wobbling precariously as they tried to keep their balance. It seemed to be a game of who could climb the highest, and watching the turkeys leap from branch to branch I realised that this was their natural environment. Turkeys were woodland birds, and liked nothing more than to perch in trees, which is why they must always have perches in their enclosures.

Eventually the sun began to set and the air grew cold - it was time to put the turkeys away to bed for the last time. With the turkeys safely inside their shed I removed their feeder. There'd be no midnight feasts for them tonight, as the birds needed to be starved before they were dispatched tomorrow otherwise any undigested food inside of them could spoil the meat. Taking one last look at the turkeys as they started jumping up onto the perches where they'd roost for the night, I shut the shed door and walked out of their enclosure closing the fence behind me. I could still hear the turkeys thumping around inside the shed - there was always a bit of pushing and shoving as the turkeys vied for their favourite spots on the perches.

I smiled as I thought how these birds would probably have a great night's rest after the days' exciting events. It was sad that tomorrow the turkeys would have to be killed, but I realised what a great life these birds had compared to so many other Christmas turkeys around the country. After all, how many other turkeys would have been able to run around and climb on trees before they faced the chop... sadly not very many. To buy an organic free range turkey like the ones at Newhouse Farm would cost around £80 to £90, much more money than the average household would be prepared to spend on the centerpiece of their Christmas dinner. Was it unrealistic to wish that all turkeys and other livestock could be raised less intensively in a more humane and natural surroundings?

As much as I wished the Newhouse Farm turkeys didn't have to die, I knew that they'd had the best life possible, and just maybe I'd helped them to have the best last day on earth they could have wished for. I just hoped that tomorrow I'd be brave enough to help the turkeys on their way.

Story to be continued...

The Traffic Cone of Doom

2010-01-06T19:03:00.007Z

It's a good job the turkeys at Newhouse Farm didn't have a clue that Christmas was coming.

Should the turkeys ever have asked me about Christmas, I can imagine the conversation would have gone something like this...

Turkeys: "Holly, what's Christmas?"

Me: "It's a time of year when people celebrate and eat lots of food."

Turkeys: "What kind of food?"

Me: "Erm... you."

Turkeys: "Oh bother."

It would've be a short conversation. Even shorter considering that turkeys can't speak and can only gobble. Anyway, moving swiftly on...

In the weeks building up to Christmas I became increasingly aware that the clock was ticking for the turkeys and they had precious little time left. Since July we'd been fattening up 11 turkeys at Newhouse Farm for Christmas dinner. You may be thinking that Dick, James and I must have pretty gigantic appetites to get through that many turkeys, but most of the birds were going to be given away to friends and family as gifts, leaving the biggest bird to grace the Newhouse Farm Christmas dinner table. The geese had nothing to worry about, as goose was never on the Christmas menu in the Strawbridge household. But for the turkeys there was no escaping their fate. The day they'd meet their maker was edging ever nearer as cheesy Christmas carols started blaring out of the radio in the kitchen.

Fortunately my feathered friends were oblivious to the sound of Jingle Bells that rang the knell of their impending doom, but as ridiculous as it may seem I felt uncomfortable talking about what was going to happen to them within earshot of the turkeys. Perhaps this was an indication I'd spent a little too much time alone with animals in the countryside and I was in danger of losing my marbles. However it just felt wrong talking about dispatching, plucking and eating the turkeys if I was stood near their enclosure, with the birds still very much alive and kicking and gobbling happily away to their hearts content. When James and I would do the rounds of putting the animals to bed each evening I'd always lower my voice when we were discussing Christmas preparations whilst herding the turkeys into their shed, lest they should catch drift of any hint of what was to come and panic.

In hindsight I think I was just trying to put the fate of the the turkeys out of my mind for my own sense of well-being. Until now I'd only ever seen one animal at Newhouse Farm be dispatched, one of the ducks I'd incubated and raised from egg to adult, and that was a fairly intense experience. So the thought of killing and plucking 11 large turkeys one after the other was making me nervous and downright uncomfortable. I'd spent six months caring for these animals: feeding them, providing them with fresh bedding and water, and clearing up their foul smelling poop. When they first arrived I thought they were odd-looking dopey creatures with strange nobbly bits on their head, but over the months I'd grown fond of their peculiar antics and now I'd bristle if anyone referred to these beauties as ugly. After spending all this time making sure they had the best lives possible I definitely wanted to be involved in the process of dispatching them, but I was worried I was going to get upset when the moment came for them to be killed and wouldn't have the balls to see it through to the very end. I realised that if I had my way the turkeys would probably live and we'd all end up celebrating the festivities over a steaming nut roast. Yes, that would mean we'd have 11 plump turkeys running around eating us out of house and home for no purpose, but at least the turkeys wouldn't have to die for the sake of Christmas and the former vegetarian inside of me would be able to sleep easy at night.

The turkeys were too big to be killed in the same way as I'd seen my Indian Runner duck be dispatched earlier in the year. Because the duck's neck was thin James employed something called the 'neck stretching technique' to do away with it. This may sound like a type of yoga position designed to release tension in the neck after a stressful day in the office, but in reality it had a more deadly purpose. Without going into the sort of detail that would put my mum off her dinner, it's a swift and humane method of separating the vertebrae in the neck by hand. After a quick stretch and before you know it, Bob's your uncle and you've got yourself a dead duck. Simple as that. Well, so I've been told by Dick and James! According to Granny Strawbridge, who came to visit us at the farm just before the turkeys were due to be dispatched, neck stretching is quite a tricky technique to master, as she discovered to her horror the first time she tried it on an unwanted cockerel. But that's a story for another time...

Dispatching larger birds such as the turkeys was going to be a whole different kettle of fish. For months I'd been wondering why there was an upside down traffic cone suspended from a metal bar stool in one of the outbuildings at the farm. The traffic cone had its pointy tip cut off, and was lined on the inside with a couple of layers of bubble wrap. I knew that this strange contraption must have a purpose, but for the life of me I couldn't figure out what it could be. Was it a kind of potato planter? Maybe a trap for catching eels? How about a prototype seat for the compost loo? The truth was far more sinister. It was, in fact, the traffic cone of doom. A larger bird such as a turkey, goose or muscovy duck would be suspended upside down in the traffic cone, it's head and neck sticking out at the bottom. A pair of broomsticks would be placed on either side of the unfortunate bird's neck, and then squeezed together and twisted sharply, causing the bird to black out as it's neck was broken. This, I'd been assured by James and Dick, was the quickest and most humane method of dispatching the turkeys, as they'd be unconcious in a matter of seconds and dead in less than a minute. However I still felt a growing sense of dread as visions of the turkeys inside the traffic cone flitted through my overactive imagination.

Eventually the turkeys last day of living arrived, and I let them out of their shed with the Dali painting hanging on the outside for the very last time. At first I wasn't quite sure why James had decided to hang the Dali painting on the turkey shed, but I put it down to his artistic nature and eccentric streak. But now that I looked at the faded picture where in characteristic Dali fashion flesh and food seemed to merge into one form against a surreal background, the choice of picture seemed oddly fitting for the turkey enclosure. I emptied the remainder of the sack of turkey food into the feeder: today they could eat as much as they could manage... after all this was their last breakfast, lunch and dinner. Not wanting to wallow in sentimentality I briskly walked away from the turkey enclosure and busied myself with distracting activities elsewhere. But little did I realise that the turkeys had one last surprise in store for me before Christmas.

Story to be continued very soon...

Happy New Year!

2010-01-03T16:05:00.000Z

Oops a daisy... what happened to December?! Whilst it felt like the rest of the country was winding down for the Christmas break, life at Newhouse Farm seemed to get busier than ever. Consequently this meant I had very little time spare for blogging, hence my December absence.

But have no fear... I'm back on the blog, and will be keeping you up to date with life on an eco farm as 2010 progresses.

In the meantime I hope you had a relaxing Christmas and a very Happy New Year!

Ducks Behaving Badly: Part Deux

2009-11-27T18:11:00.006Z

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

2009-11-26T16:24:00.002Z

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

2009-11-13T16:12:00.008Z

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

2009-11-11T18:52:00.000Z

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

2009-11-07T17:05:00.017Z

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

2009-11-06T18:15:00.006Z

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

2009-11-06T15:18:00.008Z

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...

2009-11-06T14:02:00.002Z

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!

2009-11-06T10:36:00.002Z

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

2009-11-06T10:05:00.003Z

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

2009-11-06T09:44:00.001Z

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!

Twitter Updates

2009-10-22T15:17:00.005+01:00

I've been very busy the past month running around looking after animals and vegetables at Newhouse Farm, which has meant that I've had very little time for blogging. I fully intend to return in the very near future to write more stories of my recent antics, but in the meantime I've decided to become all high tech and create a Twitter account. For those of you who are not in the know (as I was until recently), a Twitter is a short message that you post online and people can follow your twitters if they're interested.

By twittering I can provide short and sweet updates on a regular basis, whilst continuing to write longer blog posts about the most interesting and entertaining events at the farm. My most recent twitter updates are featured on the blog (in the column on the right hand side), and you can click on it to visit my Twitter page should you wish to. Enjoy the tweets!

Return to Newhouse Farm

2009-09-25T17:35:00.018+01:00

A peaceful holiday was just what the doctor ordered after an exhausting summer at Newhouse Farm. James and I had opted to head to Brittany the slow way, traveling there via the ferry in our recently acquired Morris Minor camper van. There were a few stressful moments to begin with before we'd even left Newhouse Farm as the Morris refused to start, but after a few last minute repairs we chugged up the hill out of the farm and it was plain sailing from there on in. Well, one of the headlights went before we'd even left Plymouth and it was a 50/50 chance whether or not the indicators would work, but I suppose you can't have it all!

Brittany was very quiet and very beautiful. Our destination was a small town on a lake where many a day drifted by whilst we read our books outside a friendly Tabac and sipped endless cups of coffee and miniature glasses of wine. The town was surrounded by ancient boulder strewn forests filled with mysterious sun-dappled footpaths and laced with Arthurian legends, such as Camp d'Artus (Arthur's camp), and La Grotte d'Artus (Arthur's cave, which we never actually found, instead of which we stumbled across a wild hive of bees... merde!) The forests were so beautiful that they eventually gave us the inspiration for the name we bestowed on the camper van. We'd been a bit stuck with finding a name for the Morris: Horace, Boris and Doris... none of them seemed to fit. And as the car chugged her way up and around the steep winding forest roads we desperately needed a name to encourage her to go the extra mile. Finally lightening struck and a name appeared.. Guinevere!

After a fortnight it was time to return to Newhouse Farm. As we crossed the Tamar Bridge at night and headed into the depths of Cornwall we were greeted by dense patches of fog and mizzle... ahh, how lovely to be back in England! It seemed that the farm had been a hive of activity in our absence. Dick had been busy making wine from all the grapes in the vineyard, honey from the hives at the top of the lane, and a huge pole lathe for green woodworking. Wandering around the farm it struck me just how consuming life on a smallholding can be: I may have chosen to take a holiday but everything else, of course, had continued to grow with abundance whilst I'd been away, of both the vegetable and animal varieties. There was masses of work to be done, and it reinforced for me that choosing to live the 'good life' makes it hard to step away and take a break, as nature won't conveniently stop to fit in with my holiday schedule.

First up was a harvesting mission. I'd cleared the tomato plants of their fruit before my holiday, but after a fortnight the plants were dripping with bright red tomatoes once again. I gathered 2 huge bowlfuls, weighed them and realised there was only one thing to be done with 6.5 kg of juicy tomatoes... make more chutney! Next up I needed to harvest a load of the squashes and courgettes. James and I had been growing all sorts of varieties of squash, but when we planted them we mixed most of the varieties together, so it's always quite a surprise to discover which shaped squash is growing where. There were small yellow ones, large green ones, butternuts and even strange white flying saucer shaped ones, all hidden beneath the large prickly leaves of the squash plants. It was like a treasure hunt, searching for the squashes, and we piled our finds into a large wicker chest.

Sadly not everything had done quite so well during our absence. The large bed filled with curly kale and kohl rabi, which had been doing so well before we left, had been absolutely decimated by caterpillars. Where there had once been a sea of verdant green foliage there was now just a barren mass of stalks and some very sorry looking bulbs of kohl rabi. It's at times like this that I curse organic gardening, as it's awful to see months' worth of care be gobbled up by some plump green caterpillars. The pigs, on the other hand, were delighted by this situation, as I dug up all the forlorn plants and tossed them into the pig enclosure. They squealed and grunted as they shoved their noses through this unexpected feast, crunching on mouthfuls of caterpillar stalks and kohl rabi.

The caterpillars had also been making light work of the long row of broccoli and brussel sprouts. The broccoli had pretty much finished, so I dug that up and threw it to the pigs (who by now were in seventh heaven!). But the fact that the caterpillars had dared to make a meal of the brussel sprouts made me see red. After all this was Christmas dinner that they were messing with! The sprouts needed saving and fast and there was only one thing for it: I grabbed a large plant pot and started slowly working my way along the row, picking off the caterpillars and throwing them into the pot one by one. I wasn't going to squash them, oh no, I had a fate far worse than that in mind for these evil little creatures... I was going to feed them to the chickens! I figured that this was the caterpillar equivalent of being hung, drawn and quartered... a suitable punishment for messing with my sprouts! Time ticked by as I worked my way along the row, picking off each and every caterpillar and tearing off the patches of leaves where I discovered little mounds of eggs. After about an hour and a half, and with an aching back, my work was done. The plant pot was brimming with an unbelievable number of caterpillars, so many that I'd have taken a photo of it except that these caterpillar captives were starting to turn my stomach. What's more the little blighters kept trying to escape every time I turned my back, so I decided it was time to feed them to the chickens.

Over by the chicken enclosure I called the chickens over with a loud "chuuuuck, chuck chuck chuck". The hens came charging towards me as I tipped some of the caterpillar captives onto the ground to await their doom. The hens gathered, examining the ground expectantly, picking at pieces of grass and grit with their beaks... but not eating a single bleedin' caterpillar! I couldn't believe it. The caterpillars were creeping away from their 'fate worse than death' whilst the chickens just stood around clucking and wondering why I'd called them over. With a heavy sigh I decided to try Plan B, the ducks! Over by the duck enclosure I tipped the remaining mass of caterpillars onto the ground and called the ducks over with an eager "quaaack, quack quack quack". The ducks came waddling towards me at speed but, would you believe it, they ignored the caterpillars as well. Argh! Very, very irritating.

Apart from chutney making, caterpillar collecting and squash searching, there was another pressing job that needed to be done: poop clearing. Now I've moved from the city to a smallholding it's quite surprising how much poop has become a part of my life, and also how I'm familiar with several different varieties! Turkey poop and chicken poop is dry and potent with amonia, whilst goose poop and duck poop is sloppier and slippier, a bit like treading on a banana skin. I left the animal houses looking pristine with fresh bedding, and returned to discover them smelly and poop splattered. Oh the glamour of the countryside... always a pile of poop to be cleared. But without wanting to gross you out with further details of poop clearing (and believe me, there are many more details I think you'd probably be happier not knowing!) I thought I'd end this post by showing you just how much the animals have grown in the past fortnight.

Firstly the muscovy ducklings are now HUGE. (Click here to see what they looked like before.) It seems there are 4 males and 3 females, and the males are already larger than their mum. They haven't yet aquired the strange red folds of skin that muscovies develop around their heads, but I can see it's beginning to start around their beaks. What's more, the second adult muscovy female has apparently taken herself off to sit on some eggs. She was sitting on some eggs in the house she decided to move into with the Indian Runner ducks (inhospitable housemates, I have never been able to work out why she preferred to life there!). But those eggs never hatched, so it seems she's having a second attempt at a secret nest outside. I just hope she's selected a spot that's well hidden from foxes.

The turkeys have also had a growth spurt since I left (click here to see what they looked like 6 weeks ago). They're now much bigger and leggier and very funny. Apparently whilst I've been away some of the turkeys have taken to flying up and sitting on top of their turkey house, making putting them safely to bed each evening fairly tricky! The turkeys are very curious creatures, in a similar way to the geese, and come cavorting towards me, half running and half flying, whenever I enter their enclosure. The males have started puffing themselves up and showing off, spreading their feathers and making strange huffing noises. With their tail feathers spread into large fans which they move from side to side, it gives the turkeys the bizarre appearance of resembling a fleet of black sailed ships, gracefully sailing around the grassy enclosure as they show off to each other. Today as I cleaned out their house a fight broke out between 2 of the males, whilst the females stood to one side totally indifferent to the showings off and squabblings of the males.

And then there's the pigs. They have continued to grow and have now almost completely cleared their enclosure of plants, having successfully rooted up and chewed all the weeds and foliage that was in there to begin with. The pigs have become even more vocal, and whenever I go within sight of their enclosure they start squealing at me. You don't need to be Dr Dolittle to figure out what the pigs are saying... they are very clearly shouting "Feed me!" as their appetites as insatiable. I thought I might have pacified the pigs somewhat on the day when I'd thrown them all the kohl rabi, kale and broccoli from the garden, and so I decided to sneak into their enclosure and take some pictures of them. But as soon as the pigs caught sight of me they came charging over, squealing at full volume, and I hastily scampered away, hopping over the electric fence with the forever-hungry pigs slobbering on my heels. Here's a picture, taken from a safe distance, of the 2 of them squealing at me at the top of their voices. Ah bless!

Tonight the sky was clear and the air was crisp as James and I hurried around in the dusk to put the animals away. The sun had dipped low beyond the horizon, staining the sky with a rich orange glow. Autumn is fast approaching and I'm glad to be back at the farm, filled with anticipation for the season ahead. I'll get back to you with plenty more updates from Newhouse Farm over the coming weeks. Until then here's a few more photos I couldn't resist sharing with you...

We're Off!

2009-09-08T17:55:00.004+01:00

Good news! Jim and Steve worked wonders on the Morris Minor camper van, and it's engine now purrs like a beauty. So James and I are off on an adventure to Brittany for the next fortnight. Hopefully the wet and dismal Cornish weather won't follow us to France.

A bientot!

Bon Voyage... or is it?

2009-09-08T15:42:00.005+01:00

Just a quick post to say that today James and I are off on holiday... or at least we're hoping so. The plan was to load up our trusty Morris Minor camper van (name yet to be decided) and head to Brittany for a fortnight of tootling around eating fresh baguettes, smelly cheese and sampling plenty of wine. But as I type the entire holiday appears to be hanging in the balance. As we turned the key in the ignition to head off for a quick test drive before catching the evening ferry we heard a very unpleasant sound, a repetitive whining noise which meant only one thing... the engine simply wouldn't start. Oh bum!

James and I may be pretty knowledgeable when it comes to all things plant and poultry related. But when it comes to cars and engines our combined knowledge probably wouldn't fill my little finger. Fortunately for us we know a couple of people who do know more than a thing or two about engines. As I type, Steve (Newhouse Farm's brilliant carpenter/plumber/builder/you-name-it-he-can-do-it-er) and Jim Milner (former Newhouse Farm resident, engineering-whizz and co-presenter with Dick on Scrapheap Challenge) have got their heads under the bonnet, wielding spanners and talking about things to do with engines that I simply do not understand. Feeling a little like a spare part I've decided to busy myself with making copious mugs of tea and writing a quick blog post. Can they fix the Morris in time? I blinking well hope so!

Should they be successful I'll shall return to my blog in a fortnight with tales of slow travel around Northern France. Until then, keep your fingers crossed the Morris will be fixed in time.

In the above photo Jim is on the left and Steve is on the right.

Chutneyfication!

2009-09-07T16:17:00.026+01:00

Summer is definitely on it's way out, and with autumn rapidly advancing Newhouse Farm is a hive of harvesting activity. James and I had got a little carried away earlier in the year when we sowed tomato seeds, which meant that we'd ended up with a whopping 198 tomato plants! I can't do the maths, but I know that that equals one heck of a lot of tomatoes. Over the summer months we gave away a few tomato plants to visiting family and friends, but we were still left with a polytunnel virtually bursting at the seams with succulent tomatoes of many shapes, sizes and varieties.

Recently I've been kept busy tending to the multitute of tomato plants, pruning and trimming off dead bits and unwanted stalks, whilst harvesting all the tomatoes. After my activities in the polytunnel the kitchen table at the farm was soon piled high with bowls and colanders teaming with juicy tomatoes: red ones, green ones, even yellow ones. In addition to this I'd harvested onions, courgettes (some of which had grown into marrows), beans, and even masses of grapes from the vine in the polytunnel. Plus over in the orchard the apples were ready. Dick took one look at this mountain of fresh produce, turned to me and said, "Holly, it's time to make chutney".

I'd never made chutney before, so we pulled out a stack of recipe books and started to identify recipes that we liked the sound of. 'Red Tomato Chutney', 'Shooting Party Chutney', 'Nellie's Harvest Chutney'... they all sounded tasty. As the recipes we selected started to mount up I suddenly remembered my grandmother's cook book, which as well as some top secret cake recipes also included some Dig for Victory pamphlets that my great-grandmother had used during the 2nd World War. These pamphlets, now yellowing with age, contained tips and recipes for different methods of preserving fruit and vegetables, including a section on making chutneys. One of the recipes was for 'Green Tomato Chutney', and as I had a mini-mountain of green tomatoes due to a couple of tomato plants I'd had to pull out of the polytunnel, I decided to add this recipe to the list.

Preparations and celebrations for Dick's 50th birthday halted my chutney progress for a couple of days. But early one morning I headed with a purposeful stride to the kitchen, pulled out a large chopping board and a knife and set about preparing to make chutney. All morning long I chopped and chopped, slicing up the tomatoes and weighing them to ensure I had the correct amounts. The executive decision had been taken earlier on to ignore the instructions of a majority of the recipe books which said to peel the tomatoes, as it would simply take too long and life was too short to be fussing about bits of tomato peel in one's chutney! Yet my progress was slowed by the hundreds of fiddly little cherry tomatoes that I'd harvested, and on several occasions Dick walked through the kitchen and said, "Not still chopping tomatoes are you?!" Next up on the chopping block were the onions, which caused stingy onion tears to pour down my cheeks and blur my vision. Marrows were next to hit the chopping board, followed by apples. I knew I had to peel and chop the apples swiftly to prevent them from going brown, and fortunately I had a trusty tool to help speed my progress... the apple peeler/corer/slicer! Newhouse Farm seems to be filled with magical little gadgets such as this, and within no time I was whirring the handle of the peeler/corer/slicer which processed each apple in no time. But despite the fact it was taking me a long time to prepare all the ingredients, I actually found the process very relaxing. It was a meditative activity, and as I got into a rhythm of chopping and tossing the ingredients into various bowls my mind emptied as I focused on the task in hand. I find weeding relaxing for exactly the same reason, although this is certainly a sentiment that James doesn't share!

Once I'd measured out raisins, sultanas, dates and seasoning for the first recipe I was ready to begin cooking. Soon the stove was covered in huge pots, each one bubbling and steaming away like a cauldron. Each recipe had a different method for how to create the perfect chutney. Some favoured cooking the vegetables for 2 hours first and then adding the vinegar and sugar, whilst other suggested whacking all the ingredients in at the same time, whereas another one instructed me to salt the tomatoes and leave them overnight before I began cooking. The kitchen was a whirlwind of activity, steam wafting up from the bubbling ingredients of the pans, the room filled with the aroma of wholesome vinegary goodness. And meanwhile I continued chopping, dicing, quartering and whirring away like a human-chutney-making machine.

As the afternoon started to draw by I began to realise that the process of making a good chutney was actually fairly simple. It wasn't the same as baking a cake, where it's important to measure the ingredients exactly, and too much or too little of something can cause the cake to become a disaster. Chutney on the other hand seemed to be more of an abstract art, and if you plonked your ingredients in a pan and gave them a good stir over a few hours you couldn't really go far wrong. With this mindset I began to feel a little adventurous. What if I created my own chutney recipe?! Ooh, now this was an exciting idea. I mentioned it to Dick and he suggested I try to make a recipe that exclusively used Newhouse Farm ingredients. We'd had to substitute the ingredients of some of the other chutneys I had bubbling away with local, shop-bought ingredients as we didn't want to use up our entire supply of onions and apples. But a Newhouse Farm chutney could only use ingredients grown at the farm.

I sat down at the kitchen table and started to devise my chutney recipe. Tomatoes, onions, apples and marrows were no problem... we had heaps of these. But what about vinegar, raisins and spices? Dick suggested that I use homemade cider instead of vinegar, and grapes instead of raisins. We even thought about using honey harvested from the Newhouse Farm bees instead of sugar, but with honey being in such short supply due to the bad times the bees had been facing the past year we decided against it. I started chopping once more, weighing each ingredient and deciding how much of it to add to the recipe. Red, green and yellow tomatoes, apples, onions, marrow and grapes were all thrown into the pan, plus cider and sugar and a few generous pinches of spices. It was an odd looking but colourful concoction, and as it began to bubble away I wondered what on earth it would taste like.

Hours went by and one by one the chutneys started to become ready. First up to be bottled was an intense red tomato chutney, thick and slightly sweet. I warmed some glass jars up in the oven and lifted the huge vat to pour the chutney inside. It oozed into the clear glass jar, and for my first chutney I've got to say that it looked like the real deal! Slowly but surely the other pans became ready and the warm jars began to fill with the glug, glug, glug of molten chutney. Last but not least was the Newhouse Farm special recipe chutney. It was a lighter, almost orangey colour, and I started to feel more hopeful as the mixture came together and started to thicken. Finally I poured the special chutney into 3 large glass jars and licked a bit from off the wooden spoon. "Hang on" I thought, as I took another lick, "I think that might actually be pretty good!" I took a small sample of the chutney and went outside to find Dick and James, who were inside the workshop customising Dick's toolbox. They tried the chutney and I waited for the verdict. "That's bloody good!" Dick cried, with James nodding in agreement. Success! I'd created my first ever recipe, and it had turned out surprisingly well. It was 8pm, I'd been through 12 hours of intense chutneyfication and smelt like I'd been dunked in vinegar, but this was one of the best feelings of job satisfaction I've ever had!

Now my appetite has been whetted for chutney I'm keen to create jams and preserves for some more unusual ingredients that are growing at the farm. In the orchard a small tree is weighed down with crabapples which are crying out to be made into crabapple jelly, whilst a few trees away from it is a medlar tree. This usual fruit can be used to make medlar cheese and even fudge, which sounds a little odd but I'm willing to have a go. Plus there's rosehips, figs, and even black tomatoes for me to play with. If anyone can recommend any recipes I'd love to hear from you!

Duck for Dinner

2009-09-07T08:38:00.010+01:00

This post contains a detailed description of how a duck was killed and prepared for dinner. If anyone is particularly squeamish they should be prepared for some passages they may find a little graphic.

The day had finally dawned at Newhouse Farm when one of the animals that I'd helped to raise from egg to adult was going to be killed for its meat. James' friend Geoff was visiting from London, and it had been decided that we'd have a meal of crispy Newhouse Farm duck pancakes to celebrate Geoff's visit. When this idea was suggested to me, outwardly I was a picture of calm agreement: after all a celebratory meal seemed like a good reason to kill a duck. But secretly within my head was reeling: I'd spent a lot of time, effort and emotion trying to keep these ducks alive when they were little, nurturing them so they'd become healthy adults, and now I was agreeing to let one of them be killed in order to satisfy our appetites. Birth, life, death, dinner... I knew this was all part of the cyclical nature of life, but I'd never experienced it with such immediacy before. There was no doubt about it, today was going to be a momentous occasion and I wasn't sure how I was going to handle it.

The duck was due to be 'dispatched', to use the technical term, once we'd had our breakfast. So after we'd downed the last mouthfuls of coffee and toast James, Dick and Geoff all headed outside to begin the dispatching process, whilst I went upstairs to wait. I'd been in two minds as to whether or not I was going to watch the duck being killed, and had decided that this first time I simply didn't want to see it happen. However I'd told James that I was very keen to have a go at plucking the duck, so he was to let me know as soon as the dreaded deed was done and I'd come downstairs and join them. Yet a strange feeling crept over me as I waited on the upstairs landing for the dispatching to be over and done with... curiosity. The longer I waited the curiouser and curiouser I became until after several lengthy minutes of cogitation I decided that I was going to watch the process after all, but from a safe distance.

I hurried downstairs and went outside just in time to see James and Dick rounding up the Indian Runner ducks. As Dick reached down to grab one of them the former vegetarian in me willed the ducks to run away to safety, whilst the new land girl part of me looked on eagerly. Dick grabbed one of the ducks and cradled it snugly under his arm, and then walked over to the area in front of the pole barn where a bungee cord had been attached to a frame under which was a large cardboard box. Once in front of the pole barn Dick handed the duck to James. My view of what happened next was partly shielded by James' back, but I could tell that James quickly set about stretching the duck's neck in order to break it. I saw the duck's beak open wide as the pressure was applied to it's neck, and after a matter of seconds it's neck was broken. James then quickly hung the duck by it's feet from the bungee cord and taking a sharp knife delicately slit it's limp neck in order to bleed it. Dick had explained the dispatching process to me before, so I knew that at this stage the duck was still alive but as it's neck had been broken it would no longer be feeling any pain. The duck beat it's wings feebly a few times, but the dispatching process was done. It was so quick, and the duck went from being alive to dead in no more than 30 seconds.

James instantly began plucking the duck, so I hurried over to help out. James told me to take little clumps of feathers and pull them out, being careful not to tear the skin. What shocked me about this was that as we started plucking the duck was still twitching, and James explained to me that all animals twitch as they die. I started to carefully pull at the feathers on the duck's belly, which came out remarkably easily. Again, James explained that it's much easier to pluck when the animal is warm, but it becomes much harder if the animal has been left to go cold. I continued pulling out the duck's feathers, more quickly now that the initial shock had worn off, and saw them float down into the cardboard box. There was a rich, irony smell pervading the area around the box, and I realised that this must be the smell of blood. The sides of the box were speckled which drops of blood from when the duck's neck had been slit, and I couldn't help but look down at the duck's lolling neck to see the bloody sight. I could see it's crop, a transparent sack in it's neck, that was still filled with the fresh corn it had eaten for breakfast. The strangest thing about the plucking process was that the duck, although now completely dead and no longer twitching, still felt alive. It's skin was body temperature, and it felt bizarre to be pulling feathers out of something that still felt so warm. Plucking the duck became mesmerising, and any timidity I had to begin with dissipated as my fingers tore out more and more of the soft, silky feathers.

Soon the duck's feathers were lining the bottom of the cardboard box and we were ready for the next stage... the blow torch! Although we'd manage to pluck out most of the feathers, the duck's body was still covered in a fine layer of down. Dick brought over the blow torch, which he swept quickly across the duck's body, swiftly singing off the down without allowing the heat to start burning the skin and meat. James had a go with the blow torch, and then it was handed to me. I swept the flame quickly across the duck's body, the potent smell of singed feather's impregnating my nostrils. Devoid of feather's the duck's carcass now looked a grimly comical sight. To help with the plucking we'd taken one of it's legs out of the bungee, so with legs splayed and featherless wings sticking out it looked like it was doing an upside down jig. Perhaps this was gallows humour that had taken over me?! James took the knife and severed the duck's head from it's body, then he took the carcass down from the bungee cord and cut it's feet off too. Suddenly the duck didn't resemble a duck any more, it was an anonymous carcass.

The next stage of the process was to remove it's innards. Dick showed me how to cut around the vent (the duck's backside) without rupturing the bowels, which would have caused the duck's poo to go everywhere and dirty the insides. He also showed me the oil gland on base of the duck's back, the gland which allows the duck to waterproof its feathers, which he cut off too. Now all that one of us had to do was to reach inside the duck and pull out it's innards. The duck was quite slim and small, and Dick didn't think he'd be able to get his hand inside. James, being a bit squeamish, didn't seem very keen to help out. And so, before I knew it, I found myself eagerly volunteering to shove my hand inside. Dick, looking slightly surprised at my enthusiasm, told me to push my hand inside the duck, allowing my palm to run over it's innards until my fingers had reached the top of its rib cage. All I needed to do then was to spread my fingers and pull.

With a look of grim determination on my face, I pushed my hand up inside the duck. I wasn't quite sure what I expected to feel, but memories of biology lessons and anatomy classes came rushing back to me as my fingers ran over smooth, moist and warm organs. Once again it was the warmth of the duck's carcass that nearly freaked me out. The plucking had been done so quickly that the duck was still at body temperature inside, and at one point I let out an involuntary cry of "This is so weird!" After a bit of wriggling and pushing my fingers had reached the top, so I spread them and started to pull. I tugged gently at first, and then with more force, feeling the duck's internal organs tear away from it's body and get dragged down in my hand. With a final tug my hand emerged from inside the duck, clenching a fistful of it's innards.

Now, as Dick and I examined the duck's innards, I felt as if I was a biology student once more. I saw the duck's intestines, neatly coiled, and it's gizzard that glistened like a strange sea shell. Dick cut the duck's gizzard open to show me how it worked. Inside this tough muscle was some mushed up corn, and I realised that this was how the duck's chewed up their food, with the gizzard being the muscular equivalent of teeth. I was fascinated: all the duck's internal organs looked so fresh and clean, and so small yet perfectly formed. Sadly I'd slightly squelched it's liver between my fingers as I'd tugged it's organs out of its body, but Dick picked it up and said it was still palatable. As we examined the duck's organs, like teacher and student, we realised that the duck's heart was missing, and after peering inside it's carcass we realised that it's heart was still inside. I carefully ran my hand up inside the duck again, felt around and came across something smooth and warm, which I carefully pulled out to reveal a tiny duck heart in the palm of my hand.

My hand was sticky and smeared with red, so I wiped it clean on a piece of kitchen towel to stop myself resembling Sweeney Todd the demon barber! There was something about the smell of the blood and organs, and the grim practicality of pulling out its feathers and internal organs, that had transformed me. I can't pinpoint exactly what it felt like, but I felt strong, stoical, and fascinated by the process that I'd just partaken in. I continued plucking the tips of the quills out of the duck's carcass with my fingertips whilst Dick and James disappeared inside. A few minutes later James called to me, saying that Dick had cooked up a special breakfast.

I went inside the kitchen, which was filled with an amazing aroma of something rich and irony. On the table were 2 plates of toast with freshly cooked duck liver on top. I'd never eaten duck liver before, and had previously pulled faces when Dick had talked about eating it. But now this duck liver on toast had the feeling of a ceremonial occasion: I'd incubated, nurtured and cared for this duck when it was alive, and now I was going to celebrate its death by eating its liver! I tasted the rich, smooth liver without any squeamishness. It was delicious - like a richer version of a scallop. After we'd finished this second breakfast, we placed the duck's prepared carcass on a plate and put it in the fridge. This was the only time I felt sad about the duck, and before shutting the fridge door I put my hand on the duck's body, feeling it's remaining body warmth in my hand. This was the last time it would be warm from it's own body heat, and my sentimentality nearly got the better of me as I shut the fridge door and left it to go cold.

Later that evening we took the duck out of the fridge in order to prepare it for dinner. James cooked it on a rack in the oven, which filled the kitchen with a mouth-watering smell of sizzling duck. We also prepared some side dishes of chopped cucumber, plum sauce, salad, and hot pancakes. After a couple of hours James took the duck out of the oven and he and I started cutting the flesh off it. The duck's flesh had gone a rich brown colour, and I was amazed by how fatty it was. What was even more surprising was just how little meat there actually was! This one bird served us with just enough meat for 2 crispy duck pancakes each. Everyone tucked into their pancakes, and as I prepared to eat mine I remembered a question that several people had asked me. Would I be able to eat the meat of one of the animal's I'd raised at the farm? The answer was: yes, easily! I took a big bite of the pancake, and tasted the tender, succulent duck meat. It was absolutely delicious, and I took my time eating the remainder of my meal in order to savour it.

Eating the meat of an animal I'd helped to raise from the egg to being dispatched made me appreciate the food that was on my plate. If I hadn't have been able to eat it, then how could I truly have justified eating any other meat? After all, the animals at Newhouse Farm have the best possible living conditions, and I knew that the meat I'd just eaten came from a duck that had been running happily around outside less than 24 hours previously. What's more, I'd definitely do the whole process again. It's fascinating how quickly the duck went from being a living animal to a dead animal, to a carcass, and then to being meat, with a bit of a biology lesson thrown in for good measure. The only thing I don't want to do is the actual killing bit: I'm worried that because I'd be nervous and upset about it I'd actually end up causing the animal more pain by doing it incorrectly. But then again I did say that I wasn't going to watch the duck be killed, so you never know... I may change my mind!

D Day for a Duck

2009-08-27T15:21:00.011+01:00

Earlier this year in April I incubated and hatched 3 Indian Runner ducks at Newhouse Farm. When they first emerged out of their shells they were vulnerable, weak and struggled to live, but they managed to survive and turned into adorable fluffy ducklings that I could nestle in the palm of my hand. As the ducklings grew they moved in with 4 chicks that I'd also successfully incubated, and these unlikely housemates lived together contentedly until the ducklings grew big enough to move into the duck and geese enclosure at the farm.

The ducklings soon adapted to their new surroundings and quickly learnt to copy the behaviour of the adult male Indian Runner duck, Marlon, following him around wherever he went like 3 brown shadows. Marlon's style of behaviour is akin to the playground bully, running around, making lots of noise and picking on anything smaller than him, but running away when anything bigger than him comes near. It seemed that all 3 ducklings were males, so inevitably their instinct kicked in and they not only copied Marlon's aggressive behaviour but tripled it. The older they grew the more aggressive they became, terrorising the peaceful inhabitants of the duck and goose area with their nasty behaviour. Long gone were the sweet little fluffy creatures I'd once carefully nurtured.

The Indian Runner ducks favourite victims were Nigel and his son Mork, the 2 male Muscovy ducks. They'd chase Nigel and Mork relentlessly until they caught one of them, pinned them down and pull viciously at their feathers. For several weeks Nigel and Mork seemed to tolerate being picked on by the Indian Runner ducks, but then it all just got too much for Nigel. He'd arrived at the farm from the RSPCA, who'd rescued him from the side of a pond where he'd been sitting in the same spot for days, apparently suffering from depression. At the farm a couple of girlfriends had boosted Nigel's spirits, and he liked nothing more than to while away the hours basking in the sunshine. But this constant bullying from the Indian Runner ducks had pushed him over the edge. One morning when I did the rounds of letting the animals out, Nigel refused to emerge from his house. Instead he remained inside, looking very forlorn, and couldn't even be tempted outside by food.

The decision was made to allow Nigel out of the duck and goose enclosure each morning, meaning that he could live out his old age in peace knowing that he was safely on the other side of the fence from the cruel antics of the Indian Runner ducks. Now each morning Nigel slowly waddles after me as I hold the gate open for him, his arthritic joints causing him a bit of trouble as he hops over the wooden frame that surrounds the gate. Then he spends the rest of the day sitting beneath a tree, hissing from a safe distance as the Indian Runner ducks chase poor Mork around the pond.

But the Indian Runner ducks aren't going to be able to get away with their nasty behaviour for much longer. They, along with geese, turkeys and Muscovy ducklings, have been bred for meat, and their bullying has meant they've become first in line for the chop. I feel a little strange knowing that in a few days something I've helped raise from an egg is about to be killed, even though the Indian Runner ducks have become so mean. But that's the purpose of why they've been raised at the farm, and if they weren't going to be eaten they wouldn't exist at all, as the eggs would never have been incubated. I'm still not sure whether I'm going to be able to watch as Dick wrings their necks, but I'm certainly keen to have a go at plucking them. Nobody picks on Nigel and gets away with it!

Where Has The Summer Gone?

2009-08-27T10:19:00.020+01:00

Unlike this slow worm I discovered by a compost heap that coiled itself tightly around my thumb like an Ouroboros, the month of August seems to have slipped through my fingers and disappeared. The much anticipated heady summer sunshine only briefly showed its face, and instead at Newhouse Farm we've had a summer that's been overshadowed by dampness and grey skies. The disappointing weather seems to have suppressed my energy levels and dampened my spirits, and it feels as if I've been waiting for a summer that's never arrived. In spring the fresh breezes and blissful sunshine made working outside refreshing and enjoyable, but now its so much harder to find enthusiasm for outdoor work when the skies are dull and the mizzle makes everything soggy.

In my old office in London I used to sit at a desk with my back facing a window, oblivious for most of the day as to what the weather in the world behind me was doing. Air conditioning units controlled the temperature and the majority of the light came from strip lighting in the ceiling and the glare of computer screens. My commute to and from work would mean even more time separated from the outside world, hurtling through the tunnels of the Underground. Very often the only time I'd spend outdoors would be as I made the walk from the train station to my flat. London living meant I was distanced from nature: days could easily go by without me being aware of what the weather was doing or how it was affecting my mind and body. But now I live in the countryside and spend so much time working outside I've become much more aware of how the weather affects me. A grey, mizzly day tends to darken my mood, whereas inevitably my spirits lift when the sun bursts through the clouds and the sky turns blue.

Yet the grey clouds don't seem to have stopped the tourists who have descended on Cornwall in droves. You'd think I'd be used to crowds of people having spent so many years living in London, but a recent trip to St Ives reinforced just how much I've become accustomed to a more peaceful existence. The winding streets of the town were bottle-necked with tourists, and walking from one side of St Ives to the other was as exhausting as battling through rush hour on Oxford Street. I sought sanctuary from the masses in a little shop called 'Living Food' which had shelves packed with every possible variety of sprouting seeds. Here I discovered that eating sprouting seeds was very good for you and sprouting them was simple and fun. Inevitably I succumbed to temptation and bought an assortment of sprouting goodies and some packets of raw chocolate (very tasty!), before plunging back into the swarms of tourists in a bid to make my way home.

August has also been a busy time with visitors at the farm. A party of friends came to visit me from London to experience a taste of my new country life, and bringing the fair weather with them to brighten my spirits. Having so many extra hands available James and I couldn't resist testing the mettle of my city friends with a couple of tough and messy jobs. First up was a massive composting mission: all the compost bins at the farm were full to bursting with garden waste, kitchen waste, grass cuttings and plentiful amounts of animal poop. These bins needed to be emptied and their contents thoroughly mixed and turned before putting this fresh mix back into the bins to break down to create good, rich compost. It was a back breaking job that would have taken James and me all day to accomplish, but my friends got stuck in and with their help after half a day the job was done. And a day later this team of friends wielded pick-axes and shovels as we dug a pond for the goslings (now fully grown geese) to bathe in. The goslings, as curious as ever, watched from the sidelines as we took it in turns to smash the earth with pick-axes, discovering a thick layer of clay as we dug downwards.

And finally, August has also been a hectic time with courses at the farm. Dick and James run courses in many aspects of eco-ingenuity, teaching participants how to make their own biodiesel, harness water and wind power, and giving them ideas and information on how to transform their homes into more sustainable environments. Running the courses at the farm involves a fair amount of cooking, so recently I've downed my spade and donned my apron to whip up lots of cakes and cookies to feed the course attendees. If you fancy sampling my baking whilst learning about sustainable living there's still plenty of course dates available: check out the website on this link.

Other things that have been happening throughout August:

Turkeys - are slowly growing, and despite the fact they're quite vulnerable when they're young they are all alive and well. However they're now reluctant to go to bed in the evenings, instead preferring to obstinately sit on their outdoor perch as the light dims whilst I try to shoo them off it into the safety of their turkey house.

Pigs - are eating more and more, and becoming incredibly vocal when their bellies are empty (which according to them is most hours of the day). Their enthusiasm for food led to them taking a bite of my thigh as I attempted to empty their food into their feeder. We've just realised when the time comes to take them to the abbatoir it's going to be quite a mission to get these rowdy creatures into the trailer.

Ducks, Geese & Hens - are down in numbers. A couple of the old ex-battery hens have had their final cluck and given in to old age. The Muscovy ducklings are growing very quickly, and one of them has successfully recuperated from having its foot badly bitten by a goose. For the Indian Runner ducks the clock is ticking... duck is going to be on the menu some time very soon. Besides which we think they deserve it as they've been bullying Nigel so much we've had to let him out of the enclosure to enjoy some peace and quiet.

Waterwheel - has temporarily stopped working. A bolt broke on it a few nights ago, waking us all up at 4am with a strange noise that sounded like a turkey being throttled. It's probably broken due to all the rain we've been having.

Snails - have been well fed. They've eaten most of the broccoli seedlings I planted out, which has made me very annoyed. Snails, be warned, I'll show you no mercy!

PS Thank you to Katie for the photos.

Arrival of the Turkeys

2009-07-31T14:16:00.009+01:00

Last week James and I set off on a mission: we were to drive across the border to Wonnacott organic farm in Devon and collect some new inhabitants for Newhouse Farm - a dozen young turkeys. Turkeys are one type of feathered creature that has been absent since my arrival at Newhouse Farm in February. James told me that each year they buy a dozen young turkeys in the middle of the summer to fatten up for Christmas dinner. July may seem like it's a little early to be thinking about Christmas, but the turkeys need this time in order to grow to an edible size. Not all of the turkeys that are raised at the farm end up on the kitchen table (we may have healthy appetites but we can't quite stretch to gobbling up a dozen roast turkeys!) Instead the remainder are given to family and friends as Christmas presents. An organic free range turkey can cost between £80 to £90, so it makes sense to raise them here at the farm.

As we drove towards Devon to collect the turkeys I received a text message from one of my friends in London. She was just about to return to work for the first time after being on maternity leave for several months, and was feeling a bit gloomy about it. I texted back to tell her about my turkey mission, and smiled as I realised just how strange it sounded. Only a few months ago when I still lived in London I'd have considered collecting turkeys a very unusual way to spend a morning, but now that I'd moved to Cornwall it was just another part of my day to day routine. However it occurred to me that I wasn't quite sure what to expect the turkeys to look like. I'd seen plenty of plucked turkeys in the freezer section of my local supermarket, but I couldn't recollect ever having seen a fully feathered live turkey before.

Wonnacott Farm was in a beautiful area of Devon, which James and I got to know quite well as we took lots of wrong turns as we tried to find it. After several failed excursions up winding lanes, and a few flustered phonecalls, we eventually found the farm where we were greeted enthusiastically by the female farmer Rosie. In the few months that I've lived in Cornwall I've discovered that visiting a farm in order to buy something isn't at all like buying something in a shop in London. On a farm you don't just dash in and dash out: that would be considered the height of rudeness. Instead you spend plenty of time chatting and comparing stories with the farmer, and are often given a tour of the farm to admire the animals that are being raised.

Wonnacott Farm was no different, and Rosie gave us a tour of all the turkeys they kept there. First stop was a very neat and tidy barn where all the young turkeys were running around making delicate cheeping noises. We'd been lucky to be able to buy any turkeys from Rosie as we'd left it a bit late in the season, but fortunately Rosie had incubated an extra batch of eggs so she had just enough young turkeys left to sell us a dozen. The turkeys were small, leggy and covered in tufts of black feathers, which made them look remarkably similar to the black Maran chicks that we'd been raising at the farm. They were a rare breed of turkey called Norfolk Black, which apparently produces a much more flavoursome meat than the usual commercial hybrid varieties, and takes a longer amount of time to grow. These young turkeys hadn't been allowed outside yet, so to make sure they had enough green stuff in their diets Rosie had scattered some docks and nettles across the floor which the turkeys were pecking at greedily.

Next Rosie walked us up to a large field where her breeding stock of adult turkeys were kept, which she called over to us so we could have a closer look. These were Norfolk Blacks in their full glory, and what magnificent and bizarre creatures they were. Their glossy plumage was a rich black, which offset the bright red colour of their heads. The female turkeys had saddles strapped to their backs, which Rosie explained was to protect them from any overly zealous males when they were mating. Apparently turkeys have very sharp talons which can hurt the female turkeys if the stags get too amorous, hence why the females wear saddles all throughout the mating season. The males had strange long dangley bits of flesh that drooped down around their beaks and wobbled whenever they moved. They proudly displayed their tail feathers in an outstretched fan shape, which they moved from side to side like a flamenco dancer, blatantly showing off to the females. All of a sudden the males let rip a loud "Gobblegobblegobblegobble" in perfect unison, with their necks thrust out and their droopy bits of skin flapping. Rosie explained that the male turkeys always gobbled at exactly the same time, no matter how many of them in the flock there were. It was a strange sight to witness, and I couldn't help but giggle.

Now the tour was complete Rosie selected 12 of the younger turkeys for us to take away, and helped James and I put them into a travelling cage we'd brought with us. Some of the turkeys were larger than others, indicating whether they were stags or hens (females), so Rosie made sure that we had a mix of both. James didn't escape this without incident, and ended up with a fresh turkey dropping splattered on his t-shirt. After lifting the turkey cage into the back of the car and saying our goodbyes to Rosie we set off on our return journey to Newhouse Farm, the aroma of turkey poop growing ever stronger as the miles ticked by. The turkeys seemed to be quite unphased by the journey, as they bobbed up and down and swayed from side to side as the car drove along the country lanes in the direction of Cornwall.

Back at Newhouse Farm we introduced the young turkeys to their new home. Preparations had already been made for the new inhabitants: the large turkey shed had been cleaned out and littered with fresh sawdust, and an expansive grassy section outside had been scythed around the perimeter where we had erected an electric poultry fence. Something I didn't realise is that turkeys are actually woodland birds, and very inquisitive, so they require plenty of ground in which to forage and explore. As it was a rainy day it was unsuitable weather for the turkeys to be let outside to explore their run, so we lifted them out their cage and placed them directly into their house, where they calmly examined their new surroundings.

Since then the weather has still been fairly rotten so we've kept the turkeys inside their shed, only allowing them outside for a brief exploration before shooing them back in. The shed has a window on one side and several perches that stretch from one wall to another. Often when I've been to check on the turkeys to make sure they're settling in alright I've found that they've managed to hop onto the perches and have congregated around the window to examine the world outside. Hopefully soon the weather will improve so we can let them explore their new domain to their hearts content. Christmas is still a long way off, and I've got a feeling that over the coming months the turkeys are going to prove very entertaining. Dick has told me that in previous years the turkeys have ended up perching on the aqueduct and on the roof of the barns, so I'm looking forward to seeing what this cheeky dozen will get up to!

If you fancy seeing what our turkeys will look like when they're fully grown, or fancy buying your own organic Christmas turkey, have a look at Rosie's website for Wonnacott Farm.

I Quack Therefore I Am

2009-07-31T08:44:00.009+01:00

A very short post this morning, just to say...

It's the last day of July, and the skies are still grey at Newhouse Farm. Sadly the summer seems to have vanished this year, but there's some inhabitants who don't mind the grey skies at all. I was still bleary eyed from sleep on my early morning round of letting out the animals, but I knew that as soon as the doors to the duck and goose houses were opened in the pond enclosure their excited quacks and honks would drive away the last vestiges of tiredness. Sure enough, as soon as I opened up the door to the Muscovy ducklings' house they all came charging outside to congregate in a feeding frenzy around the food bowl, where they swallowed as many beakfuls as possible before waddling over to the stream for an early morning dip.

But what's this... over by the pond a new sign has been erected. On the front side it reads 'Walden' whilst on the reverse is written "I QUACK THEREFORE I AM." Hmm, it appears the ducks and geese have been at the philosophy books again.

Muscovy Ducklings' Expedition

2009-07-30T15:28:00.010+01:00

On a brighter note from the sad news of the poorly gosling, the muscovy ducklings at Newhouse Farm are doing brilliantly. These ducklings share the same birthday as me, and are clearly being raised with great success by their mother, Mindy. They've grown rapidly over the past few weeks, turning from tiny balls of fluff that could fit in the palm of my hand into tubby energetic bundles that remind me a little of the goslings when they were younger. The ducklings' mischievous antics appear to be giving their mother the run around, as they seem to like nothing better than exploring in places they oughtened to be. This is often the far bank of the stream that borders on the neighbour's garden, or beyond a wooden grill that marks the entrance of the stream into the duck and goose enclosure. The stream beyond the wooden grill has been allowed to become overgrown, to act as a wildlife corridor within the farm. Mindy can't fit through the wooden grill in pursuit of her youngsters, and I've often seen her waiting anxiously beside it as the ducklings explore the mysterious depths of the wilderness stream without her, like miniature Indiana Joneses.

Like a true English summer the weather at the farm during July has mostly been heavy rain and grey skies, but although we've been feeling gloomy that the summer has disappeared this certainly hasn't dampened the spirits of the ducklings. Today they've been entertaining me as they splash around in the stream, on the right side of the wooden grill for once. They started diving below the surface of the stream, swimming swiftly underwater until they bobbed to the surface once more. This may be one of the first times they've tried diving, as one of the ducklings seemed to be so over excited by it that it did a somersault in the water. Once diving practice was over all the ducklings suddenly charged up stream, churning up the water behind them, only to do an about-turn and come charging back again.

James was stood next to me as we watched the duckling's amusing behaviour. He said that they reminded him of being a kid playing in the bath, and I laughed in acknowledgement. Mindy seemed to be exasperated by their behaviour, hopping off the bank and hurrying after them, as if to say "Now, now children, bath time is over, time to get out and dry yourselves". Eventually Mindy had her way, the ducklings stopped splashing around in the stream, and climbed out onto the bank to preen their feathers. Then they all set off in a line towards their duck house, a couple of the ducklings leading the way. "Where are they going?" James asked. "Looks like it's nap time!" I replied. And nap time it seemed to be, as all the ducklings climbed into their house to have a midday rest, whilst James and I returned to our work.

Later on in the day I returned to the duck and goose enclosure during a brief spell of sunshine to try and snap a few photos of the ducklings. I found them back in the stream, clearly refreshed after their nap. They were bobbing around, flapping their webbed feet rapidly to stir up the silt from the stream bed. They seem to all be very fond of this activity, and I'm assuming that this is a method they've developed for trying to catch bugs and worms that live in the silt at the bottom of the stream. The intrusion of my camera disturbed them from their activities for a while, until they started flapping their feet again and stirring up the silt. Eventually the Indian Runner ducks, now fully grown and very bolshie, turned up to spoil the ducklings fun. The ducklings have learnt to keep away from the Indian Runner ducks who, like the playground bully, like nothing more than throwing their weight around to show who's boss. Instead the ducklings sedately swam through the wooden grill and headed towards the darkness of the forbidden wildlife stream... time for another duckling expedition, no matter how many times Mindy quacked in protest. Poor Mindy, it must be tough being mother to seven naughty ducklings!

I'll keep you posted on the ducklings as they continue to grow.

An Appointment For 'Goose'

2009-07-30T13:09:00.009+01:00

My new life in rural Cornwall isn't always a walk in the park. Swapping the stresses of city living for the tranquility of the 'good life' at Newhouse Farm has many upsides, and my days are now filled with tending to livestock and nurturing plants and vegetables rather than typing documents in an office in central London. But the downsides of living closer to nature keep taking me by surprise. I knew how to handle the difficulties of life in the city: I'd spent many years hardening myself to the aggressiveness, the weirdos, and the strain of living alongside London's 10 million other inhabitants. After a decade in London I felt like I'd mastered it on my own terms. I'd found a path for myself amidst the chaos, took great satisfaction in having memorised a majority of the bus and tube routes, and although I didn't like many of the negative aspects of living in a busy urban environment I'd become hardened to it.

But since I decided to escape the city and move to the countryside I've found myself at the bottom of a steep learning curve again. Sure, I know how to deal with an Underground tube crammed with angry rush hour commuters, but what use does that do me in Cornwall?! It certainly doesn't help me with nurturing a poorly goose. As I mentioned in an earlier post, one of the 7 goslings I've been responsible for raising at the farm had become ill. She was barely eating and had lost weight, her eyes were dull and half closed, she couldn't hold her neck up straight, and her wings had drooped by her sides. But despite her mysterious ailments she was still walking around, trying to keep up with her siblings as they walked and squawked around the goose enclosure, which I took to be a good sign. I was told that normally a sick animal would be picked on by it's other companions, but in the case of the goslings this was quite the opposite. They seemed to be careful around her, never pushing her out of the way when she stood quietly dozing by the water trough, or pecking her when she tried to follow them.

I'd been hopeful that given a bit of time the poorly gosling might pull through. We had no idea what was causing her illness, and it certainly didn't appear to be contagious as the other goslings were clearly their usual raucous selves. So I did all I could and made sure that they had plenty of clean bedding, fresh water, and enough food to try and entice the poorly gosling to eat something and return to health. As the goslings were being kept as a source of food rather than as pets I knew it didn't make sense to take a poorly one to the vets. I've known from years of having dogs in the family that veterinary bills can be sky high, even for simple procedures, and if the goose needed an operation it would make more sense to put her out of her misery at the farm rather than to foot the bills. It's the harsh reality of living on a smallholding: where there's livestock, there's deadstock. Nature would take it's own course and decide the gosling's fate, and I must try to leave the goslings to their own devices and not to fret about them.

But that was easier said than done and every now and again I'd find myself skulking by the corner of the farmhouse next to the goose enclosure, from which I could observe the goslings without them spotting me. From this secret vantage point I kept tabs on the poorly gosling, and gained hope as I saw her begin to peck at the corn and tentatively start to eat again. Now her appetite was creeping back this surely meant she was on the road to recovery. I remained hopeful she'd pull through, yet despite the increase in her food intake and my positive thinking her symptoms didn't seem to be improving. Now when she honked she made a phlegmy gurgling noise in her throat, as if she had a heavy cold. What's more it appeared as if the crop at the bottom of her neck was becoming swollen.

Finally, on a wet and gloomy Monday morning in the middle of July, the day of reckoning arrived for the poorly gosling. I'd been covertly watching her from behind the patio doors of the office at the farmhouse, and became very concerned by what I saw. Rather than attempting to follow her siblings around the goose enclosure, she was sitting huddled by the water trough, with her eyes closed as the wind riffled through her feathers. As I watched her I felt an overwhelming feeling of sadness: I didn't know what was wrong with her, or what I could do to 'fix' her. I knew in my head that it was probably time for her to be dispatched, which is the phrase used at the farm when an animal is going to be killed. But in my heart I wanted so badly for her to get better, and I couldn't help imagining her making a miraculous recovery and running around with her siblings again. Maybe then I could keep her as a pet, and save her from the fate that awaited her siblings. The more I indulged the feelings in my heart, the sadder I became about the reality of the situation I saw outside the window, until I hurried upstairs and in the privacy of my room burst into tears.

I felt embarrassed about sobbing over a goose, but I couldn't stop crying. I was supposed to be keeping myself stoical about why I was raising the geese at the farm: they weren't pets, but animals who were destined for the plate. We were allowing them to live in the best possible conditions, with lots of fresh grass to roam on and a comfy, safe place to sleep, but ultimately one day they'd be dispatched and we'd sit around the kitchen table and enjoy a delicious meal of roast goose. But it seemed I'd been deceiving myself, as I'd grown very fond of the geese, and now I couldn't bear to see one of them suffering. I dried my eyes and hung on to one last ray of hope: what if I took the poorly goose to the vets?

I went downstairs and rang the local veterinary centre , unsure of whether they'd even be able to treat a goose. A nurse picked up the receiver and answered in warm tones, "Yes, indeed we do treat geese. How about an appointment at 5.30pm?" The nurse started to take my details: "Your name? Phone number? What's the name of the goose?" This last question took me completely by surprise. I had made a firm decision not to name the goslings, or any of the other chicks or ducklings I'd incubated, as this was a big step towards personalising them and transforming them into pets. So, with a lump in my throat, I replied "She doesn't have a name. Just Goose." "Very well then," the nurse said, "we'll see you both this afternoon."

I hung up the phone and took some comfort from the question the nurse had asked me so matter-of-factly: what was the goose's name. I realised that I mustn't be alone in shedding tears over a goose. There must be countless other people dotted around Cornwall who have taken their geese to the vets, and who have clearly given them names and treated them much more like pets than I had allowed myself to do. Maybe I wasn't so soft and pathetic after all. But as I returned to the office to look out the window at the gosling my heart sank again as reality hit me. Nature had taken its course and she was clearly on her last legs: a trip to the vets wasn't going to make her any better. I was going to have to let go of that hope of her making a miraculous recovery. The kindest thing to do was to quickly put her out of her suffering.

I knew all this was for the best, but I still felt desperately sad and couldn't seem to gain control of my feelings. Up until this point I'd managed to hide my emotions from everyone, not wanting them to know that this former city girl was feeling sentimental over a mere goose. But now I confessed all the thoughts I'd been having to James, and he gave me a big hug and went to speak to Dick about it. Whilst I dried my eyes again, Dick had been to examine the poorly gosling. On his return he confirmed my belief that the gosling was too far gone to help her. We talked the matter through, and he explained that the kindest thing to do would be to dispatch her in the familiar surroundings of the farm, rather than submit her to the stress of driving in a car to the unfamiliar environment of the vets, where they most likely would decide to put her down. Dick suggested that I should accompany James and his mum Brigit to Truro, where we would do some shopping for James's sister Charlotte's birthday, which was the following day. Whilst we were gone Dick would take care of the gosling. I agreed that this sounded like a good plan, and Dick gave me a big hug.

As James, Brigit and I set off from the farm I felt a weight leave my shoulders: the decision had been made and I knew in my heart it was the right one. The worst thing for the gosling would have been to prolong her suffering, or cause her more distress. I'd previously been told what the method was for dispatching ducks and geese at the farm, and I knew that it would be swift and humane. The only thing I felt a little bad about was that I wasn't going to be there to see it through to the end. I feel that the process of ending the life of the ducks, geese and hens at the farm is something that I should witness at the very least, even if I'm not willing or able to do it with my own hands. After all it's the reality of eating meat, and I want to be a part of every bit of the process, from incubating and raising to dispatching and eating. But with the case of the poorly gosling we'd decided that it was probably for the best that I wasn't there when it happened... after all I'd already been upset enough that morning and now wasn't really the right time for me to witness the dispatching method.

Whilst we were shopping in Truro I dialled the number for the vets once again to cancel the appointment. This time a male voice answered the phone, and I gave him my name and said I needed to cancel the appointment. "Erm", he said, "I can't seem to find it." I thought for a moment and then offered "The appointment might be under the name of 'Goose'". "Ah yes" he said cheerily, "Got it. So I take it your goose is up and about and feeling better then?" "No, quite the opposite" I said stoically, "the goose is no more." After I hung up the phone I looked round at James and Brigit who'd overheard the conversation, and we all started giggling. Then we hit the shops and as we searched for presents for Charlotte's birthday, and I started to feel much better. Shopping as a cure for stress... maybe life in Cornwall isn't that far from life in London after all!

As a footnote to this story I'd like to point out what Dick did whilst James, Brigit and I were shopping in Truro. He and Steve, who works at the farm and has kept many ducks, geese, and hens over the years, set about the task of dispatching the poorly gosling. I'll talk about the usual method in another post, as I think it's a very important, although unpleasant, aspect of living on a smallholding in the countryside. Dick told me that the gosling was very weak, and didn't need the usual method of dispatching, and she passed away quickly and with no distress. Her gullet was full of corn, so it seems likely that she had an obstruction which was preventing her from digesting food. Geese eat pretty much anything they can lay their beaks on, whether it's digestable or not. We'd suspected this might be the case from the offset of her symptoms, and it reinforced that not taking her to the vets was the right decision to have made, as it would have been impossible to treat her without a major operation.

I'm sure not everyone who reads this will consider that we did the right thing. But I think, no matter what your opinion, that it's worthwhile considering the usual treatment of animals for food production in the UK and other countries. Sadly only a handful of animals get to live the free range, organic lifestyle of the geese, hens, ducks and pigs at Newhouse Farm. Fortunately more and more media attention is being shone on the terrible conditions that battery hens, or force fed geese, or pigs bred inhumanely for cheap pork have to live in. But the harsh truth is that it's just so easy to turn a blind eye, especially when we live far away from nature in the city, as I used to do. For me I still feel sad that the gosling didn't survive, and that the rest of them will one day end up as dinner, but at least I know that I've helped to raise them in the best possible environment and that up until the very last moment they've led a great life.

PS Thanks to everyone who wrote comments for the poorly gosling post, they were much appreciated.

PPS I suspect the other goslings missed their poorly sibling for the first couple of days. They hissed at me when I returned from Truro, and then were more awkward than usual about going to bed. But now they've returned to their usual comical behaviour, and seem to be making even more noise to accommodate for the fact that they are one less.

Pigs Need Space!

2009-07-28T18:55:00.020+01:00

"Give me land, lots of land, under starry skies above... don't fence me in."

In the middle of June we bought a couple of weaners for Newhouse Farm, young pigs that we were going to fatten up in order to provide us with delicious 'home-made' pork. As the pigs were only small when they arrived, we gave them a small section of the top paddock that we'd allowed to grow wild. A month and a bit later the pigs have completely transformed this area by turning it from tall grasses and weeds into an cleared area of churned mud. Fuelled by a tremendous appetite the pigs have made excellent rotivators, and wasted no time in rooting through the earth for every root and shoot they could lay their teeth on.

It's a well known fact that pigs like to eat a lot, after all that's how the terminology 'pig' or 'pig out' has entered our vernacular to describe someone who eats too much. But the Newhouse Farm pigs have surpassed my expectations with their eagerness to eat, and they certainly let me know when they're feeling peckish. Every morning and evening they get fed a bowlful of organic feed, and the pigs seem to look forward to their meal times with baited breath and pent up excitement. They'll start squealing with glee as soon as they see me nearing their enclosure, and go positively apoplectic if I take too long getting their food out of the barrel.

Now that the pigs have grown much bigger, their over enthusiasm at meal times has become a more than a little intimidating. Give them half a chance and they'll have me backed against the electric fence, slobbering their frothy spittle up my leg in an attempt to gnaw my knee. Which is why I've developed the 'drop and distract' technique for getting in and out of the pig enclosure without them mistaking me for an appetiser. Now when I stand at the edge of their enclosure with a bowlful of food and my ears deafened by their high pitched squealing, I take a handful of the pellets, make sure they're watching me, and then drop the handful to one side. It works a treat every time, as the pigs can't resist taking the bait and gobbling up the dropped food. This allows me a window of opportunity to hop over the electric fence and scamper across their enclosure in the direction of the trough, often with the pigs hot on my heels. Once I've made it to the trough I scatter their food along it and stand back quickly as the pigs ram their heads in and start feeding, emitting muffled oinks of pleasure. Once they're engrossed in their food I give each of the pigs a good scratch on the back to make sure they're accustomed to being handled by humans, and then leave them to munch in peace.

The pigs don't just eat the pellets they get fed each morning and evening and the plants that grow in their enclosure. Their diet is also substituted by fresh snacks from the garden. The pig enclosure runs alongside the vegetable beds in the top paddock, so all the weeds that we pull out of the vegetable beds get thrown to the pigs, rather than being put on the compost heap. Because of this the pigs love it when we are working in the top paddock, and will come charging over as soon as they see us nearing the electric fence with a bucket full of weeds. We also grow some vegetables specifically to substitute the pigs diet, such as turnips. I'm not too fond of turnips, but the pigs adore them, sometimes a little too much. The other day Dick went to feed the pigs some turnips he'd pulled out of the ground for them as a special treat. Sadly I wasn't there to witness what happened, but Dick returned from the pig enclosure looking a little shaken. Apparently the pigs had become so over-excited about the prospect of a turnip treat that they'd chased Dick around the pig enclosure, squealing at him like Hannibal Lecter, and giving him quite a shock!

To satisfy their voracious appetites and give them more room to stretch their legs it was time to give the pigs more space to rotivate. This meant that we needed to extend the area we'd originally given them by lengthening the electric fence to incorporate a larger section of wild grasses and tall weeds adjacent to their pen. The only problem was that because of the nature of this particular electric fence, we'd have to unwind it from around the pig enclosure before we could extend it, meaning that the pigs might be able to get out. The pig enclosure is right next to the vegetable beds that we've spent months slaving over, and I could well believe that the pigs would like nothing better than to rampage through the beds eating every vegetable in sight given half the opportunity.

The pigs were very curious to begin with as to what we were up to, trotting around the enclosure after Dick as he tried to unravel the fence. But after some time their interest in the electric fence activities wore off, and they looked around for another source of amusement. The pig enclosure had in parts become quite a mud bath, and the area around the drinking bowl had turned into thick and oozing wallow. The pigs squelched into the wallow, blowing bubbles in the mud with their noses, before flopping onto their sides to bathe in the mud. Fortunately they became so engrossed in their wallowing that they didn't even contemplate trying to escape and wreak havoc amidst the vegetable beds. It's a misconception that pigs are dirty creatures, in fact the reason they like to smother themselves in mud is that it's a way of cooling down and protecting their skin from the sun. I've heard that some people actually rub sunscreen onto their pigs to stop them from burning, but I've never quite had the nerve to try that with these pigs. Besides which, the pigs seem to be more than happy applying their own muddy variety of sunscreen to their backs and bottom without me attempting to smother them in factor 25.

Eventually the expanded section of electric fencing was complete, and we called the pigs over to explore their new domain. The pigs seemed to be delighted by this new expanse of wilderness, and quickly disappeared from sight amidst the docks and grasses which towered above them. Soon nothing could be seen of the pigs except for patches of the tall weeds that swayed as they pushed their way through, crunching on snails that had until now used this expanse of wilderness as a hideout. Seeing the pigs frolicking through the greenery, I couldn't help but think about how the majority of pigs destined to become pork aren't so lucky. The demand for cheap meat means that many pigs are intensively farmed, often in cramped pens with concrete floors. No room to move about, let alone satisfy their need to wallow or root through the earth. What's more, it's very confusing for consumers who want to by humanely reared pork, as I found when I tried to buy some bacon recently from the supermarket. There was no clear labelling to tell me which country the pork had originated from, or how it had been treated, and when I returned home I realised that I'd bought the wrong one. Because of this I've decided to join the RSPCA 'Rooting for Pigs' campaign which is calling for clear and consistent labelling on pork products and a better law to protect pig welfare. If you fancy rooting out some more information on it yourself, follow this link.

I may find the pigs at Newhouse Farm a little intimidating when they're hungry, but I wouldn't want them to be anywhere else. Oink.

Poorly Gosling

2009-07-18T16:48:00.014+01:00

Those of you who have been following my blog for some time might be aware that I've become rather fond of geese! My first introduction to the geese at Newhouse Farm wasn't too pleasant: a few weeks after I moved to the farm the gander (male goose) cornered me behind a wheelbarrow and took a nasty nip at my thigh. But since then I've incubated, hatched and raised a gaggle of 7 goslings, and thanks to this experience they've become one of my favourite types of animal. They're curious, comical and clumsy, and their antics have kept me perpetually entertained. Even though they are now fully grown I still can't help but refer to them as 'the goslings', rather like a parent who still refers to their adult children as 'the kids'.

The goslings live on a large grassy slope next to the farmhouse, and sleep in a wooden hut that we've called 'The Hollies'. Because of their close proximity to the farmhouse we're around them every day, and consequently the goslings are very used to people. Whenever I pass by their enclosure I'll stop to say a quick hello (which in gosling language sounds like a series of high pitched cheeps!) and they'll run over to meet me and cackle and cheep back. It never fails to make me giggle when I see the goslings running around excitedly, wings outstretched and honking loudly, until one of them trips over its own feet or stumbles over the food bowl. Also whenever I'm working in the medicinal garden or geodesic dome, which is adjacent to their enclosure, I can guarantee that the goslings won't be able to resist sneaking up behind me trying to get a look at what I'm doing.

But as adorable as they can be, I have to keep reminding myself that these animals are not pets, they are in fact destined for the plate. Now that the goslings are fully grown they're ready to be eaten, and it won't be long before Dick and James decide that they'd like to have goose for their dinner. In fact 2 of the goslings were meant to have been killed for the Fijians' visit on my birthday, but luckily for the goslings (and for me) James and Dick were so busy they didn't get around to organising it. I've got to admit that I was more than happy that all the goslings survived the celebrations at the farm, as I didn't really like the idea of having geese killed on my birthday! But even so, it's a reality of farm life I've got to keep myself stoical about.

However despite having survived the Fijians' visit, life for one of the goslings was still hanging in the balance. I began to notice that one of them wasn't as active as usual, preferring to lag behind whilst the other goslings charged excitedly around their enclosure. Then one day in early July I realised that this gosling actually seemed to be ill: her eyes were dull and only half open, she wasn't eating and had lost some weight, her walk had become slow and awkward, she didn't seem to have the energy to hold her neck upright, and her wings weren't folded neatly on her back but instead drooped a bit by her sides. I called Dick over to have a look at her, and he agreed that she didn't look too good. I picked her up and sat her on my knee so that Dick could give her a thorough examination. He checked her legs and wings, feld around her neck and spine, and opened up her mouth to see if she had any obstructions in her throat. It was possible that she might have injured a limb, or eaten something that was bad for her. But all appeared to be fine, so we gave her a few drops of Bach's Rescue Remedy for good luck, and the mystery of her illness continued.

After spending an hour Googling goose illnesses and getting nowhere, I decided to send a cry for help email to Paul the pig breeder. Paul was the son of the lady who we bought the pigs from in June, and I recollected that he was an expert on poultry as he bred speciality chickens and bantams. Out of all the contacts in my inbox, Paul was the only person I thought might have an inkling of how to treat a poorly goose. After all, most of my other contacts were my friends from London who would be hard pressed to offer up goose related advice! Paul suggested that I try to get the poorly gosling to eat some porridge spiced with extra vitamins. It was worth a shot. "Hmmph" I thought, as I stirred a pan of porridge in the kitchen, "I never thought I'd find myself cooking for a goose!"

I took the porridge out to the goslings' enclosure and called them over whilst I spooned it into their feeder. It smelt ok, it even tasted ok, but the goslings weren't convinced. After coming closer to inspect the strange globby stuff I'd brought for them, they backed away from it as if they were scared it would bite them. Surely my cooking wasn't that bad?! But as the day drew on I noticed that beak marks began to appear in the, now cold, porridge, and by the following afternoon it had disappeared. But still the poorly gosling seemed to be no better. She was hanging in there, but how much longer she'd be able to battle off her illness was uncertain.

The latest news on the gosling is she's still alive. She certainly isn't out of the woods yet, but her appetite seems to have returned a little as I've seen her tentatively eating some corn. She's still underweight and disinterested in running around with the others, but I'm sure she looks a little better than she did before... or maybe that's just wishful thinking on my part. I'm not sure what else we can do for her apart from making sure she has plenty of fresh water, food and dry bedding. I'll keep you posted on her progress, but in the meantime if any of you have any experience or tips of how to deal with poorly geese it'd be great to hear from you. Fingers crossed she'll pull through.

PS Thanks to our Wwoofer Elaine for the picture of me nursing the goose. Elaine and her brother Ian came to volunteer at the farm for a week, and whilst they were here Elaine created some amusing videos of the goslings, amongst other activities they got up to at the farm. If you'd like to see the goslings in action, check out the link here.

A Birthday Surprise

2009-07-02T12:40:00.022+01:00

It's officially summertime at Newhouse Farm, which means that it's also birthday time, first James' and then mine a couple of days later. Last year I celebrated my birthday with my friends in a local pub near my home in London. If someone had mentioned to me then that on my following birthday I'd be living in Cornwall surrounded by a group of singing Fijians I'd never have believed them. But this is precisely what happened...

James had spent 4 months living on an island in Fiji as a sustainability manager for an organisation called Tribewanted. It sounds like he had an amazing experience, and I've heard many tales of the Fijians' humour and hospitality during his stay. Now it was time for James to return the hospitality, as 5 of the Fijians were coming to England as part of an organised Tribewanted trip, and were due to visit Newhouse Farm on my birthday. For most of the Fijians this was going to be their first visit away from home, and I wondered just what they would make of their unfamiliar surroundings.

As evening approached at the farm the Fijians arrived, with cries of "Bula!" as they greeted James with enthusiastic hugs. Then it was my turn to be introduced to all of them, first Tevita, then Marau, Api, Leavi, and Tale (the youngest and James' closest friend from Fiji). To my surprise they seemed remarkably unphased by their unusual surroundings. Shortly after the group arrived everyone promptly sat down outside, guitars and ukeleles were produced, and the soft sound of Fijian singing began. I couldn't understand what the words were but the harmonies they sang sounded beautiful, and it was soon explained to me that most of the songs were about love that was too late.

After some time Tevita and the other Fijians disappeared inside, only to reappear moments later following James who was holding aloft a birthday cake. James lead the Fijians across the garden as they sang Happy Birthday, followed by a rendition of the Fijian version of the song: Happy Long Life. Then James presented me with my birthday cake: a chocolate fudge cake made from my grandmother's secret recipe and the very first cake he'd ever made!

Some time later James and I took the Fijians on a tour around the farm. We showed them the wind turbines and the solar panels, the pigs and the poultry, but they seemed particularly taken by the geese and the (now fully grown) goslings. Apparently they don't have any geese in Fiji, so my noisy goslings were quite a surprise for them. But the next surprise was on me as James and I walked through the duck and goose area. As I walked beside the pond I saw a bundle of yellow and brown fur at my feet. It took me a few moments to register what I was seeing, until I let out a whoop of glee as I realised what it was... one of the female Muscovy ducks with 7 newly hatched ducklings!

I couldn't believe the timing of the ducklings arrival... my birthday! The female Muscovy duck, Mindy, was very motherly and protective of her new ducklings, who were cheeping away and looking at their new surroundings, whilst staying huddled close to their mum. I thought the goslings were cute when they hatched earlier this year, but now I realised I'd never seen anything quite as adorable as a Muscovy duckling. 5 of them had a unique combination of yellow and brown markings, whilst the other two were yellow with blotches of grey. One of them looked especially funny as it had a brown marking enveloping the top of its head that looked like a superheroes' mask.

As I watched, the mother Muscovy led the ducklings into the pond for what I should imagine would have been their first swim. They took to the water without any fuss, and immediately started paddling around, pecking at anything which caught their interest. I was so impressed that Mindy had managed to successfully hatch 7 eggs - this was the same number of goose eggs that I'd successfully managed to incubate and hatch earlier in the year. I walked over to the Muscovy ducks house and peered inside. In the back corner I could see a feather lined nest, with egg shells scattered about the rim. Then over to the left of the nest I saw a sad sight, another yellow duckling that was still alive but obviously not for much longer. It's head was lolling on its back and it was clearly unable to stand up. It was such a pity, but I made the decision to leave it where it was and not interfere to try and save it. These Muscovy ducklings had been hatched naturally by their mother, and she had obviously made the decision that this duckling wasn't going to survive. Had I been incubating it I'd probably have tried to save it with Rescue Remedy, but nature knows best and can often be cruel, so I stepped away from the Muscovy house and returned to look at the ducklings.

The ducklings were paddling down the stream, never straying too far away from their mother, who every now and then would emit a sharp "Peep" to call a stray duckling back to her. After watching them for a while longer I let them be, and returned to the birthday celebrations, thinking that this was probably one of the best birthday presents I could ever have wished for! I'll keep you posted on the duckling's progress over the next few weeks.

A Beautiful Evening in June

2009-06-23T22:00:00.010+01:00

A question I get asked a lot since my move to Newhouse Farm in Cornwall is whether I miss London. Do I ever find myself yearning for the fast-paced lifestyle of the city, or the whirlwind of activity that was my old routine. The answer, quite simply, is no.

My adult life had been spent learning the ins and outs of city living, creating a home for myself amongst the chaos. Although I'd grown up in the countryside and loved being surrounded by nature, in London I felt a tantalising sense of freedom. This was a place that fed my impulsive appetite: in theory I could do anything I wanted whenever I wanted to. Could I imagine moving back to the countryside and a slower pace of life? No way!

But life is full of unpredictable twists and turns. After 10 years of battling it out in London the city had lost its charm. I was suffering from city fatigue syndrome: what used to be exciting now made me feel stressed and weary. A change of lifestyle was necessary, so when the opportunity came to move to Cornwall there wasn't a doubt in my mind. And here I am: 5 months down the line and I've barely looked back. Where once working in an office used to be my daily routine, nowadays weeding vegetable plots and chasing escapee chickens has become my normality.

So, no, I don't miss London. A new chapter in my life has started and the city is a thing of the past. Admittedly this new life involves dealing with an awful lot of smelly poo (of the duck, hen and goose variety I hasten to add) but I don't care! And on an evening such as this one in late June why would I want to be anywhere else? In a clear blue sky the heavy sun was bathing the farm in an orange glow. The turbines were at rest as the air was completely still, and the only noise was that of Mike the neighbouring farmer harvesting grass in the field behind the farm. The goslings seemed to be infused by the heady warmth, wandering slowly around and relaxing in the sunshine. And as for me, I sat outside until late into the evening enjoying the stillness and warmth. Would I swap Cornwall for London? I don't think so!

The Wild Swarm

2009-06-22T15:55:00.011+01:00

Since I moved to Newhouse Farm in February, hangovers have been a thing of the past because I decided to join James in giving up alcohol for several months. The aim was to be tee total until James' birthday at the end of June when we would celebrate our good behaviour with an alcoholic drink or two. However an unexpected reason for celebration, which must remain secret for the time being, meant that we returned to the world of alcohol slightly earlier than expected. It was with glee that I slurped a glass of bubbling booze for the first time in several months. And it was with remorse that I woke up the following morning with a fuzzy head and a dodgy tummy. Hangovers aren't pleasant, even at the best of times. But if I thought that I was going to be able to spend the day nursing my sore head in front of the telly, I had another thing coming. In the shadowy depths of a lane in Cornwall something was buzzing...

On the day following our celebratory drinking session the phone rang at Newhouse Farm. It was John, a local beekeeper, who told James that there was a wild swarm of bees in the lane behind his house. If we wanted these bees we should come and capture them before they moved on elsewhere. Since I've been living in Cornwall I've learnt that 2008 was a very bad year for bees all across Britain, with 30% of bee colonies being wiped out. This had certainly been felt at the farm as 3 of the hives hadn't survived the winter. So an opportunity to capture a wild swarm of bees to populate one of the empty hives at the farm was too good to miss, hangover or no hangover.

Dick was away on business, so it was up to James and I to capture the bees. We donned our white protective bee suits and dark visors, grabbed a tall ladder, and walked through the village to meet beekeeper John, looking like extras out of a sci-fi movie. I'd never seen a wild swarm of bees before, and I couldn't help but feel a growing sense of fear as we walked, as images of killer bees and angry swarms kept springing to mind. Could this thin white suit really be enough to protect me from a swarm of angry bees?! When we met John he pointed up into the branches of a tree overhanging the lane, and there they were, hundreds of bees clumped together, weighing down one of the branches like a large exotic fruit. I could hear them quietly humming away, and I noticed that we all started speaking softly and moving carefully so as not to disturb them.

Apparently contrary to popular opinion wild swarms of bees are actually fairly docile, because the bees are stuffed with honey. The swarm is looking for a new home, so the bees have bellies full of honey to sustain them for their journey. Bees filled with honey are less likely to sting, so even though this swarm looked intimidating there was no need for me to be concerned... or at least that's what I tried to convince myself! I'd never been stung by a bee, and I didn't intend to break that record this evening.

James told me that the key to working with bees is to keep as relaxed as possible. So I watched as James and John calmly made their preparations beneath the swarm. John assembled an empty hive to put the swarm in so we could transport it to the farm, whilst James erected the ladder beneath the swarm. John slowly climbed the ladder until his head was almost alongside the mass of bees. He took out his secateurs and started cutting at the branch that supported the swarm, with the intention of taking this branch and shaking the bees into the empty hive.

It was all going along with grace and ease until a clump of bees fell to the floor. BUZZZZZ! The clump that fell to the floor immediately swarmed into the air, emitting an unbelievable buzzing sound. They flew all over the place, and I saw them crawling all over James' bee-suit and across the visor of mine. "Just keep still and be calm!" I thought, noting how John and James had calmly continued their work as if nothing untoward had happened. The main clump of bees had remained in the tree, and John had managed to cut off a branch on which many of them had gathered. He climbed down the ladder, holding the branch and then shook it vigorously over the empty hive. The bees fell inside: some took to the air, whilst hundreds of others started climbing the walls of the hive. John explained that if the queen was inside the hive eventually the other bees would come inside and join her. If not, they'd return to the tree.

During the next half an hour John and James continued to collect the remaining bees from the branch of the tree. It seemed likely that the queen probably was inside the hive, because more and more bees began to collect around the entrance and go inside. James explained that the bees inside the hive would be communicating with the bees outside the hive, sending signals from their bottoms to indicate where the queen was and therefore to join them. Gradually the number of bees flying around began to diminish, and I was relieved to see that fewer and fewer bees crawled over our bee-suits. John and James placed the lid on top of the hive, and placed the remaining clumps of bees from the tree that they'd collected in a cardboard box at the entrance to it.

Finally, to my relief, the job was done. John said that he'd leave the bees to settle down over night, and then transport them to their new home at the farm in the morning. James and I folded up the ladder and set off back through the village towards the farm. It was absolutely fascinating, and more than a little intimidating, to see the wild swarm be captured... but as interesting as bees undoubtedly were I'd had just about as much as I could take on my first hangover for 5 months! These bees have now been successfully introduced to one of the empty hives at the farm, and it's wonderful to see them hard at work buzzing around the garden. Hopefully their colony will survive and it won't be too long before I can smother my toast with homemade honey!

Hangover Remedy
Earlier this year I helped to create a medicinal garden at Newhouse Farm. Over the past few months I've been growing medicinal plants to add to this garden, with the intention that we'll be able to experiment with plant remedies in order to treat common ailments. The medicinal garden is split into 6 different 'ailment beds', such as coughs & colds, bites & stings, headaches, and so on. One of the beds is dedicated to hangovers and energy restoratives, and it was my intention to create a hangover remedy ready for when James and I started drinking alcohol again. Unfortunately, due to us returning to the world of alcohol a little earlier than expected, I hadn't prepared my hangover remedy in time. So instead I thought I'd share with you this hangover remedy created by a blog reader called Maddy Jones. I haven't had chance to try this out yet, but according to Maddy it's the definitive hangover cure. Many thanks Maddy... I'm sure I'll be needing to try it out again!

Maddy's Definitive Hangover Cure:
2 tablespoons of grated ginger squeezed over a cup of boiling water
1 teaspoon of fennel seeds
1 teaspoon of milk thistle seeds
1 teaspoon of yarrow seeds
A handful of crushed peppermint and horsemint leaves
Squeeze of lemon
1 teaspoon of honey

The seeds can be put in a little muslin bag if you don't fancy having chewy bits floating around in your tea... certainly not a good idea if your tummy is feeling a bit delicate after the night before!

The Mystery of the Disappearing Eggs

2009-06-17T16:05:00.011+01:00

This is actually a post from May, but I've been so busy outside I've only just got around to writing it.

William the cockerel rules the roost over an assorted flock of chickens at Newhouse Farm. There are rescued ex-battery hens from the Battery Hen Welfare Trust, a Maran hen called Harriet, a couple of Light Sussex hens we recently won from a poultry auction, and 3 Buff Orpingtons, whose long fluffy feathers make them look as if they're wearing heavy frocks. These hens usually provide us daily with more eggs than we could possibly eat: Spanish omelette, egg mayonaise sandwiches and the Strawbridge favourite 'egg-in-a-cup' are often on the menu.

But in May a strange phenomenon occurred. The eggs disappeared! During the morning round of feeding the animals and letting them out we would usually open up the chicken nestboxes to find several warm freshly laid eggs nestled in the straw. But by the end of May the number of eggs in the nest boxes rapidly dwindled, until the only eggs on the egg rack by the back door were the pale blue Indian Runner duck eggs. The hens were perfectly healthy, so their eggs must be somewhere... but where could they be?

Someone had to assume the role of Egg Detective and solve the mystery of the disappearing eggs, and guess who eagerly stepped up to the mark... me! My first lead in the case was to be found residing in one of the next boxes, one of the Buff Orpington hens. The 3 Buff Orpingtons had gone broody at the same time, which means they'd been consumed by an overwhelming desire to sit on eggs. We'd taken 2 of the broody Buffs out of the main chicken house and put them in a seperate run in order that they could sit on some Maran eggs we wanted to incubate. But the third Buff had been left to her own devices in the main chicken house. It seems this Buff had been sitting in the nest box all day long, scaring away any other hens that attempted to squeeze in beside her to lay an egg.

So, I'd discovered the motive behind why the eggs had gone missing, now I just need to find out where the hens had been laying them. The chickens are allowed a large area of open ground and willow plantation to run around in and scratch for bugs and grubs. Thanks to the glorious spring weather, large swathes of nettles, docks and brambles had crept over the open ground in the chicken area. I'd seen the chickens creeping through this tangled undergrowth before and thought nothing of it, but now it seemed like the perfect hiding place for the hens to be laying their eggs. There was only one thing for it... if I wanted to find these eggs I was going to have to get my hands dirty.

I grabbed the scythe from the potting shed and began bashing away at the brambles, nettles, docks and stubborn tufts of coarse grass. Bit by bit I cut, slashed, bashed and hacked my way through, the chickens curiously following behind me as my labours unearthed tasty grubs for them to eat. After a while I found a chicken sitting in a hollow shaded by docks, and after persuading her to move I discovered a nest of at least 7 eggs. Aha! I was definitely on to something now. I continued bashing my way through the weeds, and found hiding spot after hiding spot filled with collections of eggs. I took each secret stash of eggs and lined them up one after the other on the concrete wall at the back of the wood shed.

After several hours of bramble bashing I'd cleared the whole area of weeds and found... wait for it... 77 eggs! Well, actually the total was 80 but I accidentally stood on 3. Mystery solved, case closed. The only problem I now faced was what to do with them all. I kept my fingers crossed that some of them wouldn't be fresh, just so that we wouldn't be burdened by what to do with a mountain of fresh eggs. In the kitchen I checked each egg for freshness, putting them one by one into a bowl of water to see if they sank (meaning they were fresh) or floated (meaning they were off). Unbelievably out of 77 eggs, only 1 was off! The rest of the afternoon was spent pickling the eggs and storing them in large glass jars. I won't be forgetting those eggs in a hurry.

Now that the chicken area has been cleared of nettles, and the Buff Orpingtons are no longer broody, the hens' egg laying habits have returned to normal. Opening up the next boxes each morning means we're greeted once again by an assortment of gleaming fresh eggs. Egg-in-a-cup is back on the menu!

Step-by-step: Strawberry Hanging Basket

2009-06-17T14:09:00.010+01:00

I'm lucky at Newhouse Farm to have plenty of space in which to put my green fingers to use. But when I lived in London my outdoor space was limited to a small patio garden, whilst my friends only had balconies and window ledges on which to experiment with growing their own veg. With this in mind I thought it would be useful to create an easy step-by-step guide on how to make a strawberry hanging basket, which will suit anyone's growing environment no matter how limited their space is. There's nothing quite like grabbing a handful of fresh grown strawberries on your way to work to make you feel like summer has arrived!

STEP-BY-STEP GUIDE TO MAKING A STRAWBERRY HANGING BASKET
Strawberry hanging baskets are cheap and easy to make. You will need:

A hanging basket, easily bought for next to nothing from a car boot sale.
A large plastic bag, such as an empty compost bag.
A couple of handfuls of straw.
Some compost.
A few strawberry plants.
A pair of scissors.

Step 1: If your hanging basket is just a wire mesh bowl, you can easily make a waterproof liner by reusing an old compost bag. Cut the compost bag along the edges so that you can spread it out flat on the floor.

Step 2: Put the basket in the middle of the compost bag and cut a square out of the plastic to suit the size of your basket. Cut diagonally in from each of the corners of the square 2 thirds of the way in towards the centre.

Step 3: Grab a handful of straw and line the inside of the basket with it. This is used to disguise the compost bag you're about to use as a liner.

Step 4: Turn the compost bag square so that the plain side faces out, and push it down into the basket. The diagonal lines that you cut in from the corner help you to fold the plastic into place so that it fits snugly. Any extra lengths protruding over the top of the basket can be folded back inside.

Step 5: Being careful to hold the plastic liner in place, fill the hanging basket up with compost. At this stage make sure that the chains that the hanging basket hangs from are outside the hanging basket and not getting covered up with compost inside.

Step 6: Take your strawberry plants and place them into the hanging basket, bedding them down into the compost. You can either grow your own strawberries from scratch (the cheapest option), or pick them up from a garden centre. You don't just need to put the plants in at the top: depending on the type of hanging basket you have you can also cut holes into the plastic so that 1 or 2 plants stick out from the sides.

Step 7: Hang your hanging basket! For best results choose a nice sunny spot. Make sure that you hang the basket securely from a strong nail or frame, as the basket gets pretty heavy when its watered. To stop slugs and snails from getting in and eating the fruits of your labour, make sure the hanging basket hangs a couple of inches away from any walls.

Step 8: Using a knife or a pair of scissors, puncture the bottom of the hanging basket with a few holes in order to allow drainage. Don't go crazy with the knife though or all the water you pour in will run out!

Step 9: Give your hanging basket a good watering.

Step 10: Grab another handful of staw and cover the top of the hanging basket with it. This helps to keep moisture in the compost, and also prevents your strawberries from rotting.

Within a few weeks you should be benefiting from delicious home grown strawberries, right on your doorstep!

The Foster Chicks

2009-06-17T12:33:00.001+01:00

A few weeks I wrote about 5 maran chicks that were being raising by 2 Buff Orpington foster mums. Well I thought I'd post a quick update to let you know how they're doing. The chicks have been growing rapidly and so we decided to open the door of their chicken ark each day in order to let them roam free, under the watchful eyes of their foster mums of course.

The chicks have been making the most of their newfound freedom and exploring every inch of the farm. They've taken to having dust baths in the dry soil beneath the trees, climbing the log pile as if its Everest, and causing trouble by sneaking into the neighbours garden... as if they didn't have enough space already to run around in!

A couple of days ago we decided to move the chicks and their foster mums into the main chicken enclosure: a large section of land with a willow plantation at one end. Since then the chicks have been learning to integrate with the rest of the flock, and now sleep huddled up beside their mums in one of the nest boxes. But at the rate they're growing I doubt they'll be able to fit in there for much longer.

Tips: How to Keep Pigs

2009-06-16T17:00:00.003+01:00

Now that I've had the experience of preparing for this year's pigs at Newhouse Farm, I thought I'd summarise a few hints and tips I've learnt so far for anyone who is considering adding pigs to their patch. However if you're not interested in keeping pigs, but fancy reading a funny story about the day we went to collect the pigs at Newhouse Farm, click here.

Things you will need to keep pigs:

A large grassy area
Electric fencing
A pig house (see photo, pig pictures hanging above doorway optional)
A feeding trough
A plastic barrel for their water
A spade
A strawbale or 2
A bag of non-GM weaner pellet

Which Pig to Pick?
Newhouse Farm always opts for traditional breed pigs as the meat tastes better. Last year the Strawbridges kept a couple of Cornish Blacks, but this year's weaners are Gloucester Old Spot cross English Whites. The combination of these 2 traditional breeds means that the pigs are less fatty and have a longer back. Dick chooses to buy gilts (young female pigs) rather than boars. Boars can only be kept for a limited amount of time before their hormones affect the taste of their meat and produce ‘pissy pork’, whereas this doesn't happen to gilts.

How Much Space Do Pigs Need?
Pigs grow to be large, intelligent creatures, so it's only fair to give them as much space as possible. The area set aside for the pigs at Newhouse Farm is about 50 by 50 metres, which has been allowed to grow wild to provide them with plenty of ground to turn over and roots to eat. However to begin with we’ve given the weaners a smaller portion of this space, about 10 by 5 metres, as a starting point until they’ve grown bigger. We don't want them getting lost in the long grasses!

Preparing for Pigs
If you don't want your pigs causing havoc in your vegetable beds, get an electric fence! James strimmed the perimeter of the pig area to make sure that no long pieces of grass would touch the electric fence and unnecessarily drain the battery. With this kind of preparation an electric fence can last 2 months on a single battery charge. Newhouse Farm uses electric fence cabling that is wrapped around plastic fence posts, which has the benefit that the fencing can easily be extended and the height raised as the pigs grow.

Keeping Your Pigs Comfy
Pigs don’t like draughts, so we’ve positioned the pig house with it’s door facing away from the prevailing wind, and filled it with plenty of fresh straw to keep them warm. I used 1 and a half strawbales which has given them lots of warm comfy bedding. The pigs are clean and won’t fowl their beds, so this straw should last a long time.

Making the Water Bowl
Pigs are thirsty creatures, so near to their house James dug a hole and put a large plastic barrel in it, weighed down with rocks, that we filled with water siphoned from the aqueduct to create their water bowl. The weight of the rocks ensures that the pigs won’t be able to tip it over, and the siphon means that we can easily top up the water. However if you don’t happen to have a water source on hand it’s easy enough to top up the pig’s water with a watering can every day.

Making a Wallow
"Mud, mud, glorious mud. Nothing quite like it for cooling the blood." Pig’s skin is sensitive to the sun just like ours, so it’s important that the pigs can cover themselves in mud which acts as a form of sunscreen to stop their skin from burning. Our weaners have already created their own wallow, which we top up with water on sunny days to give them plenty of mud to cool down in. Pigs are hygenic and won't cause the wallow to smell by pooping in it. Instead they use a set area which they go and poop in: very clean and tidy!

What to Feed Pigs
Each morning and evening we feed the pigs non-GM sow and weaner pellets, and the pigs also get food from the garden. We've been growing turnips and fodder to supplement their diets, as well as throwing them any weeds we pull out of the nearby vegetable beds. Dick tells me that the pigs love to eat fruit that’s gone off, and are especially partial to brown bananas and the kernels inside plums.

Patting Your Pigs
Our weaners were very skittish when we first brought them home, so in order to get them to relax around humans we stroke and scratch their backs whilst they’re feeding. Dick, aka the Pig Whisperer, says that they gradually become accustomed to being touched and soon will like nothing better than to have their tummies tickled. Not only is this highly entertaining for us, but it’s in the best interests for the pigs, as they won’t be anywhere near as stressed about being around humans when they’re sent to the abbatoir.

Hog Calling
Finally, one quandary Dick faced when he first got pigs was how to call them. Calling the hens, ducks and geese is easy as we can just make clucking or quacking noises. But with pigs oinking is actually pretty hard work! So at Newhouse Farm when we go to feed the pigs we cry "Chewy, chewy" or "Shooee, shooee!" which I've recently discovered is the hog calling noise from the game 'Pass the Pigs'!

PIGS!

2009-06-16T11:29:00.019+01:00

This is a story about preparing for pigs, but if you're more interested in reading tips on how to keep pigs, follow this link to another post.

The humble pig has to be the animal I've been most looking forward to learning about since I left London to live at Newhouse Farm. Their meat forms such a staple part of the typical British diet - bangers and mash, bacon butties, toad in the hole - but I know little about them and have rarely seen them in the countryside. When I arrived at the farm back in February I was expecting to find pigs amongst the assortment of animals kept here for their produce. However I discovered that last year's pigs had already been slaughtered and butchered several months earlier, and their meat was now piled high on the shelves of the freezer. The closest I managed to get to the Newhouse Farm pigs was to devour delicious homemade sausages and ribs that were so large you'd be gnawing at one end whilst the other end poked you in the ear!

But at the end of May all that was about to change. This year's pigs were soon to arrive! Each year at Newhouse Farm a couple of weaners (young pigs who have recently been weaned from their mothers) are bought and raised until they're fully grown in order that the household may benefit from their very own 'home grown' meat. This year Dick had reserved a couple of weaners from Manelly Fleming Farm in a little village called St Veep in Cornwall. One gloriously sunny day the phone call came that the pigs were ready to be collected. The only problem was that we weren't quite ready for the pigs!

Under the baking sun, Dick, James and I hurried around to make preparations for the imminent arrival of the pigs. First job was to prepare the area where the pigs were going to live. Beyond the vegetable beds on the upper paddock a large area had been set aside for the pigs, which had been allowed to grow wild with grasses, docks, wild flowers and other assorted weeds. The first job was to clear the perimeter where the electric fence was going to be placed. Under normal circumstances James and I would have opted for a scythe to do this job, preferring to use muscle power rather than a machine, but as time was against us it seemed wise to grab the strimmer from the potting shed to blitz through it. I'm not especially fond of power tools, always worrying that they'll whip round uncontrollably and cut off one of my limbs, so I stepped back as James, Dick and former resident of Newhouse Farm Jim Milner attempted to get the strimmer started.

Now between James, Dick and Jim there's a lot of brains and a fair amount of brawn. But could they get the strimmer started? No, they couldn't. First up to try and start the strimmer was James, wearing a large orange protective helmet that made him look like an extra from Star Wars. After several minutes of yanking the starter cord, checking the fuel tank, adjusting the harness and yanking the starter cord again, Jim tapped James on the shoulder in order that he could have a turn. Jim said that the key to starting the strimmer was to utilise a kind of swinging motion as the starter cord was pulled, sweeping the strimmer round in front of him with a flourish. After several minutes of watching Jim demonstrate his unusual flailing technique the strimmer still hadn't started, and it was Dick's turn to have a go. With Jim still wearing the strimmer by its harness, Dick vigorously pulled the starter cord over and over again with all his might. Eventually the strimmer spluttered, coughed and whirred into life, whilst Dick, James and Jim breathed a sigh of relief. James took the strimmer, lowered the dark tinted visor on his protective helmet, and set about strimming the perimeter where the electric fence was going to go.

My job was to prepare the pig house and make sure it was comfy and clean for its new inhabitants. The pig house is constructed out of a large curved piece of corrugated metal that serves as the roof and sides, whilst the front, back and base is made from wood, with a large doorway cut into the front to allow access. On the outside of the back wall a feeding trough is attached, with a wooden lid used to protect the food from rain. I needed to sweep the pig house clear of dry mud and straw residue from the previous year's pigs. I started off by using a rake and a brush, but could only reach a limited distance within the pig house, and found scraping the tough muddy piles from the floor nigh on impossible. There was only one thing for it: in order to achieve my high standards of cleanliness I was going to have to crawl inside the pig house on my hands and knees and scrape all the mud out with a trowel.

I've never been inside a pig house before, and after this experience it's not a place I'm keen to return to in a hurry. As I scraped and brushed out last year's dried mud and straw, dense clouds of brown dust filled the inside of the pig house, obscuring my vision and clogging my nose. After a bowt of sneezing sent me realing into the outside world again, James suggested I wear a gas-mask to help make my life inside the pig house more bearable. Once suitably equipped with a large gas-mask I crawled back inside the pig house and continued clearing out the mud. Clouds of dust swirled around me, my breathe through the gas-mask sounded like Darth Vader, but I didn't care... the pigs would be arriving soon and their home must be clean and tidy! Sometime later the pig house was free from mud and I staggered into the pure fresh air of the outside world, ripping the gas-mask from my face. James took one look at me, grinned, called me a muddy urchin, and recommended I take a look in a mirror. In the mirror of the downstairs loo I realised what James was talking about: reflected back at me was an incredibly grubby urchin-like face bar a perfectly clean oval of skin around my nose and mouth where the gas mask had been.

But I didn't have time to waste giggling at myself in the mirror. After a quick face wash I grabbed a straw bale and carried it up to the pig area, cutting the baler twine with my pocket knife and spreading the bale out across the floor of the pig house. I remembered Dick telling me that a true farmer always has baler twine in his pocket, so I wrapped the baler twine into a neat loop and thrust it into the pocket of my tracksuit bottoms. Meanwhile James and Dick had placed the plastic posts for the electric fence around the rectangular perimeter that James and strimmed, and were now wrapping the electric fence wire around the posts in order to create the protective fence that would stop the pigs from trampling all over the vegetable beds.

The final job was to make the drinking pool for the pigs. James found a large round plastic barrel and dug a hole big enough for it to sit in the ground. Now all that was needed was to fill it with water and we'd be ready to go and collect the pigs. The aqueduct that feeds the waterwheel at Newhouse Farm runs alongside the pig area, so James cut a length of hose and created a siphon to get the water from the aqueduct to run down the hose and into the water trough. I was pretty impressed with James' abilities to create the siphon, which was only slightly diminished when he sucked on the hose and chocked on a mouthful of stream water. Once the drinking pool was full, James placed rocks into the bottom to weigh it down so that the pigs wouldn't be able to root it over.

By mid-afternoon the pig area was ready, so Dick, James and I all piled into Jasmine (the VW pick-up) and set off to collect the pigs. We'd secured a large wire cage filled with straw to the back of Jasmine, which we were going to use to safely transport the pigs back to their new home. We rattled along the winding country lanes as we made our way to the pig farm, sunlight pouring in the windows and the cobwebs that hung from Jasmine's wing mirrors blowing in the wind.

On our arrival we were greeted by the farmer's wife Daphne, who took us out onto one of the pastures to show us the adult pigs which were the parents of the weaners we were about to collect. Out on the pasture were 3 large pigs, the sows (female pigs) I was told, whilst in the distance, reclining regally against the wall of the pig sty, was the largest pig I'd ever seen. This was the boar (the male pig), who was stretched out on his side, napping in the balmy afternoon sunshine. Daphne called the sows, and they came trotting over to us. Although I was brought up in the countryside, I can't recall I've ever been up close to a fully grown pig before. They're surprisingly big, hairy creatures, with large strong mouths, and look like they could do a fair amount of damage to you should you annoy them. However these pigs were friendly and contentedly ate the grass around our feet, snuffling happily whilst we scratched their backs.

After being shown the fully grown pigs it was time to collect the weaners. Dick had selected a couple of gilts (young female pigs) for Newhouse Farm, and Daphne took us over to a stable where they were being kept. Inside the stable, looking up at us with suspicious eyes, were 4 small, pink pigs. All we had to do was pick up the 2 that were ours and put them in the cage in the back of the van. They looked sweet enough, and the task sounded easy enough, but those little pigs kicked up an almighty fuss! James went into the stable with Daphne to catch the pigs, whilst I stood guard by the stable door. The pigs dashed round and round the stable, careering between James's legs, refusing to make life easy. Daphne caught the first one by its hind leg, and it emitted ear-splitting squeals as she picked the wriggling creature up and carried it over to the van. Now James needed to catch the second one. The pigs were still charging round and round the stable, running rings around James until he made a frantic lunge at one of the pigs and pinned it to the ground. It began to squeal blue murder, but James calmly picked it up and carried it over to the van, where the noise instantly ceased as soon as it joined its sibling in the cage.

We were a bit concerned that the pigs might get over excited on the return journey to Newhouse Farm, and cause the door of their cage to spring open. I suddenly remembered the baler twine in my pocket, which I whipped out and used to tie the cage door firmly shut, using my pocket knife to cut it to the lengths I required. I was to find out later that the appearance of baler twine and knife from my pockets was greeted with an impressed nod from Daphne and her husband Peter, the farmer. I may not have picked up a pig, but I passed the baler twine test!

The return journey passed without any drama. The pigs were surprisingly calm in the back of the van as Jasmine clattered down the country lanes. Once back at Newhouse Farm Dick and James carefully lifted the pig cage out of the back of the van, up the steps to the upper paddock, and into the pig enclosure. I gently opened the door of the cage to allow the pigs out, but they had their bottoms pointing towards me and seemed intent on staying put. So I cautiously reached inside, picked the pigs up one at a time in order to lift and drag them out of the cage. I was anticipating the same high pitched squeals and energetic wriggling as before, but the pigs only emitted a few grunts before disappearing inside the pig house. Job done.

Now, a couple of weeks later, the pigs have thoroughly settled in to their new home and are growing rapidly. They've rooted up and turned over large areas of their enclosure, and have a special area furthest away from their house that they use to poop in. They're also getting much more used to us humans, as everytime we go into their enclosure to feed them we scratch them on their backs. At first they were very skittish about being close to us, let alone being touched, but now they tolerate the back scratching whilst they devour their food. I'm still getting used to having the pigs around, and must admit to being slightly nervous of them when I scratch their backs whilst they're eating. But it's wonderful to have them here, as they add a colourful extra dimension to life on the farm. It's hard not to grin when you see them charging around their enclosure with their ears flapping up and down, or wallowing in the mud to cool down on a sunny day.

Day in the Life of the Land Girl

2009-06-12T15:07:00.041+01:00

Often when I'm working out and about at Newhouse Farm I find myself comparing my current lifestyle to the lifestyle I used to lead in the city, and realising just how starkly different they are. Not that long ago I used to work in a busy office in the centre of London, surrounded by the noise of telephones ringing, keyboards clattering, and the chaotic rumble of the traffic from outside the window. Since I've moved to Cornwall I'm still surrounded by noises, but now when I'm working I hear chickens clucking, ducks quacking, geese honking and wind turbines whirring.

I thought it would be interesting to compare my Newhouse Farm daily routine with the routine I used to lead in London. There's no such thing as a typical day at the farm, as every day is different depending on what project is being undertaken, what time of year it is, or what the weather is like. But for the sake of this comparison I'll use Wednesday 10th June as a typical example.

WEDNESDAY 10TH JUNE
Newhouse Farm: 7:00am Woke up, threw on the nearest clothes and went straight outside to let the animals out. This involves going to each of the animal enclosures and topping up their food and water before opening the door and watching them run outside to start their day of pecking, scratching and swimming. The animals don't seem to suffer from early morning sluggishness like I do. They burst out of their enclosures full of energy and excitement for the day ahead of them, whilst I stand there with just-got-out-of-bed hair and an odd assortment of clothes yawning and yearning for the first coffee of the day. However the perk is that my commute to work now lasts a matter of seconds, as long as it takes me to walk from my bedroom door to the chicken shed.

London: 7:00am Still asleep. I won't need to get up for work until 8am, so why wake earlier?!

Newhouse Farm: 7:45am Entered the kitchen for a mug of coffee from the coffee machine and some toast.

London: 7:45am Still sleeping.

Newhouse Farm: 8:30am Baking shortbread biscuits for a photoshoot that is happening at the farm today. Kneading the dough between my fingers to make sure all the sugar, flour and butter has been beaten together thoroughly. The perk of this particular job is that I get to lick the bowl! No eggs are needed for this recipe, but should I wish I bake something that required them I'd know that today's freshly laid eggs would be on the rack just outside the back door.

London: 8:30am Awake and just about to leave my flat for the commute into work, which will last just under an hour.

Newhouse Farm: 9:30am Arrived at the chicken shed to clean out the chicken poop. After 4 months of living at the farm I've become more than familiar with the many varieties of poo the animals produce. None of it is particularly pleasant, but chicken poop has got to be the worst. It has an acrid ammonia like smell that scorches the inside of my nostrils. Cleaning the chicken shed isn't a quick job. As well as thoroughly sweeping and scrubbing the floor I have to scrape the congealed chicken poop from off the perches and ledges the chickens sleep on.

London: 9:30am Heading out of Tottenham Court Road tube and shortly to arrive at work. Surrounded by the chaos of the morning rush hour: hurrying crowds of people, the noisy building site just outside the tube, the roar of buses, taxis and other traffic as they surge up to the next set of traffic lights on the road. I'll be thankful I've picked up a latte and a croissant from a nearby coffee shop: it's hard to start the day without a morning treat, although it means I'll have already spent nearly a fiver in the coffee shop.

Newhouse Farm: 10:30am The chicken shed looks immaculate. I've spread fresh sawdust on the floor, and put fresh straw in the nest boxes. The chickens have just been let back inside and are inspecting their home. They always seem very curious whenever I clean out their house, pecking at the sawdust and scraping through the straw as if to inspect my handiwork. Already one of the hens has settled down in the nest box and is making the strange noises that indicate she's about to lay an egg. I must've done a good job of the cleaning!

London: 10:30am Sat at my desk sorting through emails and scanning the morning's newspapers for interesting headlines. My desk is positioned facing into the office, which means I've got my back to the window. I'll spend most of the day completely unaware of what the weather is like outside. The air conditioning unit is pumping dry, cool air around the office. The telephones have started to ring.

Newhouse Farm: 11:20am I'm in the duck and goose area, cleaning out the Indian runner duck house. Ducks are messy creatures and have managed to spread their poop not just across the floor of their house, but also up the walls. It's awkward reaching in to clean out the messy straw and poop, so I decide to climb inside in order to clean more easily. All the messy straw is piled into the wheelbarrow which I'll deposit into the compost bins designated for animal poop once I've finished.

London: 11.20am Time for the morning coffee break: instant coffee made in disposable cups because the office I'm working in doesn't have a kitchen area. It's my turn to make the coffee for myself, my boss, and my colleague. Then it's back to sit in front of my computer and make some phone calls.

Newhouse Farm: 12:15pm Now I'm cleaning out the goose house. The female goose is broody and has been sitting on some eggs for several weeks. But it seems that she hasn't done a very good job of incubating, because none of the eggs have hatched. In order to clean out the goose house I firstly need to get rid of the geese. I'm worried this could be a suicidal mission thanks to my previous experiences of being attacked by geese: I'm sure they view me as enemy number 1. I venture tentatively towards the gander armed with a plastic paddle we use for self-defence in the goose area, but he's surprisingly easy to shoo away. Maybe he's had enough of guarding the eggs and needs little encouragement to take a break? Now I turn my attention towards the female goose. She's inside the goose house, sitting on her eggs, hissing like a banshee. I bend down and squeeze inside the goose house, holding the paddle in one hand, and a plastic prong from the electric fence in the other. The female goose leaps off her eggs and runs from side to side, aggressively hissing and fluffing her feathers in malice. After a bit of careful maneuvering and the sound of the goose's beak venomously attacking the plastic paddle, I somehow manage to shoo the female goose out of the goose house without being attacked. This is clearly a miracle (surely I should have been bitten and scratched by now?) and I position the wheelbarrow in front of goose house door as a barricade to thwart any further goose attacks as I get on with the business of cleaning.

London: 12.15pm Sitting at my computer, editing a treatment for a television idea that is to do with moving to the countryside. I wonder what it would be like to move to the countryside myself.

Newhouse Farm: 12:50pm Finished cleaning out the goose house - possibly one of the most revolting jobs I've had to do so far at the farm. Some of the eggs the goose had been incubating had cracked and leaked their rotten contents all over the other eggs, the straw and the floor of the goose house before drying into congealed nastiness. Not only have I had to clean up all the dirty straw and stinking goose poop, but I've had to scrape clean all the eggy unplesantness as well. The smell is overwhelming and absolutely hideous, but it had to be done. Just as I'm spreading clean straw around the goose house I hear the distant cry of "LUNCH!"

Newhouse Farm: 1:15pm Eating homemade soup, sat in front of the farmhouse table that's spread with fresh bread, huge wedges of Cornish cheese, salad from the garden, ham from the local butchers, and James' aunt Linda's chutney. Lunch time is when everyone has a chance to catch up with each other. Steve is regaling us with his opinions on vegetarians (he thinks it's all a conspiracy, but then again Steve thinks everything is a conspiracy).

London: 1:15pm Walking back from Marks and Spencers with my vegetarian takeaway lunch. I keep meaning to make my own lunch to save money, but I never seem to leave enough time in the morning to do it. As the weather is pleasant I'll sit and each my lunch on a bench in the local square, enjoying a few scarce minutes of sunshine. However if the weather was bad I'd be eating my lunch in front of my computer screen, chatting to my colleagues.

Newhouse Farm: 3:00pm I'm in the midst of a dense brambly patch, bashing the life out of some particularly dense brambles and gigantic nettles. A large section of these brambles that runs along the side of the chicken area needs to be cleared. We suspect that the hens may have been laying their eggs in here, plus the brambles provide cover for foxes and rats that could prey on the hens. I've got my gloves on and am hacking away with a pair of shears, little by little making my way through the wall of brambles. It's hot work, my arms are getting scratched, and I've just been stung in the head by a nettle. I stand up to stretch my back and notice a chicken jumping onto a gap between the wood-shed and the wire fence. The chicken jumps through the gap and I realise I now know how the chickens have been able to escape and scratch around in the vegetable patches. Over in the goose area I see the gander and female goose walking side by side. I swear they look relieved that they're not having to sit on those stinking eggs anymore!

London: 3:00pm Still sat by my computer, but now brainstorming a new television gameshow idea with my boss and another member of my team. Brainstorming involves bouncing ideas off each other, evolving the idea, until we've come to a point where one of us can write the idea up into a treatment.

Newhouse Farm: 5:00pm It's just started to rain heavily and I'm being called to finish work and come inside. The commute home from work involves putting my tools inside the potting shed, kicking off my wellies and putting them in the wellie rack by the back door, and walking into the living room. Tonight we'll all be gathered round the television as a rugby match is on: the British Lions vs the Sharks. James and I are about to crack open the non-alcoholic beers as we're not drinking at the moment.

London: 6:30pm I've just finished work and am heading towards the bus stop to begin my commute home. I've developed the habit of travelling to work in the morning by tube, and from work in the evening by bus, when I find it interesting to unwind and stare out the window. About an hour from now I should be arriving home.

Newhouse Farm: 9:00pm We've just finished dinner and now it's time to put the animals away. We go round each of the animal houses, escorting the ducks, geese and unruly chicks to their beds before shutting the door to secure them inside. The chickens are very obedient and are already sitting on their perches, the positioning of the hens next to William the cockerel indicating their place in the pecking order. The goslings on the other hand are very disobedient and give us the run around. Like a bunch of unruly teenagers they refuse to go to bed, and it involves several trips around the goose house before they finally walk inside their house and we can shut the door.

London: 9:30pm I've just finished my dinner and am popping out to the local pub to meet up with a friend for an hour or two's nattering. No doubt we'll get through a few of glasses of wine to help lubricate our conversation.

Newhouse Farm: 10:00pm It's been a long day so I'm off to bed. There's still plenty of bramble bashing to do tomorrow!

London: 12:00am Bedtime. Another day in the office tomorrow!

Strange Sights at Newhouse Farm

2009-06-08T08:57:00.006+01:00

Newhouse Farm is a peculiar place to live. Wind turbines dotted around the farm whir in the wind, in a barn biodiesel bubbles away in giant tubs, the water wheel emits a ghoulish moan as it turns on its axis, bee suits that resemble nuclear waste disposal outfits hang from the potting shed walls, surrounded by strange tools and scything implements that look like they wouldn't be out of place in a horror film, whilst dark liquid filled bottles labeled Mead or Cider are to be found fermenting in various cool, dark corners of the farmhouse.

So I hardly blinked an eyelid when I walked out into the front drive the other day to see Jasmine, the VW Pick up, sporting a large waterwheel strapped to her back. Was this one of Dick Strawbridge's latest inventions? A water powered pick up truck? Genius! This is like living with Doc Brown in 'Back to the Future'! Alas the truth was not quite so exciting: Dick was using Jasmine to transport the water wheel to Wales in order to teach school children about water power.

We all gathered round to bid Dick farewell as he manoevered Jasmine out of driveway and up the lane. We watched as the waterwheel made it's way through the trees and bushes that flank the lane, until it disappeared out of sight. "What a funny sight it will make on the motorway" we thought, as we carried on with our work.

Half an hour later the phone rang. Jasmine had broken down! Dick was going to have to come back and start the journey all over again in a hire van. I think Jasmine must have crumbled under the pressure of passersby pointing and staring at her unusual cargo, so she pulled a sickie and dropped 4th gear in order that she could return home. The story has a happy ending though. Dick managed to make it to Wales in a hire van, and entertained the school children with his water powered antics. The hire van also broke down as he was about to return to Cornwall, but what's a journey without a little adventure?!

Elderflower Champagne

2009-06-07T09:17:00.018+01:00

One of the great bonuses of my new life in the countryside is that I'm becoming much more in tune with the seasons and their produce. When I lived in London I liked the idea of trying to eat seasonally, but I didn't know when most fruit and vegetables were best to buy. My local supermarkets didn't help their customers to live seasonally: like indulgent parents they provided us with what we wanted, whenever we wanted it. For instance: "Shellfish all year round? No problem!" Little did I realise that you're only supposed to eat shellfish in months that contain the letter R.

But since I've been living at Newhouse Farm I'm lucky enough to have nature on my doorstep. I've been eating seasonally because it's hard not to: wherever possible we harvest and consume vegetables, fruits, meat and eggs that we've produced ourselves. As Dick Strawbridge says, this is a place where we can measure the food miles in a matter of yards! It's common sense really: local produce eaten at the time of year it's in season tastes great.

Which brings me to the reason why I set my alarm for 6am one morning in early June. Now that the days are longer I've been trying to wake earlier to take advantage of the beautiful weather and longer days, but old London habits die hard and I still find it difficult to wake up at 'Sparrow o'clock' (ie: very early!). However on this particular morning I had no problem in springing out of bed as soon as the alarm rang. Why? Because I was about to make some alcohol! And not just any alcohol. Champagne!

In the previous few days the elder trees dotted around the farm had covered themselves in white elderflowers. These otherwise insignificant looking trees were now weighed down with clusters of blossom, each cluster containing thousands of tiny flowers that produced a beautiful fragrance. James told me that if we got up early enough in the morning we could harvest some of the elderflowers when they were at their most fragrant, capturing their smell at it's prime in order to create elderflower champagne.

By 6.10am James and I were heading towards the elderflower tree carrying a tall ladder, 2 large colanders and a pair of scissors. The lowest branches of the elder were barely within my reach, but with a bit of a stretch I cleared them of their flowers. We had still collected nowhere near enough, so it was time for one of us to venture up the ladder to reach the higher flowers. It doesn't take much to make James sneeze as he's allergic to many types of dust and fur, so the cascade of elderflowers and their pollen had resulted in him being consumed by a sneezing frenzy. He was clearly unfit for balancing on top of the ladder, which meant that the only person who could do it was... gulp... me.

I didn't used to be scared of heights, but climbing to the top of a wobbly ladder with nothing to hold on to except for fragile elderflowers is actually a bit scary! Whatsmore, although James was holding the base of the ladder for security he kept letting rip ginormous pollen induced sneezes that made it teeter even more perilously from side to side. Admittedly the ladder in the photo above doesn't look very big, although we did swap it for a much larger one later on. Honest! It was quite a slow process collecting the elderflowers, as unfortunately the tree was home to an investation of black flies. I'd set my sights on a particularly beautiful blossom, reach out to grasp it, only to discover that a hundred odd black flies were happily sucking the juice out of its base already.

Eventually we managed to fill 4 colanders worth of blackfly-free elderflowers. We headed to the kitchen, brushing the tiny confetti-like elderflower blossoms out of our hair. Now it was time to turn flowers into booze! I'd never made my own alcohol before and was amazed that this mountain of flowers could actually turn into a drink that would not only taste nice but could also get me drunk. We took a large fermenting barrel and put all the elderflowers inside, mixing in 3 gallons of water, some white wine vinegar, sugar, lemon zest and lemon juice. I shoved my arm into the barrel and mixed the concoction thoroughly, took a good deep sniff of the delicious fragrance, and then popped the lid on. That was it! All we had to do was leave it for 24 hours before sieving the liquid into bottles.

The following day some of my friends from London came to visit the farm for the first time, and we got them to help pour the pale yellow liquid through a sieve and into large reused plastic bottles. Apparently the elderflower champagne naturally carbonates - a process I find absolutely extraordinary - and in a couple of weeks it will be ready for drinking. But as I'm not actually drinking alcohol at the moment, the elderflower champagne will have to wait a week longer until I return to the world of alcohol on my birthday. I have no way of knowing quite how potent this champagne will be, but to be on the safe side I think I'd better prepare a hangover remedy from the medicinal garden just in case!

Elderflower Champagne Recipe
The recipe we used for making elderflower champagne is as follows, but remember you'll need to pick the elderflowers soon before their season has passed.

1 or 2 large heaped colanders of freshly gathered elderflowers (gathered early in the morning when they're at their most fragrant)
A gallon of cold water
500g sugar
2 tablespoons white wine vinegar
Juice and rind of a lemon
Large fermenting barrel or other sealable container

Mix all the ingredients thoroughly together, leave in a cool place for 24 hours, sieve and pour the liquid into sealable bottles. The champagne will be ready to drink in 2 weeks. Be carefuly not to leave the bottles for too long after that as apparently they can explode! We tripled this recipe and now have 7 large plastic bottles of elderflower champagne starting to carbonate in the kitchen. I'll let you know what it tastes like. Hic!

The Cats of Newhouse Farm

2009-06-01T13:17:00.003+01:00

In light of Herman's sad demise I thought it's time you met the cats of Newhouse Farm. Prior to moving to Cornwall I'd never really been much of a cat person. The garden of my flat in London was the thoroughfare for all the neighbourhood cats to prowl through, on their way from one place to another. Many of them would actually stop their journey to hiss at me whenever I'd have the audacity to sit in my garden, glaring at me as if they owned the place, not me. But since I moved to Newhouse Farm I've become very fond of the farm cats, who each have their own distinct personality. So, allow me to introduce you to...

Megan
At 18 years of age, Megan is the grand old 3-legged lady of Newhouse Farm. She lost a back leg due to a car accident when she was much younger, but this certainly hasn't stopped her from being an imposing matriach. Despite her deminutive stature and handicap (or should that be pawdicap... sorry terrible, terrible joke) Megan is most definitely the boss of all the other cats and dogs. If anyone gets in her way she'll soon put them in their place with a vicious swipe of her claws.

Megan likes to find the sunniest spot near her basket and bask in it all day long. Her favourite spots are in awkward doorways and on the back doormat, where she'll contentedly snooze totally oblivious to us humans who have to step over her. But then again, when I reach her age I'm sure I'll contentedly snooze wherever I like as well!

Hobbes
Names after the tiger from the cartoon strip 'Calvin & Hobbes', Hobbes is one of two (formerly three) little black cats who live at the farm. He's a friendly little chap, who I often find sleeping on the chair in front of my computer whenever I want to write my blog. He also likes sleeping on the chair in the polytunnel, and in any vegetable bed that has been freshly weeded.

Hobbes has recently found great delight in playing in a bag of builder's sand, and therefore is very possibly the guilty culprit behind the mystery of who pooped in the sand bucket James was using to build with. James discovered the poop whilst he was making an earth oven the other day... not a particularly pleasant surprise. Hobbes!

Horatio
Horatio, brother of Hobbes, is named after Horatio Hornblower. Horatio (the cat) is missing a toe, for reasons that I do not know (rhyming unintentional). Horatio has recently revealed himself as an acrobatic cat, who could clearly have found work in the circus. A couple of weeks ago I was on my hands and knees weeding the Medicinal Garden. Without any encouragement Horatio leapt onto my back, turned round a few times to get comfortable, and then stretched out on my back whilst I continued weeding. After falling off he continued leaping onto my back whenever he could, pawing at the back of my head to indicate he wanted some attention.

Today, as I've been attempting to write my blog, Horatio has also leapt onto the back of my chair, miaowing for attention until he lost his footing and fell off. I do appreciate the attention... I just wish he could time it better when I'm not quite so busy!

Dolly
Don't be mistaken by the name, Dolly is in fact a boy! I think the story goes that everyone thought he was a girl when he was little, and named him after Dolly Parton, but by the time they realised he was a boy the name had stuck. Dolly doesn't really live at the farm anymore, he's moved next door to live with the neighbours Keith and Sheila... clearly their food tastes better. Occassionally he returns to the farm for a fleeting visit, but gets bullied by the other cats. That's probably the inevitable consequence of being called Dolly when you're a boy. Sadly I don't have any pictures of Dolly, so instead you must imagine a fluffy black and white cat most often seen snoozing in the middle of the neighbours immaculatly mown lawn.

RIP Herman

2009-06-01T10:54:00.002+01:00

It's a misconception that the weather in Britain is generally rubbish. Now that I'm spending so much more time outside I've realised that overall the weather is actually pretty good, and the grey clouds and rain only seem to arrive on bank holiday weekends! The end of May saw Newhouse Farm basking in day upon day of glorious sunshine. It was so warm that working in the gardens became harder as we battled against the heat, and made regular stops to apply more lashings of sunscreen.

Unfortunately there was a dark cloud on the horizon. One Sunday morning we returned from a trip to the local car boot sale to be met by a very sad looking Laura. (Laura and her husband Brad used to live and work at the farm until a couple of months ago when they moved into a house in the village.) Laura told us that a small black cat had been run over outside her house, and she was worried that it was one of the farm cats called Herman.

Herman, Hobbes and Horatio are 3 of the cats who live at Newhouse Farm. They're brothers and all look identical except for the stripes that run down their noses. Hobbes has a thick white stripe, Herman has a thinner stripe, and Horatio has none. Laura was fairly certain that it was Herman who had been run over and killed, although apparently the dead cat was in such a mess that it was difficult to tell. It had been abandoned by the driver in the middle of the road until one of Laura's neighbours found it. James and I reassured Laura that we'd search for Herman and let her know if we found him.

Several days went by and Herman was nowhere to be seen. The 3 black cats would often be out and about for days at a time, only returning in the night to eat some food before wandering off into the shadows again. Following Laura's visit, whenever we'd spot one of the cats in the distance we'd cross the fields and vegetable patches to try to identify it... each time hoping that it would be a little black cat with a thin white stripe on its nose. But each time it would be either Hobbes or Horatio who would miaow happily at our appearance. They'd been more affectionate than ever since Herman's disappearance, nothing like the elusive cats they used to be.

Sadly Herman never reappeared, and 3 little black cats became 2. So this blog post is dedicated to a lovely little black cat called Herman, named after one of James' favourite authors, Herman Hesse. We miss you xxx.

Moving day for the ducklings

2009-05-23T12:15:00.006+01:00

Back in April, 3 ducklings hatched from some Indian runner duck eggs I'd been incubating at Newhouse Farm. It was a difficult hatching process, and at times I didn't think 2 of the ducklings would make it. But they fought hard for their lives and turned into 3 gorgeous healthy little ducklings nicknamed the Soggy Bottom boys. Pictured here at just a few days old they were so small I could fit them in the palm of my hand, and marvel at how a simple egg could turn into these brown fluffy things that looked a little bit like mice with large feet and beaks!

By 21st May the ducklings had grown so much they were too big for their pen where they'd been living happily with 4 Maran chicks I'd also incubated. It was an endearing sight to see these strange bedfellows all sleeping peacefully side by side. But the ducklings had grown up and it was time to separate them from the chicks so that they could join the adult ducks in the duck and goose area. Unbeknowst to the ducklings, the adult ducks they were going to be joining were actually their parents, and I wondered if there would be any instinctive sign of recognition from either side.

I opened the door of the duck and chick pen and tried to usher the ducklings outside. They were reluctant to leave the security of their pen, and kept charging back towards it as the chicks looked on passively from inside. Eventually I lost patience and picked the ducklings up one by one and carried them to the duck area. Once they were inside I stood back to watch what would happen. The first few of minutes the ducklings remained by the gate, desperately trying to squeeze through and run back to the safety of their pen. Then they turned around and began to tentatively explore the space around them, pecking at the grass and tottering towards the stream with their ungainly walk.

With a plop and a squeak the first duckling slid into the stream, followed swiftly by its 2 siblings. You know the saying about how a duck takes to water? Well, these ducklings were no different. No sooner had they started to paddle in the stream than all thoughts of returning to their pen evaporated from their minds. I watched as they swam down the stream towards the pond where they encountered their parents for the first time. There was no sudden Hollywood movie style rush of recognition, but the ducklings must have realised the adults were other members of their kind, because they naturally began to follow them around the pond.

Moving day for the ducklings was complete. Like many teenagers who leave home for the first time the ducklings didn't look back, whilst I watched from the sidelines and saw them embark on their adult life with the ducks. But that's enough of sentimentality! I have to keep reminding myself that these ducklings aren't pets but poultry. They are raised at the farm in order that we may use their produce, both eggs and meat.

A couple of days on and the ducklings are inseperable from their parents, especially the male duck Marlon. Wherever he goes, they follow him like 3 brown shadows. He reminds me of the cool older kid at school, who's followed around by a gang of adoring younger kids who worship his every move. And of course, being on the bottom rung of the pecking order, the ducklings haven't escaped a few knocks and bruises. Nigel the Muscovy duck has proven intolerant of the ducklings cramping his space at the food bowl, and he grabs and tugs at the ducklings' feathers whenever they venture too near.

Don't worry, we didn't leave the chicks home alone for much longer after the ducklings moved out. Moving day for the chicks followed a couple of days later as we picked them up and placed them in the chicken house. Just like the ducklings they initially tried to escape, but then began to explore their new surroundings. Now the chicks are to be seen out and about in the chicken area, scraping around the base of the willow trees for bugs and grubs, and refusing to come in at night without a lot of persuasion.

Bramble bashing and other tough jobs

2009-05-16T16:56:00.018+01:00

It's a wild and windy day in Cornwall today, and the only consolation is that here at Newhouse Farm the wind turbines must be generating a lot of electricity. I would attempt to tell you exactly how many Kilo watts, but unfortunately I'm still not quite sure how to read the metre!

This seems appropriate weather to tell you about some of the tougher and rougher jobs I've been getting to grips with at the farm. I've realised that until now it sounds like all I've been doing is potting seedlings, incubating eggs and cooing over goslings. Yet in the nature of a true land girl, I've also been building up my muscles with a lot of dangerous jobs for girls involving some pretty lethal looking equipment.

First up is the scythe. Prior to moving to the farm I'd only seen scythes in television period dramas featuring yokels in 18th century England. For those not familiar with this vicious looking implement, it is used to thwack at long grass, brambles, weeds etc much as a strimmer is used. Now, there is a strimmer here at the farm, but James in particular much prefers to use the scythe. After all, why use a gas guzzling modern machine when a great deal of brute force and a blade will do exactly the same job?!

So when Dick told me the lane needed bramble bashing last week, it was with some trepidation and a lot of excitement that I pulled on my gloves and grabbed the scythe. James gave me a quick demo of how to use the scythe: the technique is to swing it up and to the side, and then swoop it downwards and across. The blade slices through whatever is in its path... hopefully not your leg or anyone else's, so it's important to leave a wide working circle the length of the scythe seperating you from anyone near you. I can't imagine a scythe injury would be particularly pleasant!

After James' demo I got to work bramble bashing in the lane. Only a small section needed to be cleared, but I got carried away and by the end of the day I'd cleared the whole lane. My right hand was so achy and cramped I couldn't clench my fist, and my arms were ripped to shreds by the brambles, but I felt fantastic. The weariness didn't matter - I'd cleared an entire lane of brambles with nothing but a scythe and my puny arm muscles! If only I'd remembered to take before and after shots this picture might look a little more impressive. But take it from me, before there were a lot of brambles, and now there are none. And those mounds of chopped up brambles stretch around the corner and out of sight!

Now that the lane is clear of brambles I've spotted some beautiful wildflowers previously hidden from view. Firstly I spotted this flower, which by the time I got round to taking the photo has unfortunately faded. But I recognised it as Lords and Ladies, also known as Cuckoo Pint. I had a sneaky feeling it was poisonous, which proved to be correct when I looked it up. It's as poisonous as hemlock, but in spite of this the root was used as a starch. I shan't be sampling it!

Other tough jobs for the girls have included de-turfing, digging and 'chundling'** 5 beds out of a south facing slope. This is where we're going to be putting a small tea plantation - a beautifully sunny slope but an absolute devil to work on. The 'chundle' is the name James has given to the implement pictured, which is a bit like a mixture of a pick-axe and a spade. You hold it at arms length above your head and then swing it down to hit the ground and break it up. James and I did these 5 beds in a day, and I've got to admit I really felt the pain by the time we were done! But it's so much more satisfying than using a rotivator to do all the hard work.

And finally there's been no shortage of hefty weeding and hoeing to be done. Once again I've made the mistake of forgetting to take before and after photos, but here's a bed that was completely strewn with weeds until yesterday afternoon, when Holly the weed wacker got to work on it! Imagine loads of weeds, and then ta da... no weeds!

Of course, it is possible to use strimmers, rotivators, and other mechanical tools to help make all these jobs easier. But where's the fun in that?! And as James pointed out, working with a tool such as a scythe means that you're working in exactly the same way as somebody 300 years ago would have worked. It's very nearly a gardening form of time travel! And as an added bonus no fossil fuels get burned, only a load of calories. Who needs the gym when you've got a scythe?!

Mystery wildflower
I'm still a novice when it comes to identifying wildflowers, so I'm pretty surprised I managed to identify Lords and Ladies above. Bluebells grow in the walls of the lane sheltered by the dappled light that filters through the leaves. There's also rambling honeysuckle, tendrils of ivy and an old holly tree. But in the shadows I also spotted this wildflower, and I'm unsure what it is. Any suggestions would be gratefully received.

Answer: Thanks to Rob from Malvern, Maddy Jones, Summerbeam gardener and my mum Jan who have all very promptly informed me that this is in fact Bugle aka Ajuga reptans: a cure-all and a mild narcotic especially good for curing hangovers. Well I never!

**I was wrong, this is actually called a 'chungle', but after Googling it I've come to the conclusion that this might be a Strawbridgeism (def: a word that has been made up and now entered Dick & James' vernacular). If anybody knows the 'real' name for this implement it would be great to hear from you.

James and the Green Knight

2009-05-16T12:45:00.000+01:00

By nature we are not superheros, but...

Just a quick post to tell you about James Strawbridge's amazing new 'green' comic, called The Chronicles of Green Knight. When James isn't planting vegetables at the farm he's been slaving away at his drawing board and computer to create a great website which is definitely worth looking at. If you have any ideas for Green Knight's future adventures please feel to email James.

www.greenknightcomics.co.uk

Poultry Auction

2009-05-16T09:03:00.015+01:00

Sometimes I wonder what's happened to my fashion sense since I left London for Newhouse Farm. The day's clothes tend to be those which are easiest to grab in the early morning stumble to let the animals out, rather than chosen through thoughtful selection. Today I find myself wearing a T-shirt with a pig on it, a stripy jumper, oversized plaid fleece, workmen's trousers and rolled down wellies... not exactly high fashion, but it keeps me warm. And the animals certainly don't seem to mind.

I have another animal tale to tell you this morning: my first ever poultry auction. Nigel the Muscovy duck had been looking more depressed than ever since we'd clipped his wing and put him in with the geese and Indian runner ducks. He'd just sit by the gate looking mournfully in the direction of the tree he used to sit beneath. So on the morning of April 18th, Dick, James and I decided to go out and find a cure for Nigel's depression. Our mission was to attend a local poultry auction and bid for a couple of lovely Muscovy ladies to bring home and put a spring back in Nigel's step.

We arrived at Mays Countrystore where the auction was being held and found the auction hall crammed full of people and poultry. Stacked cages lined the walls of the hall and ran down the centre, each one filled with some sort of feathered creature inside, large and small. The air was filled with squawks, honks and chatter and the smell of chicken poop. We squeezed our way through the crowds of people, slowly walking down the rows of cages and examining what was inside. I had no idea there were so many different types of poultry: Crele Old English Game Bantams; a pair of Transylvanian Naked Necks; strange looking Malay Large Fowl; African Owl Pigeons; as well as all sorts of ducks, geese and hens.

We examined each cage and eventually found what we were looking for, a rather timid pair of black and white female muscovy ducks huddled closely together. They had their heads at the back of the cage and their bums pointing outwards, clearly unimpressed with their noisy surroundings. We took one look at them and knew these were the ladies capable of cheering up Nigel. Also on our way round the cages we'd spotted a pair of Light Sussex point-of-lay pullets - which for those not in the know means a pair of traditional English white female hens which are just about to start laying eggs!

Our birds were selected - now it was time to bid. No doubt for the amusement of Dick and James, I was put in charge of the bidding. I'd never been to a regular auction before, let alone a poultry one, and my only understanding of what to do came from watching the odd episode of 'Cash in the Attic' on TV. I had my bidding card and a list of the bidding order, on which I'd circled the number for the Muscovy ducks (number 29) and the hens (number 51). As the auctioneer prepared to begin the bidding we all crowded around the scaffolding stand on which the auctioneer stood. Dick whispered into my ear the bidding technique I was to try: keep secret from the other bidders which birds I was interested in; don't start the bidding but wait and see what happens and then come in later; know the maximum amount you're prepared to pay and don't get carried away with auction fever and over-bid!

The auctioneer hollered into his microphone and the bidding was underway. Trouble was, I couldn't understand a single word the auctioneer was saying. It sounded like a variation of the many honks and cackles filling the hall, a kind of nasal drone with occasional intonations and inflections, but surely not English. I looked round at Dick and James in panic, only to find them grinning and giggling at me... no help there! Looking back at the auctioneer I frowned and focused my attention with all my might, and eventually I began to understand bits of what he was saying. I could make out the odd number and enough words to realise that we were rapidly going through the bidding list and that number 29, the Muscovy Ducks, was fast approaching.

My hands were shaking, my palms were clammy, and my nerves were running high as the auctioneer called the bidding to start for the Muscovy Ducks. Somebody else bid £10 pounds, and the auctioneer looked round for any more bids. With a hefty nudge from Dick I shot my hand holding my bidding number straight up in the air, and I had entered the bidding arena. The auctioneer looked back to the first bidder, who bid again, and then over at me for a higher bid. Not knowing what to do I stood still, scared to move a muscle in case I accidentally over-bid. The auctioneer called to me again, and I heard a loud whisper in my ear saying "NOD!". Realising I had to nod to continue the bidding, I nodded vigorously at the auctioneer, who took my raised bid of £20 and looked back to the other bidder. The other bidder must have shook their head, because the auctioneer called "Once, Twice, SOLD!" We'd won the Muscovy Ducks at a bargain price of 20 quid and I was filled with adrenalin!

I looked round to Dick and James to discover they were chuckling at me. Apparently I'd made a funny spectacle during the bidding, and despite my best efforts to look disinterested I'd been about as cool as a chilli pepper. But there was no time for ridicule, because the bidding slot for the Light Sussex hens was upon us. The same procedure started again: I waited a while for the bidding to get under way, then shot my hand bolt upright in the air to enter the bidding foray. The price spiralled upwards between me and another bidder - these were clearly a popular couple of birds. But after much tension the final bid was placed, the auctioneer cried "SOLD" and thumped his hammer, and the hens were won by... ME!

Auction fever had consumed me: I'd won both pairs of birds and wanted to bid again and again! We decided it was time to collect the new members of Newhouse Farm and leave, which was a very good idea otherwise I'd probably have bid on all sorts of weird and wonderful birds to add to the menagerie at the farm. With the ducks and hens safely placed in travel boxes in the back of the car we headed back towards the farm, contemplating names to call Nigel's new ladies. It seemed obvious to call Nigel's girl Nigella, and after some thought we decided to call the other duck Mindy and give a name to Nigel's previously unnamed son... Mork. Mork and Mindy, Nigel and Nigella... happy families!

Back at the farm we put the Light Sussex hens in with the chickens, and Nigella and Mindy in with Nigel and the newly named Mork. Nigel's reaction was instantaneous. Once he clapped eyes on the ladies mopey Nigel was no more: his feathers fluffed up and he began strutting and hissing towards the females, bobbing his head and looking very pleased. After a few minutes of watching Nigel and his son Mork strut around after Nigella and Mindy, I jumped back in the car and got a lift down to the train station. It was time for me to head back to London to visit friends and tell them of my recent exploits. Once back in the city the squawks and chatter from the morning in the auction hall were juxtaposed with the honks and clatter of the city streets.

Several weeks on and the Muscovy ladies have settled in nicely. To avoid harassment from the Indian runner ducks and the geese, they've taken to perching on the narrow ledge above the stream where they seem to spend most of their days. Nigel and Mork are transformed, waddling around after their new ladies who seem quite unimpressed by their efforts. Ah l'amour!

My How You've Grown!

2009-05-15T14:30:00.013+01:00

Spring has most certainly sprung, and with it all the young animals at Newhouse Farm are growing with natural abundance.

The goslings are no longer cute little bundles that I can scoop up in my hands and carry out of mischief. This picture was taken when they were a few days old back in late March.

Now look at them! They've reached the grand ol' age of 8 weeks and have grown HUGE! All 7 have survived, and we've moved them to the orchard where they have a large grassy slope to roam around on. The goslings make great lawnmowers, and rival cows for the amount of grass they eat.

They may look like grown-ups, but they still behave like naughty teenagers, as they have a great aversion of going to bed. Every evening we go outside to put the animals away. All the ducks, geese and hens are fairly obedient and go into their various homes willingly and with little fuss. Not so the goslings. Round and round their house we go, but will they go in... no they won't. The record for the longest amount of time it took to get the goslings to go to bed is currently held by Dick: it took him 20 minutes the other night and meant that he missed the pub quiz!

The other big giveaway that the goslings haven't fully grown is that they still have downy fluff on their necks instead of feathers, and a few stray fluffy clumps elsewhere on their bodies. But now they're mostly covered in beautiful white or grey feathers, and just look at the size of their wings in the picture below. It may well be time to clip their wings soon or there's a chance they may fly away.

It's not just the goslings that have grown. The Soggy Bottom Boys, aka the 3 ducklings, and the 4 chicks have had a huge growth spurt. They were once this size...

Now the chicks are 8 and a half weeks old, and the ducklings are 7 weeks, and they all live together in a little wooden house! I'm still not sure whether it's advisable to have chicks and ducklings living together, but these ones seem to be cohabiting in perfect harmony. Initially the ducklings and the chicks stuck to their own sides of the pen, but nowadays they're one big flock. I've seen them all snuggled up together having a nap, which is a very sweet sight. However now we've introduced a perch into their house for the chicks, the ducklings seem quite flummoxed as to why they can't hop up there next to their chums.

What's also pretty amusing about this unusual combination of feathered friends is that the ducklings, although younger, are so much taller than the chicks. They're now about twice as tall and tower over the chicks, who although challenged in the stature department still seem to have the upper hand (or should that be wing?!)

Sadly it will soon be time to split up this merry household, as the ducklings will need to move into the pond area and the chicks will move in with the adult flock. The 2 seperate sections do border onto each other though, and I wonder if this gang will look through the chicken wire fence that separates them and recognise each other?

What's more, there's new infants now to be found at the farm. Some Buff Orpington hens became very broody and were sitting on some Maran eggs we gave them. These have hatched and now there are 5 little Maran chicks being cared for by their 2 foster mums. They have their own special hutch that neighbours the ducklings and chicks, with a ramp that takes them up to their sleeping area. It's very endearing to see these little black chicks hopping onto their foster mother's backs, or climbing the ramp to go upstairs.

And finally, we're eagerly awaiting the arrival of more goslings. No, I haven't been incubating again! Instead the real mother goose has taken control and is currently sitting on a large number of eggs. I've no idea when they're due to hatch, but I can't wait to see more fluffy yellow goslings running around. The gander is dutifully standing guard beside his missis day in and day out, and is still as grumpy as ever. I'll keep you posted on the progress of the goslings-to-be.