For all those that live with a cat and survive sans straight jacket

Over the past month, cat Leo has been subjecting me to emotional and mental abuse of such magnitude that I am begging for bamboo splinters to be inserted under my nails, just to relieve my agony.

It all escalated when he started vomiting rather regularly. Now given that he eats 20 meals a day, the statistical probability of an on-the-carpet upchuck episode was getting increasingly favourable. There were no other symptoms and I was about to take him to the vet when my wise sister paid us a visit and shed light.

Apparently all these high science cat foods on the market contain protein that is so altered in the laboratory that if they are eaten exclusively by the said feline over a long period of time, the cat eventually can no longer digest the food properly and the consequences are deposited on the rug.

Change his food said my sister, which I did.

Problem was that Leo liked – a lot - the food that was making him ill and I began tempting him with all the other brands of food on the market. He didn’t like this one, no, that one was just sniffed at, the one in the silver package got the one-eye, the one in the red package generated a look from Leo that said – you having a laugh aren’t you? And so it went.

Then I finally found one. Yes, yes, gimme, gimme, fill the bowl up purred Leo. By this stage I had learnt my lesson and I bought no less than three mini trial packets of this food. Leo downed the lot and even better, kept it down. My problem was that it was fish flavoured and boy, was it fishy. Pour a cupful into his bowl and within minutes the whole room was filled with an aroma that was not Channel number 5 – more like Billingsgate on a very hot afternoon. And of course because of the cat’s bizarre eating habits, the bowl had be kept topped up all day which essentially just stank the house out. But hey, he loved it and he was thriving. 

Job done I thought happily as I ordered a 10kg bag which set me back almost £60.

The bag arrived and I held my breath as I opened it up and poured out the first bowlful. Leo was wittering away at my heels. Ignoring my nausea, I scooped him up and put him face forward in front of his bowl.

He looked into his bowl and then said, nay, don’t wanna it.

So now I am sitting at my desk wondering if I could get away with wrapping the 10kg bag in Christmas paper and delivering it to someone I really don’t like.

Begs the question of what I get Leo for the next meal, which is due in about 19 minutes. Given what he has put me through and the plethora of mice out in the fields, I am tempted to suggest to the cat that he gets off his backside and goes and gets a take away.

Meet Mrs Balls

Scotland Farm has a new inmate. Her name is Mrs Balls and she is a Sussex Light/Rhode Island Red cross chick. Now the important thing is that although she arrived only 2 days ago, I know that she is a she and not a he. This is because this particular hybrid cross of hen is self sexing -  the girls are born golden and the boys traditional chick yellow. Very important because its the girls we are after and the boys, well, they have to "go down the road". Most people dont know that sexing chickens is a highly skilled job and can take up to two years to master. So having a chick whose plumage gives the game away the instant it hatches is a big plus.

Now Mrs Balls is special in other ways. I bought 18 cross eggs off Ebay and popped them in the incubator confident of at least a 60% hatch rate. All was going well until we had a power failure. It occurred at 11.30pm just at the crucial stage of chicken egg incubation and I got alarmed. Called the power utility and was told the power would only be off for about an hour. Well in the wild, hens get off their eggs daily to eat and enjoy their morning constitutional so if the power was off for an hour, the eggs ought to be fine. Ergo I did not intervene and went to bed. The only problem was the hour stretched to two hours and then three hours. By the time the power was finally restored, the eggs had cooled off for 5 and a half hours. Not good. But I restored the incubator and let nature take its course.

Obviously something went very wrong becasue most of the eggs candled infertile. I debated with myself taking all the eggs out and chucking them but something made me hold back. The due date (29th August) came and went and nothing happened - no hatching, no peeping of little bird voices, no tapping of little beaks. Nothing. Then on 31st I walked into the bird room and the most nauseating, horrible smell hit me. Honestly this was a stench that made sheep footrot smell like Chanel No 5. After reeling backwards, I recovered, braced myself and made my way to the incubator to find green fluid leaking out from the bottom - clearly the source of the putrid aromas. There to my astonishment I discovered Mrs Balls standing in the incubator, having not so much hatched in any sense of the word but obviously her rotten shell had just exploded and projected her into the world. What an undignified way to arrive and clearly she was not happy. I grabbed some paper towel and mopped up as much of the green soup as possible without retching. I then opened the incubator and extracted the little scrap of chick. Books say leave chicks in the incubator for 24 hours to dry off properly but the gases and fumes in the incubator were so vile and toxic that I was sure the chick would simply choke and die.

She is an odd little thing - not quite right but she is toddling around in the brooder, eating and drinking. She has been joined by a more robust healthier brother - the only other egg that hatched out of the 18.
But why have I called her Mrs Balls? Well my South African readers will cotton on pretty quick. Mrs Balls makes the best chutney ever and its the golden brown colur of this chick's feminine plumage. The chick also had the balls to hang in through the power cut and then survived being encased in green slime - that takes strength of character - hence Mrs Balls.

Havent named her brother yet but it remains to be seen if both surive. Hope so.

Feathered Fiend

Reading my recent blog about the trout fishing weekend some 40 years ago, I think leads to the completely erroneous conclusion that all went well for me and all went badly for poor Colin. Time to confess – I too got my come-uppance that weekend and like Colin it came from the bird world in the form of a blue crane by the name of Pete.

Pete was very much in control of the farm and especially the farm house. He was a tall bird – easily my height which made him look huge at my age. He also has these beady untrustworthy eyes which seem to dart around looking for mischief. To top it all, Pete could also move at bloody lighting speed and sported a stiletto beak that was as sharp as a razor. The problem was he was fine with men but Pete, for some reason, absolutely loathed women.  His gender bias which, given half a chance, ended in blood being spilt, was well known and even before we arrived at the lodge we all had been warned about Pete and were briefed about how to deal with him. All the cars drew up at the front door on that first evening. The men got out and called for Pete who appeared suddenly from out of the flower bed on elegant stick thin legs. The men called Pete around the back to the kitchen door with the promise of a tasty morsel and then yelled “All clear” where upon all the women dived out the cars and belted for the front door, slamming it behind us. This was the only means of safe passage if you were of the feminine variety.

Now my father and I had been given a guest house, separate from the main house and about 20 metres from the kitchen door. For some bizarre reason known only to the owner and builder, this guest house was designed sans lavatory or anything that resembled a bathroom. “Don’t worry,” said our host, “we will leave the kitchen door unlocked at night so you can make use of the facilities any time you need.”

Sure enough, I woke on that first morning at about 4.30 with a bladder full to bursting. I got up and was about to leave the sanctuary of the guest house when suddenly the full extent of my predicament became horribly apparent. It was still dark enough for no one to be around to act as a Pete decoy to allow me safe passage to the main house but it was already light enough for Pete to be up and about, on the prowl and ready to attack any unsuspecting female.

I peered out from the doorway of guest house. The flower beds looked quiet and undisturbed. The beds around the kitchen door looked pretty benign and by this stage my full bladder was making my eyes water. So I decided to make a dash for it on the basis that it was only 20m metres between me and a permanent urinary tract infection. I actually recall thinking I am not even in my teens, I don’t yet wear a bra so maybe Pete wont work out that I am female. Perhaps I can fool him.

I am about to turn 54 and even at this stage of my life, I find it difficult to describe what happened save to say that, to this day, I cannot look at a blue crane without beads of blood appearing on my forehead and me involuntary exercising my core muscles in a way that would make my personal trainer proud.

   

    

Simon's Cat - a Dedication

I love the Simon’s Cat cartoons on You Tube – they are charming. But living with cats has its moments and so I dedicate this blog not only to Simon but to all cat owners in the knowledge that they will understand where I am coming from. Two nights, one ongoing saga told by three different souls.

The first night
Bella the Collie says: So here I am, very much top dog and asleep in my rightful place. Now I am a very tolerant pack commander but I cannot understand why the second in command insists on being infested with these stupid felines. Honestly, the fuss they cause at all hours when I am trying to get my much deserved sleep. Last night was a prime example. I dealt with it by giving the second in command a dirty look and told her: your problem – you sort out. I then went back to sleep.

Me, the poor human says: Bloody cat won’t let me sleep! I go to bed circa midnight knowing that Leo is out on the prowl but the kitchen window is open and he can use the dog door in the passage. At some ungodly hour I am woken up by this hysterical meouwling outside my window. On goes the light. Bella raises an eyebrow at me and goes back to sleep. I go to the window and explain nicely to Leo that because of the external scaffolding (that he is standing on), I cannot open the window wide enough to let him in. Cat carries on yowling pitifully. I go downstairs, open my study window and call him. He doesn’t appear but the yowling gets louder. Go back upstairs, cannot see Leo. Go back downstairs – he still hasn’t appeared. Room is cold and so am I. Go back upstairs. Leo is pawing at my bedroom window. I explain again, not so politely this time, that I cannot open the bloody window wide enough. Go downstairs you feline idiot, I bellow. Cat is now turning purple, so am I. Go downstairs and close the study window. Go back upstairs. Open window in spare bedroom. Cat appears. Looks at me and then says no, I don’t think so. He dithers half in and half out the open window. I am now seriously cold. I lean over and assist Leo in taking the “in” decision by putting my hand firmly under his butt and catapulting him into the room. Takes him a couple of seconds to regain his composure and then he trots downstairs. I go back to bed. Five minutes later, Leo is in my room meouwling at me. On goes light, I get another black look from the dog. Leo and I go downstairs and I open the kitchen for him. He tucks into a meal. I go back to bed - finally.

Leo says: I just cannot understand the fuss. My human possession can be so stupid sometimes, she just doesn’t get it. Here I am protecting the property all night and what do I find? I need to come in for a meal and I am bloody locked out – how rude. This is just not good enough so I call my possession and ask politely to be let in. She just stands there in the middle of the room, barefoot and scantily clad, waving her arms at me and babbling incoherently. I ask her again – please open the window. It’s that simple – just open the window. Next thing she disappears. I hear her clattering downstairs which is of course none of my business and completely off piste. I wait patiently for her to return. Which she does but still doesn’t open the bloody window. Now I am getting a little fed up with this game of charades – I am cold and hungry. She is shouting so I start shouting over her, in the hope that she will finally understand what I need. By gum! Would you believe it, she disappears again. More clattering downstairs. This is getting silly and I am now very annoyed. Suddenly she gets the message but she opens a window about 10 metres away. Oh well, better than nothing. I go and check it out and woa! Never been through this window before. Not sure about this – could be dangerous. Better have a think about what to do. Then suddenly, don’t know how, but I am in – some rocket behind me appeared mysteriously and projected me into the room – knew that window was suspicious. Oh ok, all safe so now I can get breakfast. What the hell! Someone has closed my kitchen door. Only one thing for it – need to inform possession. Upstairs again. Why did she go back to bed in any case? This is not the time to sleep. Sleep time is when the sun is up not when its dark. Not sure she will ever get this right. Thank goodness that stupid dog stayed out of the performance this time.

Second night
Bella the Collie says: Ruddy feline is at it again. Oh well back to sleep.

My version: Cat won’t let me sleep! If I don’t get a decent night’s sleep soon I am going state side.

Leo’s version: Ha! Have spent whole day sleeping. Now its time to show my human possession how much I appreciate her. So first offering is a shrew at 1am– a bit small but my possession thinks its elephant nose is cute. Well, what a bloody performance - on goes the light in the sleep room, possession, again scantily dressed, running around the room after the shrew. I had to intervene, things were getting ugly. I grab shrew and what happens? - possession chucks me and the shrew out the sleep room and slams the door. Clearly she wanted something else. I leave the shrew to scuttle under the sofa and out I go – I really need to please my possession. 2am - now I have something that I know will please her but what the hell - the door is still slammed shut. I have to get in, so I go to huge effort with the rat in my mouth. I climb up the honeysuckle creeper and squeeze in through the top window. Present my possession with this amazing gift. Well what a bloody performance: on goes the light again in sleep room, possession says YUK (or a word that sounded like YUK) and grabs rat with hand covered in a tissue. Then what thanks do I get, she dumps my toy in the dustbin in the water room adjacent to the sleep room and slams the door between the two. So now I cannot get to my rat – possession might be through with rat but I was just getting warmed up, they such fun – they make this cute squeaky noise when you toss them in the air and they last longer than the shrews. Only solution – out I go again. Get lucky at 3am, bring possession a really cool mouse. Deliver it to her bed side but I am puzzled. Why has my possession got her head under the pillow and what is that sobbing noise?

Food chains and feather fiends

It’s official with irrevocable proof that I reside right at the bottom of the food chain here at the farm. Some months ago I did a pilot test to see if we could raise quails for eggs, meat and sale of point of lay hens. I ordered three dozen fertile eggs off the internet and when they duly arrived by Royal Mail, wrapped in bubble pack and intact, I put them in the incubator. After eighteen days nothing had happened so I thought, oh well there goes another idea. I switched off the incubator and prepared myself to chuck the eggs out. The first one I lifted out however felt heavy and full, so I put it on the kitchen scales where it clocked in at a massive total of 8 grams. To my astonishment as I was looking down at it, it wobbled and gave out a loud cheep where upon many of the other eggs still in the incubator responded and started tapping and cheeping. In other words, the chicks were telling me in no uncertain terms to stop interfering with nature and to butt out of their forthcoming lives. Just under half the eggs hatched over a period of 2 days and these little yellow and cocoa coloured bumbles bees knew exactly how to get on with the job of living and growing. And boy did they grow! – like topsy as we watched. Interestingly they were totally self-sufficient from the moment they hatched. They took instantly to their chick crumb feed, knew where their water was and in general crapped in only one corner of the brooder. After 6 weeks, I felt confident enough to sex them and was disheartened to find that I only had 3 hens. This 75:25 male to femaIe ratio I established is normal for the bird world so I got on with the job of feeding the boys up for the table. At 9 weeks they went off “down the road” as our dear neighbour says when acknowledging where our meat comes from and they returned a few days later neatly packed in trays ready for either freezer or oven. This left us with 3 females and two cock birds (one stayed on by accident since I had not yet refined my sexing skills) and happily the hens have started laying eggs which are not only in great demand because they are delicious but they also represent the second phase of the quail project. But here comes the food chain bit and my rather lowly stature therein. One of hens is a feisty little thing. She clocks in at about 300 grams and I can easily pick her up in one hand so she’s not exactly the most terrifyingly huge creature. Nor do quails have scary sharp peaks or claws. Nevertheless, this little girl gets muchly bothered if her food bowl runs low and attacks me when I dare open their hutch to refill it. First time it happened I got such a shock I nearly fell over backwards. Now I have got wise to it. The other day I was feeling particularly put upon so instead of sacrificing my hand, I opened the hutch and glared in. There she was ready for battle, feathers puffed out. I squinted at her and shouted, “I have just eaten one of your brothers and very delicious he was too!” I did feel a little better until I realised that George the Romanian builder and Sean the English carpenter, currently doing some work on the farm, so happened to be in ear shot. I looked up to see them stare at me, exchange knowing looks between each other and then wander off in opposite directly shaking their heads. Round three to the little quail.

Hysterical Shouting and Screaming

Until recently, my experience of guinea fowl had been limited to a brief indirect encounter when I was about 8 years old. A work colleague of my father’s invited him to a trout fishing weekend in the Eastern Transvaal and for some reason my mother elected not to join him. This meant I was allowed to go with him. The weekend party was made up mainly of adults and save for one, I was in the minority. The only other member of the group my age was a pasty hysterical boy called Colin. Colin was known for almost incessant noisy outbursts, tantrums, screaming and tears. My most vivid memory of Colin was his face - red and blotchy, tears and snot-caked as he let rip emotionally about whatever was worrying him that moment. And there always seemed to be something worrying him. Colin’s behaviour might have had a lot to do with his rather unusual family circumstances. His parents were both on their second marriage (to each other) and each brought from their previous relationships, three daughters all in their late teens which meant that when Colin arrived he essentially had seven mothers under one roof. This may have explained his rather unique perception of the world and constant state of hysterics although I can think of a number of advantages of being poly-maternally endowed.
Throughout the weekend Colin and I studiously avoided each other. I found his emotional outbursts embarrassing. I had no idea of what he thought of me and nor did I care.
On the last morning of our weekend, breakfast commenced without Colin and I must say it was rather pleasant - peaceful and relaxed. Not to last of course because half way through, Colin burst into the kitchen totally hysterical, screaming and crying. Eventually the group managed to extract from him what the problem was this time. Colin appeared to have gone wandering across the veld on his own where he came upon a guinea fowl hen on her nest of eggs. She did what any self-respecting mother-to-be would do and defended her budding brood by setting up a terrible screeching racket and attacking Colin, giving him the fright of his life.
I was totally unimpressed. I remember glowering at him over the breakfast table as he sniffled into his cornflakes muttering “if I had a .22 you all would be eating guinea fowl now” and thinking what a prat.
Fast forward 44 years and when James and I went to buy some Southdown ewe lambs, we came across an aviary which contained a number of guinea fowl chicks. “Oh please take them”, said Susan, “I don’t have room for them and they are very cramped.” James said no. Susan, her daughter Gussie and I packed the 11 birds into some boxes and we drove home, the sheep in the trailer and the birds in back of the car. I emptied them into a hen coup and let them get on with life. Five keeled over immediately and kicked the bucket. The remaining seven survived. After a couple of weeks, I let them out of the coup, saying ok guys goodbye, convinced that they would take off, never to be seen again. Not on your nelly. They stayed, integrated with the hens, moved into the hen’s lodgings and generally began taking control of everything they encountered.
That was 9 months ago. Today they rule the roost, moving everywhere an almost solid group, a spotty hysterical Doctor Doolittle’s push-me-pull-you. Fully grown they are big birds, far bigger than the cochin hens and that is saying something. They are somewhat prehistoric looking with their elaborate spots, their turquoise faces and almost bald crenulated skulls covered in a mere hint of odd tufts of bum fluff. To top this weird attire, they sport bright red wattles, the large wattles identifying the males.
And they know that they are imposing, taking great delight in collectively chasing cat Leo in through the kitchen window. He tries to regain composure by settling down in the safety in a patch of sun in the dining room near the glass French doors only to find the seven guinea fowl leering menacingly in at him from the outside. He clearly doesn’t want to lose face for a second time in quick succession so he pretends they don’t exist. He turns his face away from them and by the process of cell osmosis attempts to inch away from them in a way that belies his intentions. They continue to peer in at him tapping their beaks on the glass and chattering incessantly at him. He looks slightly green around the gills.
Once the cat has been firmly put in his place, the birds then go to sit on the farm gate facing the street. They are quite happy to perch there for hours, again chattering nonstop and much of Hawkley Village has witnessed them sitting there like the vultures in Disney’s jungle book. But then I drive up to gate, returning from home from wherever. I press the remote control to open the gate and it begins to slide to the right. The seven guinea fowl give a shout of alarm and being to shuffle to the left. The gate continues to shift to the right and birds, as they begin to run out of perch space, continue to shuffle to the left until of course the bird on the far left falls off with much shouting and before he reconstitutes himself in the driveway. The gate continues to open, shifting to the right and the remaining birds shuffling in tandem to the left until the next bird falls off the gates and so it goes. The first time this happened, the building contractor from across the road stopped work and watched the process, open mouth before he collapsed laughing.

People had warned me that guinea fowl are very noisy but are great watch dogs. Ours, people noted are the calmest most chilled birds they had ever met but hysterical shouting and screaming is par for the course with guinea fowl. The birds know me and my voice, they follow me everywhere – even across the fields when I am doing my sheep rounds. They allow me to put them to bed at night and even let me medicate two who were injured when a sheep hurdle fell on them. I thought I had them sussed but they continue to surprise me. Bob came to scan the sheep last week and we kicked off early – before I had let the hens and guinea fowl out their coop for the day. Melissa let the birds out while Bob and I got one with the scanning. All was well until the guinea fowl came round the corner and into the barn where they encountered Bob in his black water-proof waders and with his odd looking sheep scanning trailer. The birds took one look and decided in concert and very shrilly: we don’t like this! They went absolutely bananas and set up a screeching racket that was blood curdling and ear splitting; the noise painfully amplified in the barn. The two dogs scattered. Bob stared at me in alarm and mouthed above the chaos: “I have never heard anything quite like this ever before in my entire life.” After about five minutes of screeching which seemed like eternity, I managed to calm the guinea fowl down after which they decided “Oh ok, he’s alright” and they settled on the barn gate to happily watch Bob complete the sheep scan.

As we approach the spring I am aware that the birds are fully grown and about to go into their first breeding season. I pity the two girls in the group, nature conspired against us and the gender ratio is not good. I am told that once the hens are sitting on eggs, I must do everything I can to locate the nest and remove the eggs (our incubator is due to arrive any day). This is because the hen will refuse to leave her nest and will therefore be fair game for the fox. That would be sad. Be careful, came the warning, when you approach the nest, the hen is likely to set up a furious screaming match and is likely to attack you. Yes I know, I said with a wry smile, I have had experience of this before. Irrespective of its gender, I think I our first guinea fowl chick born to Scotland farm will be named Colin.

Apologies to Leo

Leo is our neutered tom cat and he is more like a combination of something out of the Wizard of Oz and Jonesy in Dad’s Army – don’t panic, don’t panic. He is the lion who needs a dose of bravery and even the vet in Johannesburg called him a Dorothy. Big and little things alike seriously faze him out and he exudes a lack of confidence which merely works against him. Even the guinea fowl have sensed this and there have been terrible scenes in which Leo comes flying in through the kitchen window, eyes wide and tail bushed out with half a dozen noisy spotted birds in hot pursuit. They seem to chase him just for the shear amusement of watching the reaction.
Like the time when we got him and his mother out of six-months worth of quarantine and brought them back to farm. Leo took one look at Labrador Oscar and decided the dog was going eat him. The cat disappeared up the chimney. We coaxed him out but he was still not having any of the dog and I never thought it possible that a cat could spend a whole week living on top of the fridge. But then amazingly he suddenly decided that he was not a ready Lab meal and Leo came down to resume a relatively normal live at the farm. But the operative word is relative.
The thing is Leo also has a very odd relationship with food. He actually doesn’t know what it is. Put any range of tasty morsels in front of him and he merely sits there looking vaguely offended and confused. He only eats dry cat pellets. But he does this with alacrity at least twenty times a day and purring loudly in the process. This of course means that the bowl has to be constantly replenished and if for whatever reason we forget to do this – immediately – twenty times a day – Leo will witter and perform, dashing and darting under our feet in a manner guaranteed to cause a frightful accident and someone to nearly break their neck.
It was recently during his many visits to his peanut bowl at two in the morning that I noticed he had started talking to his food. “That cat seriously needs counselling”, I remember thinking but being snugly tucked up in bed, I didn’t go and investigate. Until three night ago. Being restless, I decided to present myself at his side and what a bloody shock. There was Leo sitting in front of his bowl which had been invaded by giant slugs. These things were so huge I could actually hear them crunching and scrapping at the cat’s peanuts. And not only were they in his bowl, there was a whole load of them having a party on the work surface. No one will believe me or the cat, I decided. So I went to fetch a camera.


After preserving them digitally, I then had this great idea. I recall reading that one fool proof way of catching garden snails is to leave out a bowl of beer. The story goes that they find the smell of lager irresistible and climb in only to drown – very happily. So there I am in the early hours of the morning, in my bare feet, pouring the giant slugs a Bittberger and wondering if they would prefer an Amstel.
We do say that at Scotland Farm the inmates run the asylum but I formally offer Leo an apology. He is not barking mad talking to his food. He was telling these revolting pushy things to sod off out of his beloved cat peanuts.
The beer lark failed miserably so the next night I exacted my revenge and went into the utility room armed with the salt sellar. No more slugs. Odd though, Leo still talks to his food….

Life According to Pinto Bean

I have often read accounts of how the sheer will to live has resulted in people and animals surviving extreme and appalling conditions and the stubborn refusal to die was cited as a primary reason why survival was the only outcome. Conversely, although less documented because it doesn’t make a heart-warming story, when there is no will to live, death follows pretty quickly.
In lambing, I have now seen both. We knew that we would be subject toxoplasmosis which results in abortion or deformities. The only laboratory in the UK failed to successfully make the vaccine that we needed so we braced ourselves.
A pattern swiftly emerged mainly among the ewes expecting twins. The first lamb was born weak and very small. The second followed shortly afterwards, either dead or unviable, usually not lasting the first 8 hours. These lambs had that look in their eyes which said I don’t want to live. No amount of warm colostrum tubed into their little tummies, infrared lamps to keep their body temperatures up, antibiotic injections to fight infection or indeed attentive and caring mothers pawing at them to encourage them to stand up and suckle could reverse the path these creatures where on. And there were seven of them, hell bent on leaving this life. I reconciled myself that I had done what I could and my intervention was not going change things. The exception was little Pinto Bean as she has been named.
She was so tiny at birth she would not have been able to reach up to suckle even if she had been born with the strength to do so. And she just reminded me of a little bean. Her first 12 hours where horrible and any other personality would have decided that life was literally not worth living. But not Pinto – she was hell bent on surviving, she defied all odds. She was a definitely a toxo baby, her twin sister didn’t survive the night. Then Pinto’s mother decided to reject her and not only to turn her back but to trample on her and head butt her across the pen. Each time this happened, little Pinto would meekly struggle to her feet as best she could, bleating piteously before apologetically trying to approach her mother only to be sent flying across the pen. I allowed this to happen only twice before I whisked her away, wrapped her in a towel and settled down to watch TV with her in my lap. If she going to die, I thought let her at least know the comfort of a surrogate mother for a couple of hours, holding and accepting her. After about half an hour, I felt her stop shivering and she tentatively began sucking my finger. The antibiotics were clearly working and I managed to get 100ml of warm milk into her. Although she remained desperate for a mother - she tried to suckle the Labrador and the Collie and I even caught her eyeing the cats and hens, Pinto was on the mend. Her second trauma was when I tried to get another ewe to adopt her. We had a healthy single born and after donning gloves, I collected the birth fluid and rubbed all over Pinto before offering her to the new mum. The ewe wasn’t having any of this and Pinto got head butted across a pen again. Again I scooped her out and this time used a towel not to keep her warm but to wash off all the slime before taking back into the house to watch some more TV.

Pinto is now a month old. She has just clocked in at 10kgs and is an authority on international developments as reported by the BBC.
I am definitely her mother and I still give her a bottle twice a day but she has been integrated into the flock since I really want her to know that she is a sheep. At meal times I take her bottle into the field. As I call, she answers loudly and comes bouncing up to me before butting my knees in search of the teat. She then drains her bottle without pausing, her eyes closing in delight. Odd that I can differentiate her call from all the other lambs. The other night as I took my leave of her, I said “Bbbbyee Pinto”. Mom, you are spending too much time with the sheep, said Cameron.

The Flesh House

No matter how many books you might read about a topic, nothing can ever prepare you for hands on experience. I learnt this when I produced my son. I had a refresher course in this lesson with our lambing. The books are all full of neat diagrams of malpresentations and prolapsed uteruses. They show you how to tube a lamb to ensure that initially the colostrum and then the milk reach the lambs’ stomachs and did not go down their air passages. They show pictures of all kind of horrible things that go wrong with lambs – watery mouth, scouring, joint disease and so on. But they gloss over what to me was possibly the most challenging. None of the books tell you what to do with a dead lamb. They all say just dispose of it. Err right, I know I have to dispose of it, but how? And we had seven of these situations.
As ever, our dear neighbours came to the rescue. They showed me where dead lambs need to go and all dead farm animals for that matter. Thus this blog is dedicated to those kind wonderful people at the Hunt who do a job most foul and are still kind, considerate and caring.
You have to put the dead lamb in a black bag and the sooner you get it to the Hunt the better for obvious reasons, especially when we lambed late and the weather had already warmed up considerably. Leave a dead lamb in its bag for a couple of days and you will know all about it. The drive to the Hunt is a classic countryside meander through pretty villages along leafy B-roads. Nothing untoward except just before the left hand turn into the Hunt driveway, I pull over. I apply a finger-full of Vicks Vapour Rub to my top lip and inhale deeply, allowing the pungent smell of camphor to clog my senses. The courtyard is nothing out of the ordinary, until you get out of the car and the smell hits you, even over the camphor sludge just under your nose. I once read an article written by someone who worked for the Red Cross during the Second World War. His job was to clean up and he said: “If the world’s decision makers could experience that smell of death, there would be no more wars.” It is an indescribable smell but so cloying , it gets into your clothes, your hair, so that long after your escape, you can still smell it.
Now, once in the courtyard and having met the smell, you then still have to dispose of your black bag. Invariably there is no one around who might help – they are busy sorting out untold ghastly things so you have to deal with this one your own – which means opening the door of the flesh house. This is the room where everything is brought and you have to be brave to open that door. I watch shoppers in the meat section of Waitrose and its hits home just how these people have no idea about how meat gets onto those fridge shelves and what can go wrong in the process. Yes, they will say, we all know about abattoirs – its all very quick and efficient. I agree but at least the smell there is fresh and the flesh is healthy. But what about that sheep that keels over in the fields and lies there for a few days before the farmer locates it and brings it to the Hunt for disposal? Nothing quick and efficient about that except for the rigor mortis and the maggots. So I brace myself and I open the door. I place my black bag on the floor close to my feet and try not to look around the room, try not to inhale. The scene caught in my peripheral vision defies description. I focus on the black bag, say goodbye to a lamb who didn’t make and then I back the hell out of there, ensuring that the door is properly latched closed.
I drive away more affected than I care to acknowledge, back to the farm and look forward to seeing the healthy lambs bouncing around the fields, confirmation of the circle of life. The smell follows me. Later I cook supper and find I cannot face what I usually eat - a toasted cheese sandwich does just fine.

Quietly Saying No

Three ewes left to lamb and the ladies have been magnificent. Done it all themselves even to the extent that they have cleaned up afterwards. Only two, interestingly from the same blood line and same father deserted their lambs. It was like they didnt realise that this was a) something alive that needed assistance and b) was their flesh and blood. So we have (so far) two pet lambs called Pinto and Bortelini. Now Southdown lambs are not the prettiest of young - British understatement, they are bloody ugly with their Dennis Healey eyebrows and hairy knees but they are very appealing. So the two little motherless beans have to get fed from a bottle and I am now making up lamb formula milk by the bucket full because by gum these little things can eat. In making up their feed, I have to measure the dried milk powder out accurately and mix it with the correct amount of water. If not, we run the risk of seriously upsetting their lamb stomachs and this is not ground I wish to cover.

So every day I have to measure 100gr of milk powder for every 500ml of water. Now I have a great set of electronic kitchen scales. But they do need silver iodide batteries which I bought off the internet since this struck me as the most painless way to do it. The batteries arrived and it said on the packet "Made in China". My heart sank because it is my experience that things with this wording stamped on the packet tends to be unreliable, throw away rubbish.

Well, I forced my cynical unkind thoughts out my mind and embarked on my milk powder weighing career. Sure enough after day 3 the scales began to play up - the electronic read out flashing randon numbers and clearly not weighing properly. I sucked my teeth because this was a product that until coupled with suspect batteries has for years behaved in an exemplary fashion. A change of batteries (from the same pack) brought some but not lasting improvement.

I was suddenly reminded of that horrific human baby milk case in China where the manufacturers caused the death and serious illness of scores of babies by augmenting the milk powder with heavens knows what. I froze mid task and grabbed the bag of milk powder dreading that I was going to be faced with the same "Made in China" curse and the thought that maybe my lambs were going to suffer the same fate. To my relief, the lamb milk is manufactured in good old Yorkshire so all I had to worry about was the correct weighing.

But it got me thinking. I have not counted accurately but I reckon in any particular day or shopping expedition every second or third item I see on the shelf has been made in China and imported at great cost to our balance of payments. And all too often the product is total rubbish. Well, without becoming militant or fanatical about it, I have decided in my own quiet way that in future I am just going to say no. I am going to read each and every label and if it says "Made in China", I am going to put it back on the shelf. Further if I cannot find a product that is made elsewhere, I will just jolly well do without.

Perhaps if enough like-minded people begin doing the same, then the owners of the big famous brands who have outsourced their manufacturing to $1/day labour in China might begin to appreciate how they themselves are undermining the value and reputation of their brands.

In the meanwhile, I can hear Pinto Bean bleating for her Yorkshire milk. I will not keep her waiting.

Long suffering vets

This posting is a tribute to all those wonderful vets who on a day-to-day basis put up with the madness of animal owners and the complete lack of inhibitions of their patients.
On Monday, I bundled all four animals (two dogs and two cats) into the car and took them off for their annual innoculations. All was going well. We were all calmly sitting in the waiting room when the door of the consultation room burst open and a carpet walked out towards us. The cats were safely in their pet voyagers, thank heavens. Labrador Oscar lept backwards into my lap while chewing his upper lip - a sign that says Holy shit, I dont know what to make of this! Bella the Collie yelped. Fortunately the carpet just stood there while its owner paid the bill. Afghan hounds are not know for their spontaneous intelligence.
Runway cleared and carpet ushered out, we were called in to see Jim Logan.
Jenga was first. The tiny grey cat had to be hauled out of the basket, hissing and swearing. Her immediate reaction was to look for an escape route. Leo was next. Jim held the basket upside down and poured Leo out onto the consultation table. Leo then proceed to dissappear into the surface of the table. Eyes shut tight, ears flat, shoulders hunched exuding the body language which said: I really don't exist. No wonder the vet back in Jo'burg called him Dorothy. Injection over, I suggested to Leo that he might want to get back into his basket. Yes, yes, came the response. Paws scrabbling for the per voyager, eyes still tightly shut, ears glued back.

The dogs were much easier save for the fact that Oscar flatly refused to stand on the scale. Before they knew it they were all back home and within seconds had totally forgotten that their weekhad started with a bang.

And then we got the blood results for the sheep. Our scanning had produced some interesting results. 4 barren, 7 singles and 11 twins. (Thank heavens not triplets.)The good news was our English ram had done his thing and if we did not witness sheep-type hanky panky it was just because he was showing classic English politness and modesty. The bad news was that 4 barren out of 22 is statistically too high and we needed to know why. One possibility was that the sheep have a mineral deficiency so we called the sheep vet out to take blood. So long suffering Martin Andrews arrived. Now the sheep behaved well, the problem was the hens. For some reason know only to themselves, they decided to hang about Martin, getting under his feet, tripping him up, talking to him. One even got air borne, fluttered into the back of his Land Rover and settled down making "I am going to lay an egg" type noises. He was very good natured about it and gently tossed her out. But I shook my head wondering what these poor vets have to tolerate everyday of their lives. Anyway the upshot is: no mineral deficiencies so we have to look further afield to resolve the question of our 4 barren ewes.

28th February - D-DAY

So its all arranged. On February 28th a (hopefully) nice man is coming to give our 22 ewes an internal scan so we can know firstly if they are in lamb and secondly whether they are carrying singles, twins or triplets. After two sheep cycles of 17 days each during which the rams were in with the ewes, readers might consider the first piece of information a no-brainer - of course they are in lamb! Not necessarily so since as we all know the course of true love rarely runs smoothly and I am begining to wonder if my rather tongue-in-cheek comments made in an earlier blog about frozen sheep testicles might have a grain of truth.

You see we donned our two rams Frenchman Jean-Claude and Englishman Rangemaster in their breeding harnesses, applied the yellow rayon and sent them out, each to a group of 11 ewes. Jean-Claude went straight to work - oh la la. Rangemaster however, rushed about in ever decreasing circles, grunting loudly. Honestly, he might just as well have been wearing a bowler hat and carry a briefcase and brollie. Exactly 17 days later (after the first ewe cycle) we got the sheep in to see how they had been marked. The yellow shadow on the backs of the ewes was sort of there with Jean-Claude's ladies but when it came to the Englishman's wives, the results were inconclusive to say the least. We changed the crayon to red and sent the sheep back out into the fields. 11 days later, the majority of Jean-Claude's ewes were sporting unmistakably red backsides - job done French style. Rangemaster's women - again rather inconclusive. Things were not looking good for the Englishman. We took him away from his ewes, sent them in with the Frenchman and left Rangemaster all alone in a field. He went nuts. Now when a hormone-hyped 120kgs ram goes nuts it is a sight to behold. He rushed up and down along the fence trying to rejoin the flock, he clambered over a pedstrian gate and got caught in brambles in no-mans land bewteen the fences separating two fields, he bellowed like a wounded bull, he rushed at Bella the Collie, sending her flying. Something had to be done. I called our sheep partner Andy. He swiftly brought 10 of what he calls his naughties - commercial ewes who sport appalling manners like learning to break through electic fencing. Marked for that big lamb chop in the sky (because of their bad manners which Andy says they pass onto their lambs and he cannot be having that), Rangemaster's alarming circumstances provided a reprieve for the 10 naughties. They arrived and lo and behold, Rangemaster rushed at them and got on the job.

So here we are waiting for news of how many lambs we can expect in May and how many will be born wearing berets as opposed to bowlers. It also remains to be seen how many naughty commercial lambs will be born. I am secretly hoping for a lot of these guys. In my sheep book, naughty goes with smart and I find Andy's 10 delightful. They are curious, friendly and generally much more aware of the world than the not-naughty commercials. With their spunky personalities and Rangemaster's determination, the resulting lambs could be very interesting indeed.

Radio 4 - what happened?

I have stopped listening to Radio 4. Increasingly I found the content negative, repetitive, stereotyped and quite frankly tedious. Over the last few months like a mindless mantra, almost every programme, debate and comment has been prefixed by the phrase "because of the budget cuts". Because of the budgets cuts X has to do without Y and because of the budget cuts A enjoys less of whatever and so it goes.

It actually reminds me of when son Cameron was at nursery school. One of his classmates was a very funny kid who had an amazingly vivid imagination. Given half an opportunity he would regale you with a long drawn out and intricate story about "what just happened". It usually involved fire engines, motor cars, sirens and traffic collisions. All very colouful, told with great gusto and waving of arms. He then always, without fail, would finish his story by saying: " and it all happened that way because I have a willy." From a four year old, it was endearing. From an erudite world class radio station, its annoying.

Lets all just acccept that the previous government grossly overspent and the resultant bureaucracy like a bloated tick needs to be reigned back to something that resembles appropriate normality if this economy is to recover. And then lets just move on.

The little kid must now be approaching puberty. I have no idea where he is or what has happened to him. It's probably safe to assume, however, that his willy is just as important to him now than it was when he galloped about the nursery school playground a decade ago.

I have always maintained that the world is made up of three sorts of people: those that make things happen, those that watch what happened and those that wonder what happened? Cameron's clasmate is almost certainly someone who will grow up making things happen - for better or worse. At the moment, for me at any rate, Radio 4 is not making things happen at all and in fact it has suggested that there is a fourth sort of person in the world: those that make this unhappen. What a shame.

What is it about dogs?

My late father had a great word. He used to talk about crapology, often heard saying "this is crapology" in a way that a Japanese business associate of mine used to say "this is a bullshit!" Now my father never actually defined the term but I assume it referred to the study of crap. Out of sterile London and on a farm, I am only now becoming fully aware of the signficance of the term because as all country folk will know, we are constantly surrounded by the material in all its glory.

Now the brown substance could actually be managed and kept at bay if it were not for our canine companions. What is it about dogs that make them go for the stuff? Bella the Collie is the worst. In all other respects she is a model citizen and a credit to any nation. But put her in front of a pile of sheep/cow/chicken/cat shit and she blots her copy book big time. In the first instance she eats it - with relish and then comes and pants dog breath all over us. Not Channel No 5.

But what she did last night took the biscuit. We had our neighbours in for supper and very pleasant it was too until Bella came in from outside caked in fox shit. Now for all those innocent townies who have been spared this life defining experience, fox shit is toxic and can kill at 50 paces. So Bella had rolled in this stuff and then graced us with her presence in dining room adding insult to injury by frolicking on the carpets thus spreading the weapon of mass destruction all over the place. Our guests left shortly afterwards - cannot imagine why.

Bella slept in the kitchen but by this evening when we could tolerate the smell no longer. I donned wellies and dragged her into the shower room. I must admit she was very good although she made it quite clear she hated every minute. Sans dog shampoo, I grabbed the nearest thing to hand, our Head and Shoulders anti-dandruff stuff which did the trick. Now with a substantially less aromatic dog, peace has been restored - at least we can sit in the same room as Bella without being knocked side ways but I have to acknowledge that this doggy preoccupation with excrement brings into question their poll position on the evolutionary scale. Cats would just never do anything like this. Mind you, how many times have I been woken at three in the morning to the sound of a cat crunching mouse bones? All the animals are in and I have locked down the cover of the dog flap ensuring that at least tonight I will be spared canine and feline evolutionary short comings. But tomorrow is another day and it will bring a fresh batch of crap.

Christmas a la Scotland Farm

Any attempt to follow tradition is blown out of the water if you own a Labrador or any animals for that matter. Picture it: Christmas Eve on the Farm and its all very snowy, presents under the tree, turkey in the fridge waiting to be cooked. We are all watching a DVD (yet another James Bond) when I look across to the family and say "Where's Oscar?". Bella the Collie is on her back sprawled out on the sofa, feathers to the wind, but of the Lab there is no sign.

Oscar we discovered was in the lounge opening presents that did not have his name on them. Furthermore he had managed to climb into the tree, extract and consume all the biscuit decorations I bought at the Hawkley Christmas Fayre, leaving the little red raffia tassles strewn across the room - bit of a smoking gun I reckon. How he managed to achieve this without causing the already rather wobbly tree to topple over astonished us. I mentioned this subsequently to other Labrador-infested households around the village (and its amazing how many there are) only to be confronted with the response: "Totally normal, what do you expect from a Lab?" Interestingly, Oscar had a partner in crime when it came to demolishing the Christmas tree. Jenga the little grey cat became obessed with the whole scene, sitting for hours on the arm of a chair and staring intently into the branches. The upshot of course is that there are now more baubles in corners of the room, under sofas and even in the conservatory than are left on the tree.

But back to Christmas Day. The Lab then finishes opening all the presents while we have tea and mince pies, the only non-homemade thing on the day's menu. And horrible mince pies they were too. How could an upmarket supermarket known for its quality sell such rubbish? Oscar then contributes to our meal by stealing our napkins (for the South Africans our there read serviettes)off our laps as we eat. With his soft Lab mouth he manages this without us even knowing, leaving a lump of soggy paper mache under the table. After lunch all the animals get a plateful of turkey and even Jenga tucks in. I spared the hens a turkey offering though - too close to canibalism for my liking. I did however crumble the last of the mince pies and scatter them across the lawn. The hens were delighted but then Paxman and Co will vacuum up anything.

Yesterday on the Farm

This last February we had been on the farm for a mere 3 months before we were treated to a massive dump of snow which iced us in, caused us to run out of heating oil and generally made us farming novices sit up and pay attention. Worst in 30 years said our neighbours – don’t worry its unlikely to happen again. Exactly 10 months later we find ourselves in exactly the same circumstances – a foot and a half of snow, icy roads and general mayhem. This time we are better prepared but in building up our flock of Southdown sheep we have a lot more in the way of responsibilities.
So when I looked out the window yesterday morning and saw this magical Christmas card-like scene complete with robin red breast and holly leaves, I thought: forget the romantic sentimentality, better get the sheep in. And thanks heavens we did.
First of course we had to prepare the barn for the influx of woolly-type folk. Easier said than done because the aluminium hurdles we used to build pens kept getting frozen onto my gloves. Even with two layers of protection my hands were soon aching with cold that no amount of happy clapping could remedy. Then it was in the four wheel drive Kawasaki mule and out into fields to drive the sheep in. The ewes were a dream. It was as though they knew exactly what was going on. I rounded them up like an expert sheep dog and within minutes they were in the barn. The lambs were another matter entirely. They were clueless, cold, up to their armpits in snow and hysterical. Marcin the farm manager was wading knee deep in snow that skiers would die for trying to keep the lambs in a group while I tried to herd them towards the gate. Bella the sheep dog sat next to me in the passenger seat of mule and rolled her Collie eyes as if to say where the hell did you two learn to sheppard? After about half an hour of rushing about, stumbling in the snow, cursing, cajoling, waving arms and feed buckets, it finally dawned on the sheep that we were trying to communicate something to them. They began to move in the right direction and I leapt back into the mule, cursing because the seat was wet; Bella having trailed a snow plough’s worth of white stuff into the mule which in the interim had melted under her fat backside. Ignoring my soaking and increasingly cold nethers, I rammed the mule into first gear and drove the lambs across three fields towards the barn. All appeared to be going well when Burt, a teddy bear of a lamb, decided she could go no further – leaping across three fields, belly deep in snow was just too much for her. Her short Southdown legs gave way under her and she collapsed in the snow. She lay there grunting as if to say: you guys go on and leave me to die here peacefully. I managed to close the final gate behind the rest of the lambs and Marcin and I carried Burt the rest of the way – no easy feat since this lady weighs at least 20 kgs more than me. Once in the warm barn on some dry straw and faced with a pile of fresh hay, Burt made a remarkable recovery, pictured here.
With the ewes and lambs in, the next task was to get the two rams in. Now they weigh at least 60kgs more than me and they can be rather pushy. Ask Marcin – he has been floored by them and he knows that they go exactly for the back of your knees with a force to send anyone flying. Well, I will spare readers what went on for about an hour. Suffice to say we got Jean-Claude and Range Master in. What astonished me was how their testicles had iced up – they were even sporting icicles! A fact not known to many folk is that sheep have the biggest testicles relative to their body size in the entire animal kingdom, so this was a sight to behold. Got me a bit worried though - we are supposed to be putting these rams to the ewes next week so that we can lamb in May. Question: how long do these things take to defrost, if at all?
With all the animals in their pens, fed and watered, a most wonderful calm descended on the barn. The sheep settled down to rest, chewing happily and the barn was filled with an amazing smell of warm animal. It was so biblical that I half expected to turn and see three regal men approaching bearing gifts. No such men or gifts but we were richly rewarded just the same- the content serenity of the animals was the perfect present. Four hours later I got into the farm house, chilled to the bone. Nothing a cup of tea couldn't remedy.

The Scotland Farm Southdown Duvet

They have arrived - our first pure Southdown wool duvets, a project born out of a recognition that wool's time has come again. New to sheep farming, we were struck by the lack of general interest in wool and we set out to find a product that could help re-establish wool and restore to this wonderful fibre the status it deserves. Our research directed us to Southdown wool which has the physical properties necessary to make a fine quilt. Exactly a year later, the project has come to fruition and we offer these duvets which will encourage you to get a decent night’s comfortable sleep.

So what is sleep and why is it so important?

The directory has a really boring definition of sleep - a necessary regular recurring period of rest for the body and mind, during which volition and consciousness are in abeyance and bodily functions are partially suspended. Yawn.

What this definition fails to highlight is that sleep is essential for good health, allowing your body to rest and restore its energy levels. Most adults need between 7 and 8.5 hours of sleep a night, so we spend about 30% of our lives sleeping. Sleep or lack thereof, has a profound effect on both our physical and mental wellbeing. A good night's sleep is often the best way to help you cope with stress, solve problems, or recover from illness. During the stages of deep sleep, the body repairs and regenerates tissues, builds bone and muscle and appears to strengthen the immune system. As you get older, you sleep more lightly and get less deep sleep – not surprising that its older people who tend to complain about disrupted sleep.
But sleep deprivation or poor sleep affects everyone, from children to seniors – irritability, lack of concentration, feelings of depression, impaired memory, increase stress and anxiety, feelings of being unable to cope with daily life are a few symptoms of bad sleeping patterns.
More seriously, lack of sleep contributes to other health problems that may seem unrelated to the most obvious symptoms of sleep deprivation. For children, disrupted sleep can contribute to an inability to concentrate and process new information, making school work more challenging and affecting their academic achievements – something that will impact on the rest of their lives. In adults, lack of sleep has been conclusively linked to increased risk of heart attack, diabetes and strokes not mention increased risk of accidents on the roads and when operating machinery.
In short - you cannot function without sufficient sleep.

So how can you encourage better sleeping patterns and how can a wool duvet help solve sleep problems?
The key to a good night’s sleep is comfort. A cool well ventilated room is the starting point. Then you need to keep warm enough to feel comfortable without over heating and sweating. Here wool comes to the rescue in a number of ways:

Wool has excellent wicking qualities which means it will help regulate the micro-climate around your body. Wool has the natural ability to draw up to 50% more moisture away from your skin than other duet fillings and therefore will cool you down when you need to without you breaking into a sweat. But conversely, wool will keep you warm as toast so no more waking up needing to grab an extra layer in winter or tossing off the overly hot quilts in summer. Wool can even accommodate thermal differences between sleeping partners; adjusting your warmth needs relative to that of your partner while still keeping your individual micro climate just right for you – great for sharing and no more fighting over the duvet! This is also good news for all those ladies over 50 – wool duvets can really help reduce the night sweats associated with the menopause.

Wool is anti-allergenic – it will help reduce problems associated with skin irritations and will not encourage the presence of dust mites or mould. This is achieved through the scouring of our raw wool. Remove the protein and it’s no longer of interest to the dust mites. Our duvets are also moth-proofed but are not treated with harmful pentachlorophenol (nasty stuff that causes eye infections, breathing difficulties and skin problems among other horrible ailments).

Wool is safe because it is a natural flame retardant. It won’t ignite easily and does not spread flames as synthetics do. There’s good reason why fire fighting gear has a high wool content. Also unlike thermoplastic fibres, wool will not melt into a sticky mass, which can adhere to the skin and cause severe burns. Wool simply smoulders down to an ash that is non-sticking and cool to the touch. Most importantly, it does not generate toxic gases when it burns.

Wool is sustainable and it is obtained without cruelty unlike down and feather duvet fillings. 70% of the down and feathers used in bedding and clothing come from China and you don’t want to know how this down is “collected” – it’s really nasty. Our sheep don’t particularly like being sheared but once they are freed from their heavy fleeces, boy do they feel frisky! Watching a newly shawn sheep leaping about in the fields always makes us smile.

Wool is durable. Wool fibres resist tearing and are much hardier than cotton, silk or rayon. Treat it with respect and your wool duvet will last for years.

Wool is cost effective – over ten years your wool duvet would have cost 4p per night, that’s half the cost of an electric blanket. Yes, our sheep do contribute to carbon emissions (they politely bleat “excuse me” every time they break wind, promise), but their addition to your carbon footprint is minute compared to that of a coal-fired power station that runs your electric blanket.


So how should you look after your duvet?
Very simple – dry clean only. Otherwise it will look after itself.

Message to those hackers out there

To the hackers who hijacked the Scotland Farm website, we say: may the fleas of 1,000 camels infest your armpits and may the parents of these aforementioned camels spit in your breakfast cereal.

Annie and Funky Fusions

About 15 years ago, as commodity analyst for a major mining company, I was invited to a seminar run by a Japanese recruitment and career promotions company who took themselves very seriously. The title of the programme was CREAGEMENT. With upper lips as stiff as their starched collars, these earnest presenters explained that CREAGEMENT was a process of creating the right environment to ensure creativity in the work place. The objective was the establishment of a direct relationship: create a creative environment and it will ensure entrepreneurial excellent and innovation from the staff. As a meerkat we all know would say “simples!”
Snorting silently I listened politely for the first hour and then to their utter amazement and annoyance, I stuck my hand up and begged to differ with them. In polite Japanese interaction one never dares ask a question or interrupt a presentation; it is deemed the height of rudeness. But I could bear it no longer. I quoted the old relationship between silk purses and sows ears and the difficulty of converting the former into the latter; the point being dull lack-lustreness does not beget genius irrespective of the lighting in the room, the colour of the walls or the level of white noise piped out of vents in floor panels. But then I also addressed the converse; that being real talent is irrepressible, irrespective of environment. I cited the Beatles whose raw and unbridled musical gifts were spawned out of unemployed and down-trodden Liverpool – not a climate that my Japanese presenters would define as CREAGEMENT-opportune. My comments were received with polite nods of the heads but cold stares. A fellow attendee leaned over to me and whispered “I rest my case M’Lord”. Needless to say I didn’t to stay for lunch but rather hoped that Clive James might take my place since he would be far better placed than me to take fully the satirical piss out of the rest of the afternoon’s proceedings.
But in a sense it was a useful morning and the lessons of what not to do in the creation of a working environment remained with me as I set up my own company. Ten years after founding my own business, I know that the recipe for real success lies in hiring talented people. A talented analyst will create the same magic sitting in a cardboard box or a plush penthouse office suite which has been Feng Shui-ed to its gills. The same applies to a really good writer, artist, musician, designer and so on. Spot and attract the talent and the battle is won. In other words you cannot suppress talent – like water oozing out somewhere, it will find the cracks to emerge and make itself known through the line of least resistance. But that focuses on talent in a negative environment. Now if that same talent so happens to be born into an environment that nurtures and encourages that recognised potential, then the sky is the limit and great things happen. The result is spontaneous and intensely creative. It begins to gain its own momentum and it evolves over time, getting better and better as it grows into itself.
This is what I see in Annie, the teenage artist behind the glass jewellery called Funky Fusions. I actually met Annie through Scotland Farm’s head honcho hen, Paxman (I have a lot more than delicious eggs and tonnes of amusement for which to thank Paxman) and I am really happy to have Annie’s jewellery displayed on the Scotland Farm website. I don’t know where Annie’s career is going to take her, but if this jewellery is anything to go by, she is going to leave her mark in an industry somewhere, sometime in the future – perhaps fabric or interior design, perhaps fine art. Annie has everything going for her. Not only is she seriously talented with an intuitive eye for colour, texture and shape but her family are fully behind her. In short, her environment is as supportive as it could be. And I think this jewellery simply speaks for itself. I am just sorry that I cannot meet up with those Japanese CREAGEMENT gentlemen again (I would love to know what became of them) – if I did, I would like to say them: look at Annie, she epitomises the point I was trying to make fifteen years ago.