Follow that Hen!

The hens are on strike.   No longer do we - that is Audrey or Alex - find three to four eggs a day in the hen-house, at best there are two.  After more than a year at La Chaise, with freedom to roam all over the front courtyard except for Audrey's vegetable garden, egg production has virtually stopped.

Obviously there are seasons for egg-laying and seasons for repose when the hens are moulting, growing new (more glamorous) feathers, for example. But that should not be the case now.   Perhaps it is because of the unseasonable heat.   Perhaps, Audrey opines darkly, the hens are 'laying away', which being translated means they are hiding their eggs prior to brooding on them and raising chicks.  Pause for an 'aaah-oo' moment.

The hens, and cockerel, in morning conference.

 
But since we still want eggs, prefer them to fluffy little chicks that will be attacked by every furred and four footed menace in the woods, some one is going to have to spy on the hens to see where they are laying. For a human, stalking a hen is not easy, they scare quickly. But we are all on the alert, watching to see if any hen is behaving oddly, in places where she should not be.

What is the Little Black Hen looking for?

Often, when A&A are out late, it is my privilege to close up the hen-house, checking first with a torch to see if it has its full complement of birds.  A ripple of irritated chirping accompanies the sweep of my torch beam.  Sometimes I even let the birds out in the morning if I think their overseers are oversleeping.

A new dimension has been added to this occasional task.   There are now a flock of chickens-for-eating at La Chaise.  At present they are small and noisy, live in the woods near A&A's front door and sleep in a chicken caravan. This was created especially by Alex so that he could move the flock to new grounds if it seemed they had exhausted their existing territory.  So far, not necessary.  

A caravan fit for fowl - roof closed.

One night I went to close them up - and found them all perched at the back of the open roof of the chicken caravan.   Now i loathe handling hens.  They squawk, flap their wings, are apparently insubstantial and, once scared, become very stupid.   So i took a deep breath and pushed them, one by one, down into the belly of the chicken caravan, then quickly lowered the roof. And even more quickly went to pull up the ramp  that closes their terrace.

in the process I managed to lose an ear-ring - an elegant silver set garnet pendant hanging from a black pearl clip.  A day later Alex found the garnet in the scratchings around the feed bowl, two days later I found the pearl clip near the water reservoir.   My luck was in.


 

For once, rain would be appreciated

Still it has not rained.   If one was on holiday at La Chaise, this is happiness.   But we live here and have a golf course and around 60 sheep, with their lambs, to maintain.  Green grass is essential for both.

Fortunately, la grande Kim, was free to shear the ewes, relieve them of the extra weight of winter wool.  Not that either were particularly pleased with each other.   Clun Forest sheep have a bad reputation amongst shearers for they will not sit still, they wriggle and bawl.  And when you are trying to hold still 80 kg of irritable sheep, with electric shears whizzing in your other hand....One can understand why the sheep are ambivalent about the process. On the one hand the weight of wool must be unbearable in the heat, on the other - they do look angular, almost silly, without it, especially the ram.


 

now we are all skin and bones we refuse to pose...

 

 Meanwhile I have been 're-colonising' my house.   After many months away, insects inside and birds outside are taking liberties with my space.  I have resumed the never ending battle against spiders, soon to be joined by flies, the fruit flies have already arrived.  Two sparrows suddenly decided to come look/see inside and got themselves stuck at the top of the stairs, beating vainly against the plasterboard ceiling.   It took the tallest of us - Alexandre - armed with the pool net - nearly an hour to persuade/frighten them out through the bathroom ceiling window.

Meals on the terrace are delightful, as always - but the birds have got into the habit of picking buds from the vine and the wisteria and continue to do so whilst we are eating.   OK, so that is just extra greenery with our meal - but we cannot leave the food unattended, not even in dire emergencies such as having to get more wine, for there will be birds on the table.  We may even have to invite Cha-Cha le chat  to visit from time to time - but even then we could not leave food unattended.

Birds lurking in foliage - no, I cannot see them either

And now Alexandre has had another idea....he would like to add some nanny goats and a billy to the 30 breeding ewes plus one ram that are already here.  He has learned how to make goats cheese, sometimes even using some of my marmelade as a counterpoint flavour. The cheeses are very delicious.    But, whilst ewes and nanny goats may be compatible, I have my doubts about a ram and a billy.

Alex's mixed range of goat cheeses

The next challenge is the annual ear-tagging and weighing of the lambs.  And for this we really, really would appreciate seriously cool weather if not necessarily rain.
 

The only reality is sheep

All in all, with only a leetle number stretching, we - John and I - have been away from La Chaise for the first five months of this year.   We took  three months in Spain, then a brief visit home end March, followed by nearly two months in London.

The city was its usual hot, sticky, busy self.  Drivers have lost their manners, are nowhere near as polite to pedestrians as their Sant Feliu equals. London's drivers have re-discovered the horn. Even taxis hoot at white vans attempting an U turn across three lanes of traffic.   Only suicidal pedestrians would cross streets with moving traffic. 

Street art knitting in London.

The noise levels were horrendous but the shops were wonderful (early in the morning) and the Londoners - many of whom are French - very friendly.

We returned to France, to the fields, lawns and trees of La Chaise that were lushly, greasily green.  The grass in the now horse-less horse fields is higher than my knees. All types of purple orchids are lurking amongst the pink clover and a single Billy Goat orchid is behind the empty stables.

spot the orchid.....

The swallows are back!  They are nesting, in new nests, in what is now Alexandre's atelier, flying quietly in and out.   The nestlings peer out over the rim but are silent.  The golden oriole has returned to the fields but the wild ducks that visited around the turn of the year have not settled.   Obviously gypsy ducks.

Arnold and Alexandre have struggled manfully to keep the golf course playable, with a little help from the sheep.   Now that Arnold is away getting his knee fixed, Alex is on his own - except for the sheep, of course.   This is the time of year when one wishes some enterprising person had set up a 'Rent-a-Flock' business.   We need at least three times as many sheep as we have but only for the very short grass growing season.

The problem with sheep is that they are relatively picky eate rs - they will eat all orchids but eschew daisies and buttercups.  They are partial to the sprouting tops of newly planted trees, such as cypresses. Roses also apparently please the ovine palate, but only the flowers.   This is why sheep are not good lawn mower substitutes.  There are some grasses that they disdain, in particular one tufty, dense grass with broad bladed leaves which may be good for whistling with but also tend to cut tender fingers.

The current centre of my universe does not approve of daisies either.

The hot, wet weather has encouraged the early appearance of various wild fungi - the fairy circle a.k.a
la ronde des sorciers - of the basic field mushroom can be seen from afar.  Just look for the darker grass. A few early parasol fungi are growing along the sheep fencing.  Deceptively dangerous fungi, those that are not rare are likely to be poisonous, to be avoided.   Sadly, despite much enthusiasm in the rural press, especially the current issue of Le Chasseur Francais, we appear to have no spring burst of chanterelles, one of the finest fungi of all.

There has been a sudden flush (? perhaps the best collective noun) of fruit flies in the house and  I have killed my first hornet of the year.  Monday the ewes will be shorn, the lambs will receive ear-tags - and so farm life goes on.

Peripatetic Country Mouse

Sadly, for the next few months I shall be away from La Chaise. In fact I shall be living out of a suitcase, only one. This is not as easy as some people might think – try predicting the weather for different areas of Europe for the next few months! It cannot even be done for the next two days. The answer is underwear that can be discarded and layers over the top that can equally be discarded au fur et a mesure.

Presently I am in northern Spain, not far from the French border where it is mostly nearly warm, until the wind comes howling in from the sea. I have been down to Javea, on the Costa Blanca, where building seems to have come to a stop, making the town a very pleasant place stay. And where it is warmer than in the north.

The choice of language in which to start conversations is another difficulty... how often have I (born Dutch) told my English speaking friends that launching themselves loudly in English is not tactful. Where I am now, the local language is basically Catalan, Castilian Spanish will be addressed to foreigners as a courtesy.

I struggle along with the few words of Spanish or Catalan that I pick up from newspapers, packaging, signs in supermarkets – and a lot of imagination. Also a lot of hand-gestures towards the items I wish to purchase – French words occasionally help, as do Italian.

Yes, I have an old Teach Yourself Spanish Book and a Modern CD with book but somehow the latter is even more embarrassing than struggling in the street. People are so kind, so helpful, if only you will try. I do not despair.

The common currency, of course, makes life a lot easier, especially for the non-numerate who, like me, have un-fond memories of trying to change guilders (dutch) into lira (italian). The Italians always gave us some small boiled sweets as well as many, many small coins..

However, Common Market, or not, few web-sites can deal with the idea of abroad. This means one has to have a MasterCard with an address in all of the countries for which one has mobile phones, for example.(It really is about time Brussels, or some organisation, did something about international mobile phone charges!) And not all on-line retailers will deliver outside the home country. As one MasterCard looks like another MasterCard, it means remembering the last four digits. Yet most cash machines have no problem – one here even offers the choice of Galician, Valencian, Catalan before any of the more usual country or world-wide languages. 

 

One tip: always, always travel with lots of photocopies of your most important identity documents, passport, driving licence, health card, whatever – make lots, then lots more. You never know when you will be asked to identify yourself and you really do not wish to have vital documents where they can be stolen, hand-bags, jacket pockets or other.

All of which makes me admire those reviled immigrants – whether European or sub-Saharan, who have to learn a language as well as get a job, deal with a foreign administrations, find a house, make a life. I was very young when I was an immigrant. It was not easy. It is easier now and, at least, I do not have to get a job.

Reality check

It is only too easy to forget, living in our lovely, private valley that there are two reasons for having sheep in our fields. First, they exist to eat the grass so the golf fairways do not need to be mowed every other day. The second is for the ewes to give birth to lambs which we feed, then kill to eat.

For many years we were intermittently protected from this reality because various third parties dealt with the problem, selected the lambs, took them away and paid us. The other way of avoiding the reality was to sell live lambs to engraisseurs, keep a few for friends, ourselves. But I still had to take those to the abattoir and get the carcasses cut up.

Then, a great stroke of luck! An organic co-operative decided to hire a butcher. His task was to select and collect animals, take them to the abattoir and cut up the carcasses ready for sale. The various joints were vacuum packed, weighed and labelled. This made it so much easier to sell – half a lamb, pre-packed, freezer ready.

This butcher, the best 'third party' of all, invested heavily in a laboratoire, so that he would meet all sanitary and bio regulations. Unfortunately, success went to his head and he quickly opened a butcher's shop – not in a good location – and started to visit local markets.

Of course, he equally quickly went spectacularly bust, six zeros if one can believe local rumour. Of course I felt sorry for him – but slightly less than I felt sorry for me, back at square one. Fortunately, in 2012 I was put in touch with a young farmer who was just starting to breed Clun Forest sheep – he bought all the lambs with great enthusiasm. Promised to buy this year's lambs, so I was quite serene. Silly me.

But another engraisseur who lived closer by was a retired sheep farmer who missed his sheep. So he took all bar five that I kept for autoconsommation. Audrey, Alexandre and I (actually mostly A&A) had to work out a way to get the lambs to the local abattoir and then to find a butcher. By leaning on friends, discussing euro charges, the lambs got taken to the abattoir and we found a butcher who would help.

However, we ourselves had to pick up the carcasses, in my car. I vacuumed the boot, lined it with sheets and off went, Alexandre and I, arriving at the secretariat at 08.30 a.m as instructed. The secretary was there. I paid the charges and asked if the carcasses could be loaded.

The secretary said the director had gone to have a blood test. We asked when he would be back. She did not know because he had just gone for his blood test. We commented how unpleasant this was, a blood test on an empty stomach.. All she knew was that he was gone for a blood test. Every time Alexandre grew a little taller, leaned over her slightly. She got the point: blood test or no, we were not leaving without our lamb carcasses. She asked Alexandre if he thought he could carry the carcasses – he said, of course. Sigh.

Alexandre was garbed in a plastic jacket to save his clothes and we were duly given our four lambs. They looked beautiful. When we got them to the butcher, he said they looked beautiful. After he had jointed the carcasses, the butcher said there was a lot of meat and it looked very good. Alexandre and Audrey were the first to eat some of the meat – it tasted very good, they said. And therein lies the consolation of breeding animals for meat.

Fire all the time

The greatest of country winter skills is the ability to keep the home fires burning, especially the ones in open fire-places. The truly skilled, and lucky, country fire-bugs manage to keep an open fire alive for twenty-four hours. It is revived in the morning from embers that were covered in ashes last thing at night. The ash broods over the embers like a hen over eggs.

seemingly no sign of life

We feel very proud because we have managed to keep a fire going for seven days. This morning's fire I revived with three Kleenex, a couple of sticks and half a fir-cone. No matches involved.

Obviously the type of wood that is being burnt counts for a lot. The fruit woods, for example, (cherry,pear,apple) are lightweight and burn clear away. The same goes for the 'white' woods – ash, aspen, beech. Pine burns well, smells good but tends to spit and tar up the chimney.

Not a good wood for a room with expensive rugs in front of the fireplace, for then, as the loi d'emmerdement maximum' will have it, the sparks will jump the fireguard. Sparks from chestnut logs that are not properly dry are even worse – they seem to be able to jump six feet.

The secret is to get an angular log for last thing at night, one that has all sorts of nooks and crannies in which fire sparks can lurk. It is what professional firemen dread. The fire seems to be out but a little wind – or breath in our case - and the glows start to flame. Add a little dry tinder and the whole flares up.

but there is a glowing heart

The best, the most prized and most expensive firewood is well seasoned oak. Heavy oak logs that have been split into manageable widths, about a metre long, and that have dried for three a good three years since splitting. We were briefly the proud owners of an X ton hydraulic log splitter but it was a cumbersome device, our tractor was underpowered. Eventually it became too dangerous to take it into the woods. Fortunately, Jean-Claude down the road had always wanted one and he had a full powered farm tractor. We struck a deal, he took it away and we gained lots more space in the tractor shed.

Now we use professional wood cutting companies to cut down selected oak and chestnut trees, do the splitting and stacking near the house. Then we – that is Alexandre – cuts the logs into stove or fire-place sized chunks and stacks them. A very comforting view.

Of course, in line with the law that one workman creates work for another – the bucherons did manage to drive their ginormous tractor and trailer right over the the inspection chamber of the Hermitage's septic tank. |In March I screeched for M. Angibaud, who empties our septic tanks (and any leaking pools), who said he would come, fix. In September he came – by which time I had almost given up. But he did a beautiful job. His sons were this year's chimney sweeps.

Country Mouse travels with her Hat

Country Mouse went to London last week. But this time she went better armed. She wore her Hat. Actually, not only the Hat, but also a black suede coat with a detachable black fox fur collar (bought for 10€ in a brocante) and very shiny black shoes. Sadly, age dictates, these were flatties.

The Hat is a 'Borsalino', bought for heaven knows how much, many years ago in Swaine, Adeney and Briggs, then of St James, London SW1. I bought it after Humphrey Bogart was filmed wearing it and before Harrison Ford gave it world-wide fame in the Indiana Jones films. In the United States these Italian made hats are called 'fedoras'. In TV series they are usually worn by Mafia types, along with the ubiquitous, long camel hair overcoat. (See any episode of 'Law and Order.')

POOH MODELS MY HAT

The Hat's influence was first felt at St Astier railway station where Country Mouse, her husand, our daughter/chauffeur and grandson arrived just as the train was drawing in. We were on the bridge over the rails, I waved and blew a kiss at the driver who was already being beseiged by daughter and grandson. The train driver waited for us – most unusual - to board and the conductor did not charge a penalty when we had to buy tickets from him. Indeed we got the standard old age discount which is considerable.

It, (or should I say we?) drew glances for the rest of our journey to London. The Gatwick border control agent asked me to take my Hat off – the Bordeaux agents did not. Obviously leaving is less important than arriving. It made me more conspicuous – without the Hat there were times when I was invisible to taxis, or so it seemed. And it impressed in shops.

But I think the Hat's most important influence was on our return trip. We boarded the dreadful Gatwick Express at Victoria Station and installed ourselves, first class in deference to the Hat, at a table. I nodded at the man with the drinks trolley. He acknowledged my greeting.

Later we bought some drinks from him, there was a confusion about the cost. Then I gave him a pound tip and a handshake. He smiled and disappeared.

Somewhat encumbered by luggage, we got off at Gatwick – only to find the ticket barrier at the top of the escalator, closed. And JP's ticket was on the table in the train carriage. He turned, resigned to going back to find train and carriage. Then we heard a voice, 'sir, sir and madam'! It was the young man from the drinks trolley. Would he have recognised us without my Hat?