What a day! – two

Still raining torrentially, so in an attempt to get out of it I wandered into the nearest marquee.

‘Just somewhere dry’. I mumbled as I stumbled in through the door and was greeted by row after row of cages stacked six deep on top of each other.

What was in them? Ferrets? Mice? Rabbits? Monkeys? Was this the animal experimentation tent? I peered into the nearest cage.

‘Good job I don’t suffer from Alektorophobia’ I thought as I stared into the glassy red eye of the biggest chicken I’ve ever seen. It was massive, filling the cage to every available corner, the cage was full to bursting point. How on earth were they going to get it out through that tiny door – in pieces? Legs, thighs, breasts, and wings? More to the point – how did they get it in there in the first place?

Now I’ve heard that you can hypnotize a chicken by holding it tightly and drawing a line in the dirt over and over, when you let go of the chicken it will stay right there - but I wasn’t about to take on this monster. With a chicken this big I could begin to believe that birds really were descended from the dinosaurs. Tyrannosaurus Rex? Enough KFC for ten bargain buckets in a single bird. Did you know that in 1979 Colonel Sanders (that goatee bearded chappie in the white suit) was the second most recognized public figure in the world.

Who was the first? Elvis? Don’t know.

In medieval France one of the punishments for an adulterous wife was to make her chase a chicken through the town naked – I wonder what the others were)? Perhaps it was the real reason why the chicken crossed the road, and not to get to the other side after all. There’s a town in Colorado (aptly named Fruita) where the townspeople celebrate 'Mike the Headless Chicken Day'. It seems that a farmer named L.A. Olsen cut off Mike's head in September 1945 in anticipation of a chicken dinner (why???) - Mike went on to live for another 4 years WITHOUT A HEAD eventually dieing from choking on a corn kernel (no, I don’t believe it either).

Anyway, as I looked and thought about dinosaurs, 'Mike the Headless Chicken’, and French naked ladies I began to notice the chicken looking hard at me. Was it trying to stare me out? If it didn’t drop it soon I’d drop it down my chimney – that’s how it used to be done - Chimney's used to be cleaned by dropping live chickens down them.

No, honestly.

You see… chickens are much more interesting than you thought. They come in all shapes and sizes, and their eggs come in all sorts of colours, from white, to brown, to green, to pink, to blue…. I know, I saw some in the tent - in the egg show.

Yes, honestly.

Want to know more about chickens?

Chicken frenzy times folks, hang on to you hats, here come the facts…

A chicken heart beats 280-315 times a minute…A chickens' body temperature normally runs at 102-103 degrees F… A rooster takes 18-20 breaths a minute, a hen about double that at 30-35 beats a minute… There are over 150 varieties of domestic chicken… It takes a hen 24-26 hours to lay a single egg…A chicken can have 4 or 5 toes on each foot… Supermarket chickens are only 5-8 weeks old… A chicken takes 21 days to hatch… Chickens were domesticated about 8000 years ago… It takes 4 lbs of feed to make a dozen eggs… A hen lives an average of 5-7 years, but can live up to 20 years… Hens lay eggs their entire life, with production decreasing every year from year one… An egg starts growing into a chick when it reaches a temperature of 86 degrees F…

Enough?

Should I stop?

By the time I came out of the tent it had stopped raining.

I’ll tell you about my first prize tomorrow.

What a day! - one

At last the morning of the long awaited Nefyn Show - the day that everyone from hereabouts and thereabouts has been waiting for - cleaning tack, brushing feathers, baking scones, making cushions, whitening sheep, polishing tractors, potting chutney and generally talking about nothing else (apart from the usual jungle-drum epitaphs) for weeks. And after a gloriously sunny weekend of warmth and T-shirts the god of country shows decided to bless us with rain - cold, heavy, and very wet rain.

I could hear the rain on the slates as the alarm clock woke me at five forty-five. I could still hear the rain on the windows as I got out of bed. I had to shout over the noise of the rain as I called Holly, telling her it was time to get up and that we’d be leaving for the stables in twenty minutes. I could see the rain hitting the deeply puddled ground as I drew the curtains. I could feel the rain, cold on my skin as I loaded the boot of the car with my precious hand-painted glass vase and Holly’s riding gear. Rain, rain, rain.

How predictable!
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Stables by six-thirty and Holly all excited and nervous – ‘Where was her number?’, ‘What if she couldn’t plait Chester’s tail?’, ‘What if he wouldn’t behave?’, ‘Had she remembered everything?’, ‘How, who, why, where, which?’…ENOUGH! We dropped her at the stables leaving her to get herself and Chester ready, secure in the knowledge that there were plenty of people around to help her if she got into a tizz – after all, there was a whole posse of them competing.

Later standing in the pouring rain in the muddy field of the showground I watched whilst Holly, the youngest competitor in the ring by miles, was beaten by riders with twenty years plus more experience. She rode brilliantly. Chester was responsive, and she completed her two events – novice hunter and best ridden – with only a couple of slight flaws. She looked fantastic in her riding gear, handling Chester with real authority. She even managed to keep her seat – stay in the saddle - when Chester spooked - got a bit frightened - and reared just before the first event.

One competitor on a huge white Lustiano circled the show ring all airs above the ground - high school dressage movements performed with either the forlegs, or all four feet, off the ground (just showing off really). Another was riding above the bit - this is when the horse carries his mouth above the level of the rider's hand. The horse does this to evade the bit and she clearly wasn’t in full control, the horse was going all over the shop. Yet another on a big black powerhouse of an animal looked a bit acey-deucy - this is when stirrups are adjusted so that the inside stirrup is lower than the outside stirrup - only jockeys do this, so goodness knows what she was playing at.

Even worse, I spotted that one of riders was behind the bit – the horse holding its head behind the vertical to evade the bit, resulting in the rider having less control. They call that overbent where I come from, and I’m sure that one of the chestnuts had an undershot mouth – at least it looked like it to me. I’m no expert, but it’s hard to miss the tell-tale signs of abnormal contact between the upper and lower incisor teeth, when the upper jaw overhangs the lower jaw. In really bad cases of undershot mouth, grazing is difficult and the horse often has digestive problems. This Gelding wasn’t quite as bad as that though. I’ve sometimes heard this called "parrot mouth" – who’s a pretty boy then?

Some of the horses wore banged tail - the tail trimmed level at the bottom – others had their tails plaited and banded - a fancy term used to describe braiding a mane or tail. Some of the horses wore their manes roached – this is when the horse's mane has been clipped or shaved close to the neck, they called it hogging when I was a boy.

Holly did a very good posting trot – she got the rise-and-fall motion used at the trot just right. In the posting trot, the rider rises out of the saddle and sits back down in the saddle once in each stride. It’s meant to be more comfortable for both the horse and the rider. When done correctly, as Holly did, the rider's rise-and-fall motion goes as follows: (1) right hind/left fore ‘rise’; (2) left hind/right fore ‘fall’. It’s repeated for each stride.

I felt really proud of her. It is no small feat to climb onto the back of a huge excited animal and canter around a showground with twenty other huge excited animals – particularly in the rain.

No rosette this time, but so what… Holly really showed everyone what a really good rider she’s become.

Funny how you pick up the horsey jargon after a while… must be all the mucking out.

Chickens tomorrow!

First Prize!

First prize in my category at Nefyn show. Wow! I'll tell you later - tired now and home late.

What a day!

Happy birthday(s)!

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Happy Birthday Misty

Misty is one today.

Or at least as close to one as we can make her, she was abandoned so we’re not exactly sure about when she was born, but it’s around about now.

We’re throwing her a little party. Just the usual - fish, cat treats, cream, maybe a few prawns – and a cake with a candle on it. And of course we have bought her presents – a new collar, and a new ball with a bell inside it.

I wonder if she knows that it’s her birthday?...

“About hissing time! Here I am fifteen today and all of a sudden they start wishing me happy birthday… what about the other hissing fourteen? Rotting fish scales - my first came and went without even a pilchard, then my second, then my third. On my fifth I thought ‘this is it! They are bound to throw me a party for my fifth.’ But no – nothing – absol-hissing-lutely zilchermero! When my tenth came I stupidly gave myself an extra special clean and made sure my collar was straight, certain that this must be it. But still nothing, zero, nada, piddley squat! To tell you the truth I gave up after that – and here they all are, Hisfault, Foodies, and that Whirling Dervish girl thing, all looking down at me and singing some silly song. They’ve even invited the one with the stick, Foodies mum, the one that keeps trying to stand on me… what does Hisfault call her? Batty something or other…Batty Joan, that’s it… Listen to her, I don’t think she can remember the words to the song.

Happy birthday to me indeed! What about the other fourteen? Don’t they know that for the first two of their years I have a birthday every twenty-four and a half days? In another one of their year’s time I’ll be thirty. Thirty! Almost middle aged, past it - the best of my leaping and mouse-catching days over - and here they are giving me a single measly birthday party every whenever-they-can-be-bothered!

NOT GOOD ENOUGH!

Bad Keepers…

Once I’m thirty it slows down a little, thank Mu-Mu, only four birthdays in every one of their years. One every three months by my calculation. Do you hear that Batty? ONE EVERY THREE MONTHS… she’s deaf as a scratching post.

Maybe Keepers can’t do sums… they’ve never seemed very bright to me.

Why are they setting fire to that stick on that round pink thing? I’ll never work this lot out. They’re as mad as goldfish in a square bowl.

Oh well, better make the best of it. Okay, buckle up the new collar, bring on the cat treats, sing away… sing away… ”

Happy birthday to you, Happy birthday to you, Happy birthday dear Misty, Happy birthday to yooooou....

Right - are you ready? Let’s go.

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'Right - are you ready? Let’s go.'

What a wonderful statement, or is it a question?

‘Right - are you ready?’

Starting with that simple single syllable, part statement, part instruction, it seems to ask you to hold your breath a touch and wait for what’s coming next - waiting in anticipatory mode. What comes next is a question, one of the big questions – maybe even the question. One that, like most questions, gives you some chance to change your mind… do you take this woman… would you like to dance… did you chop down that cherry tree? (God – why didn’t I answer those questions differently?) But simpler, easier to answer - you either are, or you aren’t and a simple ‘yes’, even a nod, will set the wheels in motion; big wheels, small wheels, cog wheels, slow or fast turning wheels, cartwheels, bicycle wheels, rickshaw wheels, paddle wheels… we are off on an adventure, away on our travels, stepping into the unknown… ‘Let’s go then’…

Let’s go then.

I was wandering along a country road the other day when I saw this gate. Nothing special, softwood, unpainted, uncared for even. Odd design, unevenly made, half hidden by the bushes… interesting gate isn’t it?

I almost missed it, but it seemed strange to have a gate with no field behind it - so I stopped to take a look.

Look behind the gate. What do you see? Is that an overgrown path? I think it is - quite wide isn’t it?

I tried looking up the pathway, more of a lane really, but the overhanging bushes only allowed me to see about a dozen feet or so. Sticking my head over the gate I strained to see further. It was no use; there was only one thing for it.

I carefully climbed over.

I almost tumbled from that top bar, it was a bit rickety, but I regained my balance and eased myself to the ground. I was standing on something hard, not grass or earth - I was standing on cobble. The cobble was mossed, grassed over in places, but it was clearly a cobblestone road. No mistaking it.

I wondered where it might lead? Only one way to find out…

Unfortunately I couldn’t force my way through the undergrowth. It was too thick, spiky, dense and scratchy. I’d have needed a machete to chop my way through. Perhaps I’ll go back with one another time and find out what lies at the end of that cobble road.

For now though it’s up to you. Climb the gate, set those wheels, those cogs, in motion - sharpen the machete of your imagination and start chopping. You’ll soon be at the end of that cobble road.

And when you get there don’t forget to let me know what you find….

Just a minute, can I come with you? Yes? No? Okay then - take care. Those white flowers are pretty aren’t they?

‘Right - are you ready? Let’s go then’.

Salvador Dali Sky...

So I’m driving along the road on Saturday and I suddenly realised how blue the sky was.

I don’t know why that realisation dropped into my consciousness just then, I wasn’t thinking about the sky, I wasn’t listening to any music connected with the sky – Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds, Sky Train, Blue Skies, Spirit in the Sky, Sky High, The Great Gig in the Sky. I was just driving along, listening to Radio 4, thinking about pretty much nothing at all - and suddenly the sky was blue - very, very blue.

So blue that I pulled in, got out, and took this picture.

It’s the sky over Pwllheli harbour. What a beautiful day.

I just stood there looking at the clouds as they transformed and moved across the sky. I like to watch the clouds, see what they’re up to, what they are becoming. I must have spent hundreds of hours watching the pictures form and fade in their fluffiness. That cloud on the right at the top - is that a cows head? It has a ring through its nose. Is that a smaller cow running across the field in the centre towards the bottom, or is it a cat? And is there another running cow in the bottom left of the picture… a cow… or is it a fairground horse? Not sure, What do you think? Look closely. Wait, what’s that in the top left of the picture? That has to be a rabbit. Yep! Definitely a rabbit.

Wow! Who needs Salvador Dali when you have the sky. I’m in a blue field, surrounded by white cows, or cats, or horses, and a rabbit has just popped out of his hole to see what is going on.

Fantastic!

Isn’t the sky a big place? I’m going to be spending a lot more time there.

See? It really is a wonderful life.

My garden rocks...

I like gardening, I always have - I think it runs in my blood… maybe I even have green blood… no, that’s Vulcans, not gardeners - gardeners have green fingers.

I have very early pre-infant school memories of ‘doing the weeding’ and instinctively knowing what was weed and what was not - still do – although some might argue that a weed is just a plant in the wrong place.

Not my Lincolnshire grandfather and grandmother though. They won all of the flower and veg prizes at the Wragby Show for years. No weeds in their garden; and the mahogany sideboard in the sitting room seemed to almost buckle with the weight of the trophies, rosettes and certificates that were proudly displayed on its polished surface. The Wragby Show was a big deal when I was a child, weeks of preparation and all the tricks that go with showing - the polishing of marrows, tomato reddening, carrot lengthening, dahlia de-earwigging, petal reshaping – and of course the intrigue, gossip, lobbying, secrecy and sabotage that some might call ‘cheating’ and others ‘playing the game’.

My first summer holiday job was working as a child labourer in the gardens of a large ladies horticultural college - Waterperry in Oxfordshire. Four pounds a week for five days in the sunshine - with girls - not bad! I think I was about twelve. It was a glorious summer. I spent all day, every day, picking strawberries, pinching out tomatoes, training apple branches, and rotovating – until the rotovator ran away with me, ploughing its way through an immaculate grass separation path. The gardens were beautiful – it’s a garden centre now, open to the public.

My first Saturday job was as an under-gardener at a large Georgian house just down the road from Waterperry owned by a rich Irish investment banker named Barny Keegan. I cut grass, dug beds, weeded paths and generally kept the garden tidy. For a while I became head-gardener (only gardener) when old Marsh got knocked off his bike and killed on his way to work. He was a nice old chap in his seventies and he taught me a lot about double-digging, pruning, planting veg, propagation from cuttings, and air layering.

So, I can’t really remember a time when I didn’t garden at least a little.

Anyway, these days I mainly garden in Wales. My garden is an eclectic collection of pots and planters, some too-narrow side borders, a raised bed under a holly tree, a small fountain, and a long hedge. I love it all – apart from the hedge which takes far too long to cut.

At this time of year my enthusiasm for planting seeds and taking cuttings is boundless - up early to plant or water, still out late to ‘check’. But by mid-August, when things are past their best and the sun or rain has taken its toll, I begin to lose interest.

That’s why I love aquilegias – they are end-of-spring early-summer plants and ‘over’ before the ravages of first autumn arrives.

Amidst the planters and pieces of found-with-love, wave-washed, driftwood dotted around my garden, I keep some of my pebbles and stones. In an older post I mentioned my heart stone collection and the foot stone I found on the beach at Dinas Dinlle – so here they are… my garden rocks.

It really does - at least to me.

I’m entering a show this weekend. Not the Wragby Show though, the Nefyn show - and not with anything ‘gardeny’ either - I’m entering the craft section with a piece of my hand-painted glass. I’ll let you know how I get on.

Wish me luck.