More ballcocks than bullocks……

As kids, the fields around us were ‘polka doted’ with cows, they were everywhere. Whenever you crossed a pasture a quick scan to see if the bull was about became standard ‘survival’ practise. As a dare we would grab hold of the electric fencing, set up to stop the cows braking out onto lusher grass. Bike riding slalom skills were required to avoid the twice daily application of cow poo which was literally splattered up and down just about every lane and byway as countless cows were brought up for morning and evening milking. Farms and lanes had a bitter sweet smell of cow poo and silage, which I found strangely pleasant (perhaps that’s just me). There’s still a junction in our village known as ‘smelly corner’ but I doubt if there has been a cow on that farm for twenty five years or more.

Cindy’s dad, Stan, was a farmer as was Stan’s dad, his dad, and his dad’s dad. Their family farm was in the middle of High Halden, I say ‘was’ because it’s now a selection of ‘desirable residences’ with not a blade out of place let alone a silage clamp. Elm Tree Farm was typical of its type and of its time in its framing diversities, including the requisite herd of black and white Frisian cows. Within living memory Stan and his dad had delivered milk, cream, farm kitchen butter, and eggs from a horse drawn cart. The milk being ladled directly from a churn straight into the customers own jug. (There’s a carbon foot print to ponder, hand milked, no diesel, no bottles, not even any foil bottle tops!)

Given her lineage, Cindy’s hankering to have a house cow was totally predictable, so we out and brought a ………. GOAT !

She may well have a blood line of cow keepers going back generations, but Cindy is scared stiff of the critters. Herself will sit astride a horse which looks to me as if its having a fit….. but she won’t go within thirty passes of a cow. Me, I’m not comfortable with cows or horses, my blood line goes back through generations of jobbing plumbers, so more ballcocks than bullocks in my case.

A scan of the local classifieds located us our first goat. Yet again blissfully ignorant we went to see our proposed addition to the Forsham Cottage mad house! We listened intently to the ‘Goat Bloke’ as he told us what he (and we) thought we needed to know. He showed us how to tether the goat. He showed us how to house the goat. He showed how to milk the goat. He showed us how when trimming the goats hoofs it was essential to hold the beast properly because if you didn’t it would kick out and you would plunge your pen knife into your leg. Goat Bloke demonstrated how to bleed quite badly whilst doing a one legged hopping dance and cursing at a disinterested goat. Mr and Mrs Goat Bloke started shouting at each other about ruined trousers, tetanus and tourniquets. Mr Goat Bloke did not look at all well as they sped off in the direction of A&E.

We posted £60 though Goat Bloke’s letter box and took the goat home. ……. another interesting day.

A chicken house with two letter boxes…. that’s class

Having finished building my chicken run, I could now stand at the kitchen sink and survey my stockade. I am not admitting to it being ugly or an eyesore as was some people’s unsolicited opinions. I would suggest my run had a certain rustic charm that only the more discerning, or somebody in touch with their weirdo caveman side, (see last blog) could appreciate and applaud.

Only a few days ago a friend referred to me as ‘Stig of the Dump’. In this instance it was because of my ‘ interesting’ dress etiquette and my unfailing ability to clutter any area I work in…. I could make the municipal dump look untidy.

However I willingly admit my Stig prowess, I can’t pass by a skip without having a rummage for the treasures it holds, seeking out those goodies that will ‘come in handy’. As a kid I wanted to be a dustman, I needed to rescue thrown away comics, toys, old bikes and those old prams with spoked wheels for cart building.

My first house was designed ‘from the hip’ (or should that be from the tip) which means I made it up as I went. The project was dictated by the ‘stuff’ I had salvaged, my limited woodworking skills, a minimalist tool box, a blissful lack of bird knowledge and ultimately lack of funds. What I did have was a big head, an ego to match.

A little time ago some bloke was up for the Turner Prize for art with a shed made out of a boat (or something like that) which indicates I was well ahead of my time. I built a chicken house out of a skip.

Stripped out pallets (saved the nails) a couple of old front doors with letter boxes, yale locks, knockers and glass still in place. The roof was water proofed with rubber printing blankets* salvaged from the skip at work. The floors and walls were lined with used litho plates* ( *printers will know what I mean).

This very first ever Forsham chicken house would have gotten me onto to the red carpet at the Stig Oscars. It was big, its was heavy, it was glorious, and I loved it. Everybody who came to visit had the guided tour of my poultry palace. When they came again they had to ‘eye ball’ the updates ……. not many came a third time.

Surprisingly this first effort actually worked, but more by default than design. I had four scruffy cross breed bantams (supplied by Uncle Bob the wood cutter) Those little birds would have used a tea chest with a hole knocked in the side, at Bobs they nested in the wood pile. They now luxuriated in an eight by six foot house with four massive nest boxes.

Access for cleaning was gained by lifting the HEAVY roof, which was constructed from the two front doors and propping it open with the broom handle. Yes, it did collapse, cascading front door glass over me the girls, but I STILL maintain I did that deliberately to lessen the weight …