When I was young, quarantine was for dogs. Specifically, those coming from abroad. A stay of six months was the norm, although that was increased to twelve months for a while when a dog named Sessan died of rabies in Newmarket. These days quarantine is for humans – and it seems that dogs are our best way out of it, as it has been accepted that they need two exercises a day while we are allowed just the one.
Our Labrador Retriever celebrated the first day of lockdown by rolling in something unspeakable during our single excursion from the house. We have various names for the fields that we walk in, based on previous sightings and happenings. There is the Old Deer Field, the New Deer Field and the Ducking Pool (where Ella wades and slurps water before coughing like a Covid patient). There is also the Manor field, and the more descriptively labelled Dead Badger Field. To that list we can now add the Second Dead Badger Field (DBF II). We had to keep the dog down wind from us as we strode home.
I was deputed to put on my own Personal Protection Equipment, consisting of rubber gloves and an old anorak, which is not dissimilar to what the Government is supplying “our” NHS, it seems. The dog herself could not understand the fuss and took it all as her own PPE (Personal Pampering for Ella). So, after anointing herself with the odour of badger carcass, she now got to choose from a range of shampoos, left over from the Christmas hamper, with which to have a wash and shake. She went for ‘After the Rain’ (from Arran Aromatics) and she looked gorgeous on it. Fluffy and happy, smelling like a Highland Hunting party: notes of heather and gorse, with a hint of rotting cadaver on the finish.
Ella does not see Lockdown as a problem and does not understand the concept of Social Distancing either; wandering out into the lane every time another villager walks past on their daily exercise. It is not that she is being sociable – she is simply checking their pockets for biscuits.
Self-isolation is something that the hen has decided she is going to rebel against too, as she escaped from her run twice yesterday and attempted to scratch away at the flowers coming up in the cold spring sunshine. We sent her packing with a warning – next time it will be a fine, or perhaps a really hard stare from our Prime Minister.
Ella is a retriever / lab cross. There’s probably a posh name for this – like a labtrine or something. I guess someone somewhere has already thought of crossing the shitsu with a poodle (how much for a shitapoo?) but the key feature of our dog’s genetic inheritance is an overweening desire to bring back anything that is dead. Like rigor mortis rabbits (with which she nearly took Mrs B off at the knees the other day) or pigeons that have been half eaten by sparrowhawks. But she will also attempt to retrieve stuff which has not actually been shot or died of starvation.
One pheasant – dead or only resting?
Autumn around these parts brings out the birds and beasts that are trying desperately to fatten up for the winter months. The pheasant is one such bird trying to fatten up for winter though it has not idea that all it has been successively bred for is to be shot by posh boys in tweed before being collected by their soft-mouthed coated canine companions. It might explain why they have the aerial ability an early Wright Brothers prototype, making them tempting bait for anything that will chase – thus cutting out the gun-toting middle man. The other morning our over-keen gun dog disappeared down the lane after a pheasant. It seems the bird’s idea to try to out-run the labrador failed as two minutes later – much to Mrs B’s dismay – the dog returned with bird in mouth (is that worth two in the bush?) and placed it Mrs B’s feet.
However, as Mrs B tried to move the corpse out of the road, the pheasant jumped up and ran into the ditch. Miracle? Maybe. The chances are that the Lazarus-like recovery of the bird was just the “headless chicken” response of a bird that was pretty much dead. But Mrs B retains the notion that the pheasant is still out there wandering the hedges and ditches. Aaaah.
Elsewhere Ella has less success chasing the squirrels that pilfer the walnuts. Looking from the Labrador’s eye view, how hard can it be? Squirrels are small, slow-moving, can’t fly, and appear to be such easy targets to chase down and destroy. And yet….. Ella spends many a long hour gazing into the branches working out how she can climb the tree to snag the rat. Fudge did climb the tree once – having chased a squirrel at such pace towards the walnut she actually ran up the trunk almost to the bottom branches ten feet up before, like Wile E Coyote, she noticed gravity was about to take effect. It was long way down.
The constant chasing is symptomatic of the turf war between dogs and squirrels over who owns the walnuts. Ella retrieves them (naturally) and it is a subtle observation game to tell when the lab has a nut in her mouth. But Fudge has taught her how to crack them open and eat them. So seeing the squirrels tucking into them will only annoy the territorially jealous dogs.
Elsewhere Ella employs her jumping skills indoors as aprt of the self-appointed dance police. She won’t allow any dancing at any time and attacks any offenders. On he whole she is a very quiet dog and the only time she barks is in her sleep. A Fat Boy Slim gig (which we went to at Pilton Party in September) would be her worst nightmare, but I suspect what really makes her howl in her sleep are those pesky squirrel varmint.
It’s Easter and bunnies are very much of the moment around here as Ella once again caught her very own Easter Bunny when VB took her for a walk. In Ella’s defence (and the rabbit’s for getting caught by a lugubrious black lab in open grassland twenty hops from the safety of the burrow) there is a lot of myxomatosis around at the moment. So perhaps Ella is doing a merciful task putting rabbits beyond pain before they become too sick. A canine Dignitas for rabbits – though not so dignified for Verity who struggled to get her retriever to drop the still warm, possibly breathing, rabbit.
Who’s been digging in my bed?
Down the garden there was evidence of rabbits in the garden as one part of the chicken wire seemed to have been pushed down before a couple of random holes were dug in the onions. No onions were harmed in the skirmish but I have since got another couple of rolls of chicken wire from Swift Huts and renewed the rabbit proof fencing around both veg patches.
The main item on the list of jobs is PLANTING. The greenhouse is fit to bursting with seed trays full of Broad Beans, Cabbages, Curly Kale, Cavalo Nero, Kohl Rabi, Leeks, Mangetout, Sugar Snap Peas, Peas, Purple Sprouting, Butternut Squash, Uchiki Kuri Squash, Sweet Peppers, Chilli Peppers, Tomatoes, Coriander, Basil and Aubergines.
Old Faithful
In addition to a mass of full seed trays, another sure sign of spring is the sound of the rotovator. The old Howard never fails you. It can sit in the Cow Stall all winter, unloved and seemingly forgotten, but comes out in the spring like a Grizzly Bear from hibernation ready to take all before it. It never fails to start and apparently needs no maintenance. It is a marvel. Or so I was saying as the clutch went half way through digging the salad bed….
I had a feeling it would be easy to mend, but neither myself nor Jim could see it so I was forced to ask the OM to tell me how to re-attach the wire. I am increasingly worried by his lack of mobility and unwillingness to walk further than the garage and back, but such was the importance of the issue, he made it down the garden to stand on one side of the chicken wire and instruct me on how to mend the machine. Fortunately it was done in a trice and hopefully the exercise did him good
In the main veg patch I have gone all “No Dig” this year, with the cardboard keeping the weeds down, so I was able to plant the spuds with relative ease. I have a combination of Belle de Fontenay, International Kidney, Cherie, Pink Fir Apple, Sarpo Mira and Sarpo Una. It looks pretty good – apart from the cardboard bits. While digging them I got an ear worm of “No Surprises” by Radiohead…”A heart that’s full up like a landfill…”
But this job is not going to kill me – it’s what makes me feel alive.
Trenches dug
Seed trays being filled
Spuds done
Massive Bumble Bee – might have smashed a window if I had not trapped him in a bucket…
In the past two weeks we have had a major eclipse, the term has finished at school and Parliament has been dissolved to make way for the General Election. All worthy or exciting events, but frankly not as exciting for this midlife green fingered gopher as the opportunity to get out in the garden and actually get some stuff done. So while the leaders debate who has failed whom, gongs are given out at school for adding up really quickly or colouring between the lines and the moon tries to blot out the sun, it is good to address important issues like cleaning the greenhouse which, as always at this time of year, lives up to its billing as – literally – a green house, such is the mould on the glass. But a quick dose of Jeyes fluid and a spray with the hose pipe and an afternoon’s work has seen off twelve months advancing algae.
Birdcatcher
While Mrs B and I were working on ridding one airborne invader from the garden the faithful Lab-Retriever was working a little riddance of her own for another airborne invader. Ella just does not get the fact that as a Retriever (or Labrador – whatever half of her genetic makeup is taking precedence at the time) she really ought to wait till a bird is shot before bringing it back. She managed to flush out a pheasant that had taken up temporary residence in the garden and took up the challenge of downing the bird. I guess, for a dog that is obsessed with squirrels and is constantly trying to work out ways of retrieving them from the branches, the chance to snatch a bird is a rare opportunity for hope to triumph over commonsense expectation. So despite our demands to the contrary, Ella rampaged through shrub and border in her quest and triumphantly brought the bird back to us. A rare victory for canine over avian, though pheasants barely qualify as flying birds (certainly not as part of Noel Gallagher’s band), but that is why we do not have cats, as we value the bird life around here too much.
Higgledy Sweet Peas
The past couple of weeks have been spent planting a few seeds and planning our flower growing – at which point a big “shout out” for my new BGF (best gardening friend) at Higgledy Garden. I have just discovered this fab website which can cater for all our flower seed needs as well as entertaining us with regular blog and Facebook posts. I bought an excellent value selection of sweet peas from Ben and he threw in a packet of nicotiana for good measure. The sweet peas are in and doing well in the sparkling greenhouse and I will no doubt be picking out nicotiana soon. The scent around the garden come July should be intoxicating.
Daffodils in Galhampton
Other side of the road
More carnage – wren in the lane
The best view we got of the eclipse from Cadbury Castle
August flew by in a whirl of picking, podding and freezing as the beans, tomatoes, peppers and others all grew to maturity and beyond. But behind the fecund abundance, the menace of death and destruction lurked in the garden.
I have commented on the battle with interlopers such as moles and caterpillars, and our combined efforts to reduce the numbers of said assailants. But more desirable garden visitors have not always managed to avoid the dangers of the garden environment.
For example, one morning as I was heading out I saw a squab (young pigeon) walking up the yard – lost, and flightless, it seemed to have fallen from a nest somewhere. I did not have time to do anything with it, leaving it to its own – or its parents’ – devices. But later in the day Fudge and Ella (our newest recruit to the Garden Home Guard), were discovered with said squab in mouth. Claire managed to “rescue” the flightless victim, but only in time to give it the last rites. The bird was still breathing, though, and as the Old Man pulled up after his morning shoppping and gossip trip, she asked if he would complete the job for her.
Mind the doors…
Well, by the time he had decided on how to get out the of car, what to do with his shopping, managed to select which pocket to put his car keys in, walked five paces towards the bird, formed a plan on exactly HOW he might despatch it (wring its neck? Swing it against a brick wall? or perhaps take an air rifle shot at it?), the bird had decided “sod it” and quietly slipped off this mortal coil out of sheer boredom. Death by exasperation was the coroner’s verdict.
We have had a plethora of woodpeckers in the garden this summer – Green and Great Spotted varieties. I could hardly turn a corner without having some noisy fledgling flying up from the grass, yaffling at me for disturbing it. Great Spotteds spend more time in the trees (and the bird feeders) but can get confused by greenhouses, as one found out to its cost. I guess it just flew into the glass and broke its neck. A shame. “Beautiful plumage”, to quote Monty Python.
The two feathered salute
The garden is not only a dangerous place for wildlife. It is for domestic life too. The hens have a new potential predator in the form of our new, supposedly soft-mouthed, retrieving hound, Ella. She managed to get into the chicken enclosure the other day and had a magically entertaining minute running after the squawking hens before I managed to pull her away from Foghorn Leghorn (our best layer). The hen remained lifeless as I took Ella inside, and still did not move when I returned. She did eventually get back on her feet, and remains fine, though her tail feathers now form a rather tell-tale V shape – as if to give a two fingered salute to any passing labrador puppies.
Caterpillar – and the remains of the meal
In terms of deliberate, more calculated exterminations, we have continued with the annual cull of cabbage white caterpillars, which have had a field day (or rather a full summer campaign) on our caulis, cabbages and brussels, not to mention the curly kale. An enthusiastic expert on TV last night was commenting on what a brilliant year it has been for butterflies. He was excited about the Orange Tips and Red Admirals, but I think their numbers are dwarfed by the sheer density of Cabbage Whites in my veg patch. It is a grim and stinky job picking caterpillars and squeezing them like runny toothpaste. But oddly satisfying.
Death to the tyrant moles!
And what of the moles? A chance conversation with a member of the underground arms trade gave me access to a weapon of mole destruction and the means to – literally – blow them up. I thought he was joking at first, but when he explained that this piece of kit, entitled “Le Detaupeur”, (“satisfait ou rembourse”) was imported from France I thought it probably did what he said. And sure enough it does. I set it up with a bucket over the top and some chicken wire around it to prevent the dogs getting too close and after a couple of nights (and a re-set in case I had not got it right) came out one morning to find both bucket and detaupeur blown out of the ground. (The voice of Michael Caine echoed in my head here – “it’s only s’posed to blow the bloody doors off”).
The mole was – I assumed – dead, but I was not prepared to excavate the area to find out. But I need not have worried: five days later, our adorable puppy decided she would do some digging and I only latterly realised where it was that she was working the soil. She successfully uncovered the decapitated mole – which I disposed off beyond her reach. So moles need to look out – we have now tapped into the murky world of the international arms trade.
And no UN mandate or weapons inspector is going to help them.
The Day Ella arrrived – Claire’s birthday
“Who me? What mole?” (note mole fluff on chin)
Happy dogs love cars
First dog show – 2nd placed in “cutest puppy” (we wuz robbed)
