"Acting the Bollix"

The '365' project tries to bring in as many local businesses as
want to be included. These pics from a superb local artist and
picture-framer, 'Black Hen Designs'.

I have promised not to bore you with empty 'fox-news' updates but I hope you'll allow me the occasional non-news, fox-related anecdotes and stories. This one is just a re-hash of a conversation with our shot-gun man who is sometimes given to use of the quite fruity local idiom and farm-related jargon. It always makes me smile; I just hope my readers are not feeling sensitive today and can cope.

I badgered a local beef-farmer into letting
me picture his new born calves. This one
is a Limousin born last night to a first-time
Mum. Mother and daughter doing well

The local expression I am talking about is the use of "acting the bollix" to mean (usually of young men) playing the fool in a manner calculated to annoy, being stupid and teasing, being 'Jack the Lad' and so on. We were talking about the fact that during our fox attack we knew that there was (at least) one young one all over us like a rash, and a much more careful full-grown (?) vixen. The youngster was easy to 'get' but the vixen then disappeared and has been seen very little since and never in our yard.

That Mum again with baby now standing up. In the background
another new 'family' from 2 days ago. 

My man said that the grown foxes are always much more wary (that's why they live to grow to adulthood!) while the youngster(s) born in April/May are just now finding their feet and charge around fearlessly like teenage boys "acting the bollix". They either come unstuck and find themselves shot or they survive a few scrapes by the skin of their teeth and learn some wariness.

I remember the first time I heard this expression was when we were being told the famous local story of the bank raid in Balla-D in the 80's where the raiders drove their get-away car down through the lanes to here but then rammed a police car at the local crossroads, then shot the 2 policemen. It was the previous owner of our house, a retired policemen, who turned up first and tried to wrestle the gun out of the villain's hands but was overpowered and had his car taken by the bad guys. The story as told to me had the robbers, all cock-a-hoop from their successful raid, driving noisily up Balla-D main street sounding their horns, shooting their guns in the air and "acting the bollix".

Christmas crib. What are those wise men doing there?

Meanwhile, in calmer, more peaceful waters I was able to help the village in an unexpected way this week - they needed straw for the Christmas crib in the Church. Liz knew that we'd have some but pointedly told me to give the man CLEAN stuff. I took that to mean not the dodgy used stuff off a chicken house floor. What must she think of me? Anyway, the guy got his nice bag of fresh-from-newly-cut-bale  and off it went to be installed by a couple of the lads who work there.

Yours for €4 the lot. These bulging sacks
of excellent turf from that auction.

It is a tradition here that because the crib will have been 'blessed' during its stay in the church, parishioners can nab twists of it to take home before it all gets thrown out, and thus spread the blessedness into their houses. So my poor, lowly (protestant) straw will by now be holy and much sought after. I met the lads who built the crib next day as I needed a '365' pic of it. They were waiting to be let into the church. "We did it," they said, "but I expect it's all wrong and someone will change it all around". They were right and I would have made the same mistake. They'd left Baby Jesus out (till 25th, obviously) but their 3 Kings were in there and NOBODY puts them in till 6th Jan. Ah well. Every day's a school day. I just assumed you threw it all in there on day 1 to cover the whole story. I didn't realise you had to follow the time line with characters coming and going across the 'play'.

The next phase of the woven willow hedge
- the longest whips get bent down to make
 the tunnel. I have not yet managed to get
the right hand side to grow yet. 

On the 365 story, now on week 45 (or so) and fast coming into the home straight, I got a nice result the other day, badgering my way onto a local beef-farm when the farmer let slip that he had new calves. He owed me a small favour but was understandably a bit wary of me clomping about near his first-time Mum and her very new baby. It went OK. He of course, found out that I don't do 'clomping about', I am very calm and serene around cattle and was very careful not to use much flash. I got my photo's and an invitation back to take more pics on the farm.

A nice basket of  'sods'.

The end of this day deserves a nice, warm fire and, as it's coming on Christmas, we like to start using the sitting room, the open fire and proper local Irish turf. It was good then, to get 3 big bags at the auction for a very reasonable price and I invested in a new woven willow basket for the stuff. Tonight, as I type this, Liz is settled into her 'new' recliner sofa, kittens on her lap, belly full of roast pork and toes toasting in the heat of a lovely fire. Does it get any better?

Head Cheese

Brawn - the red is carrot, the green is fresh parsley.

The brawn is made. This is Liz's first time making it and she'd never eaten it before but not letting those minor problems get in the way of a good cookery experiment, in she went, internet recipe to hand and just me at the end to tell her how genuine it looked and, Wow! the gorgeous flavour and texture. Tick that one up to the 'keep' repertoir along with others like Yorkshire Puds (again, she had no experience of them; they didn't really do them in Ireland) and pretty much from the get-go, became the best Yorkshire cook any of us know.

We were amused to learn that brawn is called 'Head Cheese' in France but also, dredged up from Liz's folk memories of books she read long ago, also in some famous literature. She could recall a fairly detailed description of the killing, cutting up and processing of a pig in "Little House in the Big Woods" (with its better known stable-mate, "Little House on the Prairie")

"As soon as the hog was dead Pa and Uncle Henry lifted it up and down in the boiling water till it was well scalded. Then they laid it on a board and scraped it with their knives, and all the bristles came off. After that they hung the hog in a tree, took out the insides and left it hanging to cool. When it was cool they took it down and cut it up. There were hams and shoulders, side-meat and spare ribs and belly. There was the heart and liver and the tongue, and the head to be made into headcheese, and the dish pan full of bits to be made into sausage" and later "Ma scraped and cleaned the head carefully and then she boiled it till all the meat fell off the bones. She chopped the meat fine with her chopping knife in the wooden bowl, she seasoned it with pepper and salt and spices. Then she mixed the pot liquor with it and let it stay in the pan to cool. When it was cool it would cut into slices, and that was headcheese". See? Nice children's literature!

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas round here. We got a superb result on the tree buying. We like a 'real' tree and need one about 6 feet tall. As well as being hard to find round here - with local traders telling you "we stopped doing them" and not knowing where you might get one - they can be pricey. Last year we had to go all the way over to Ardcarne Garden Centre, half an hour away and choose from trees which were up in the €50, €60, even €70 range. We were even contemplating lashing out the €250 on a decent artificial one because it'd see several Christmases out and pay for itself in the end. Then we were walking round Balla-D and one of Liz's knitting ladies tipped us off that our local supermarket, SuperValu were doing them for €20 or €25 if you spent just €30 on groceries. So here we are, erected and dressed today, our 6 foot 'cheapie'. Very nice it looks too both from inside the house and also you can see the top through the window from down in the lane.

Our First Livestock Sale

We needn't have bothered with Hallowe'en, the pumpkin carving and the bowl of sweeties in the end. Not a single child came and tried to 'Trick or Treat' us. The small group from 2 families down the lane, the McG children who made it last year, although I'd seen them gathering in the afternoon, obviously went elsewhere come evening. You will recall that Liz was out at the Dublin Knitting and Stitching Show, getting back to Balla-D by just gone 8 pm, so I was all set with the 5 pumpkins burning up the driveway from half five, but to no avail. Come 8 and I was expecting Liz's call, knowing I had to nip to Balla and I might miss the children, I put the bowl of sweets out front and decided to leave them a note. Feeling still a bit enthusiastic at that stage, I composed this silly ode.

Come ghosts, come ghouls, come witches all
You're welcome to our house and hall
I kid you not - don't hear me say
I got too scared and ran away
I had to nip to Balla-D
To c'llect my wife from Dublin, see?
But don't you worry, hungry friends
We have a way to make amends
There's sweets and smarties on that table (arrowed)
Grab big handfuls while you're able
We'll be back soon, before you know
But we'll be driving safe and slow
More scary kids I've never seen
Good Luck and Happy Hallowe'en!

It made me smile, anyway, so I thought I'd post it here. There! Art! Culture! Poetry, even! Are you impressed? No, OK. Nor were the local children who still stayed away in droves. The only youthful activity I saw was some herberts letting off fireworks from the lane down towards the nearby village of Lisacul but I guess that is the way of the world. I came back with Liz by which time it was raining, rescued the sweets and the poster from the wet and we retreated inside and finally had supper. I was amazed that the little pumpkins, which had been so hard to get alight with their little tea-light candles in the wind and drizzle, were still going strong at 10 pm when we went to 'lock up'. 

The next morning, the 1st November, is the regular and traditional date for a bit of a livestock fair in local town Balla-D. We are told that ten years ago this was a huge event, the streets crammed with folk, dozens of stalls selling stuff, huge rows of people with poultry in crates, geese sitting on the pavement restrained by being pushed into onion sacks with a hole cut in the bottom for the neck, trailers full of piglets and every kind of horse and donkey tethered to every handy bit of fence, lamp-posts and bollards, 4-wheel-drives and scruffy vans everywhere parked as only the locals seem to know how, double parked, abandoned at jaunty angles to the kerb, all across zebra crossings and double yellow lines. 

'Dublin Girl', one ear up, one ear down.

Now it is a much smaller event confined to a couple of streets and 'the corner' near the SuperValu supermarket, with maybe a dozen stacks of poultry crates, 15 horses and half a dozen donkeys. We have seen it before and pretty much avoided it, pigeon-holing it as a 'Travelling Community' thing, convinced that any stock you bought there would be in poor condition, dirty or diseased and over-priced. 

Our friend Charlotte from down the road, however, is made of tougher stuff than we are and uses it as a way of clearing some excess stock, in this case rabbits and ducks. She pitches up, snatches herself a chunk of pavement, sets up shop between the horses and stock trailers and is quickly surrounded by a hoard of children all trying to brow-beat Daddy into letting them have a bunny rabbit. On this occasion, having no female bunnies to sell, she said that if I'd drive her down and collect her again at 3 pm, she'd be happy to include some of my remaining females in the 'shop'. So there I was at 10 am, the little Fiat loaded to the gunwales with cat baskets of rabbits, cage crates 'flat-packed', drinkers, hay and feed sacks tied at the top with baler twine, quacking and writhing with their living ducky contents. 

We pulled up like regulars at a likely vacant chunk of kerb, unloaded, I helped Charlotte set up, wished her luck and left her to it. We dropped by during the day as we shopped in Balla, and she seemed to be busy with prospective customers. She had a good day, selling 6 of her 10 ducks and a good few rabbits including we were delighted to find, two of our females including our prettiest one, 'Dublin Girl', she of the multi coloured coat and one ear up, one ear down. This, we realised, is our first ever sale of livestock. Charlotte has also advised us that there may be more sales between now and Christmas at which she would be happy to work the same arrangement plus she may get customers she would pass my way (who wanted female rabbits) going into Christmas. The 'stock' will not be 'offed' for casserole  for at least the next couple of months. 

Of Poorly Goslings and Vitamin B3

Carolyn of the Mini-horses phones seeking our help. 2 of her (4) 6-week old goslings over successive days have suddenly gone lame, unable to stand and then quickly died within the next day or so and a third is going the same way. Will I post a query onto the poultry discussion forum which I moderate, to see has anyone met this before and knows a solution? Meanwhile she rescues the poorly third goose to an indoor pen under her heat-lamp. My poultry 'lot', as usual, quickly come back with helpful suggestions. Sudden lameness in water fowl can be the result of waterfowl not being able to extract Vitamin B3 (Niacin) very well from cereals. As most poultry feed is either cereals or is cereal-based , feed for water fowl can be supplemented with Brewer's Yeast (tablets or powder) or with "Abidec" baby-vitamins in their drinking water. Apparently you do not use niacin itself, as this can caused liver damage. Thank you, if you should ever read this, 'Landkeeper' and 'Rho-B' for those suggestions, which I passed back to Carolyn.

Well, Carolyn's sick gosling is back on his feet and the healthy fourth one is still healthy after a night under the heat lamp and never got as far as being given Brewer's Yeast but, blow me if we didn't wake up this morning and only 6 of my geese came paddling out of the goose house when I opened the door. Our small, backward fella, Fotherington Thomas had gone lame over night and was suddenly unable to lift himself off the bedding. I carried him, protesting, out to the orchard to be with his family but he just sat down on the grass while they fussed and honked around him. I wondered whether he might just be a bit stiff or pins-and-needles-y and had slept badly on the leg and might recover.

Well, he was still there at 8 am. He seemed to have the same symptoms as described by Carolyn - his body, wings, neck and head all fine and bright, alert and still with an appetite. One leg also, apparently, still OK but his other (his right leg) being useless and limp so that he could not stand or walk. Thanking my stars for having done that enquiry on the poultry forum, I headed for Balla-D to obtain Brewer's Yeast powder (and got lucky when the pharmacist turned out to be an experienced and knowledge-able keeper of chickens and rabbits, all be it with no knowledge of geese lameness specifically).

Foth' was rescued back to the goose house where I set him up in one of the cattle feeding-bays on a bed of wood shavings and hay into which I put a hot water bottle wrapped in dog-towels and within reach of him I put a pot of water with the yeast powder suspended in it, and a bowl of various foods including chopped grass, sprinkled with more yeast powder. He settled down to quietly get on with it and, I noticed, took some of the water and the feed.

In the afternoon he was still nice and bright, so we decided to try him out on a bit of physiotherapy, swimming on the clear water of the big pond, where we could see if he was using the right leg at all and where the family could see him and know that he was not yet in the freezer (!). He was using the leg a bit but not a lot, but he seemed to enjoy the bath, a chance to duck his head under, preen, eat some of my aquatic plants and swim about. The other geese, we fancy, were looking on through the orchard fence a bit enviously; they are not allowed anywhere NEAR the big pond now.

One of my 'things' is that I hate to use or hear used the expression 'runt of the litter' It always strikes me that people who use the word, or the expression 'there is always a runt of the litter' go about expecting a runt and quickly latch onto the smallest baby and mentally set him aside for lower expectations, or a cheaper price if he's a puppy, or for some kind of Class 2 treatment. Runts also seem to get culled out first by anyone trying to be 'hard nosed' about their small holdering or farming. Well 'Foth' would definitely have been 'down there' if we were so inclined (and maybe hadn't had the real poor do-ers, Lucky and Dip). He has always been about 2/3 the size of his thriving siblings, day dreaming while they scoffed food, a bit bullied and pushed aside, left behind when they all tear about the orchard. We don't have 'runts', though. We may have babies who are a bit smaller than the rest but they are grand and they will catch up. We have fallen in love a bit with Fotherington Thomas and actually suspect that if he recovers from this one, he may be a 'keeper' if the grown ups will have him. Don't get your hopes up, mind. If his leg will not mend he will have to go down that route.

Meanwhile, the La Bresse from the '8-Ball' woke up and crowed to match William. Bad decision, La Bresse. Should have gone down the egg-laying route. It can be better news all round.

At Last! At Last!

Hallelujah! At last! At last the 2CV gets through her NCT test. (Irish equivalent of the MOT) See also the 'Thorn in my Side' post from a couple of weeks back. It is a year to the day (this evening) since we set out on our long convoy with the Fiat and the 2CV and trailer, leaving Faversham behind and off on our big adventure.

We got the cars here OK but then started a whole series of ups and downs with trying to get registered in Ireland, sourcing a windscreen from the UK, failing the NCT on a wheel bearing, non-compliant tyres and play in the steering, getting all that fixed and failing the re-test on tracking.

You only get 28 days grace at the 're-test' status and we were so long getting bits we ran right up to the wire, so when we failed again I had to go back to square one, the full test at full test price. In theory the guys are not meant to take account of any 'old' passes when they start again but my guys in Castlerea seem to be a bit friendlier than that and a bit intrigued by this bizarre old French car, so they read the old sheets and maybe, just maybe, were a bit lenient. Maybe not, maybe we were 100% compliant even to the toughest tester.

I knew that the drivers side seat-belt can be a bit 'sticky' and hard to pull out if the car is at the wrong angle, and when I saw the guy struggling with it I thought I was doomed. You are tucked away in a waiting room watching your car go through - you can't go into the test area or hear anything, so you feel very helpless.

You have to wait quietly with everyone else, feeling a bit like a naughty boy sitting outside the Headmaster's office, till your man drives the car out of the other end of the 'sausage machine', walks round to the reception and comes to the window to call you and you are hoping desperately that in his hand will be the monochrome printed results sheet but ALSO the green and yellow pass sheet with it's attached windscreen-insert in his hand. When your eyes fall on the green and yellow the relief is immense. Of course, you try to be cool as you take the sheet, joking casually with him and smile sympathetically at the other people in the waiting room, accepting their "Well done!" comments but by the time I was outside and texting Liz (and the garage in Balla-D and 2CV Llew) my news, I was shaking all over. I flew home to a round of applause from Liz out of the kitchen window.

Well done Clara Bow! We got there in the end. I have celebrated by finally sticking my Irish 2CV Club (2CV na hÉireann) sticker to the boot, which I'd been holding off doing in case I jinxed anything.