It's Awful warm...Me Feet are Broke!

Love these lemon drop yellow snap-dragons.

"It's awful warm...Me feet are broke!" This from friend and neighbour, old boy down the road. He says it "warrr-um". He's spotted me walking the dogs early, avoiding the worst of today's heat, as he returns on a tractor from the other side of the village, loaded with empty pallets. He invites me in for a cup of tea and it's only when we're in the living room (turf fire glowing red in the grate) that he takes off his woolly jumper and his wellies (we're dry as dust here now, no mud for miles). It was good and welcome tea, though.

A spare suet pud from the freezer. Hard to beat!

We are having another mini heatwave here with temperatures down in the SE up towards 26-28ºC (UK is even hotter - I am hearing 31 and 33) so inevitably all those sheep owners who have not managed to get their animals sheared yet are starting to get anxious about 'fly-strike'. This is a horrible smelly affliction where the flies lay eggs down among the damp, warm fleece and the maggots eat their way down to and the into the sheep's skin. Not nice.

Supervising baby chicks with menaces?

The answer is to shear them in a timely manner, like in May, so that there is no fleece left for the flies to 'nest' in. However, smallholders have a problem, in that the 'proper' professional shearers get too busy working the large flocks and farms, hundreds or thousands of sheep and cannot be bothered to drive out to your isolated little spot and shear your 3, 4 or 5 sheep. Even if you have booked your man, he is still likely to let you down at the last moment leaving your sheep wilting in the heat.

Broad beans coming ready in the tunnel.

This is one of the reasons I decided to do my own. I am delighted that I love and enjoy this job and it now seems to be spreading, my own ewes first, then Sue and Rob's gang but now more recently a request from a Facebook friend and more to come. The FB chum was asking me to do a few for a friend of hers who was not on FB and who I'd never met, so I agreed to step in if she was stuck. I was passed a mobile phone number and the lady then also provided me with her Eir-code (post code).

New release pen for those Hubbards for
when they get moved to the big outdoors

Eir-codes are now the way we all find each other here - they have been added to the Google-Maps programme so you can ask for directions from Lisacul to, for example, F45E600 and up will come the map you need. Add in the 'Street-view' technology and you can "drive" there looking for landmarks before you make the real journey. No more need for 'directions'.

Southdowns. Oh those fully-woolly faces. Scary for the shearer.

So, there I was, then, headed for the tiny hamlet of Carrowbeg near to the village of Kilkelly over by Knock Airport early on Sunday morning. I was nervous, of course, hoping I'd do a good job for this new "customer" and that she'd be pleased.

One down, two to go.

I needn't have worried (I hope!), the lady turned out to be a real, genuine, salt of the earth East Ender here 10 years now but via Canvey in Essex and a big sheep farm in Cornwall. No nonsense though, so I knew she'd not want me being flippant or over friendly - I was nudged into full cool, professional, competent mode.

The ladies are a lot cooler.

I was desperate not to make any nicks or cuts in her animals so I was being really careful, especially as she told me a 'happy' anecdote about one shearer who had come to her and sliced the ear clean off a sheep. She can still remember the "plop" of it hitting the ground. She didn't get mad, she told me but I gather he didn't get paid or invited back. To add to my worries, these were not 'beginner's' type sheep, so it was not easy.

No damage to ears or eyes

They are Southdown breed, one of the two breeds familiar to we Sussex folk, the other being the Romney (Marsh). They have completely woolly faces with only their lips and nostrils and ear-tips showing. They also have shaggy wool all down their legs to their feet. I had only up to then, sheared sheep with the side-burns and top-knot of Hampshires, or the 'clean' faces and lower legs of Suffolks and Jacobs.  No need to put your clippers anywhere too near ears, eyes or those Achilles tendons.

Rambling Rector against the blue skies

Ah well. It went OK and we got through the 3 of them in about 2 hours with my new friend, whom we will call East Ender (EE) for these purposes), holding onto the dog-lead tied round a gate and trying to steady the rather nervous first-time girls (shearlings) from hopping about too much. Almost inevitably, I did have one faux-pas, maybe as a result of the dancing or just my beginner-ish incompetence, and nicked a small bloody hole in an armpit.

I was quite upset and apologetic and because I do not know EE at all, I *think* she was OK with it and will cope. It is frustrating to know that I will not find out till next year when I either get asked back or not! What ever the case she did not march me off the premises - she gave me a nice cup of tea and I met the rescue lurcher dogs, one of whom has a front leg amputated having been rescued in an appalling state. The nick will soon dry and heal over with or without EE's reaching for the herbal ointments or Vaseline. Ooops.

Daft 'selfie' with smoker.

So, that was EE and her three Southdowns. Next up came a request from my fox-shooting rifle man calling from Co. Sligo. Now they, I knew, have a lot more sheep (18 and a ram, it turns out) and I was seriously worried I'd not be able for it, with my 2 hours per three sheep work-rate. However, my man is in the lurch after having been let down by their 'proper' guy and is happy to work away at my 'method' over several sessions if need be. I can't remember exactly, but I think his sheep are bare-faced and bare legged ones, so we might get on faster than on the Southdowns.

Loving the hot weather and the sunny flowers.

I will let you know in the next post. Meanwhile, it seems to be all go here despite the absence of Mrs C who has now moved from the Cardiff 'AGM' base down to spend a few nights with our good friends Mazy Lou and Airy Fox in Bridport. She's back Wednesday. I will be the one lying there asleep in a pool of sweat and lanolin. It's awful warrr-um... me back is broke!

The Donegal Postman

The pond is brim-full and still the rain falls.

After having finally found a break in the weather and enjoyed a whole day today out of doors in the gardening catching up with some much needed weeding and pruning, it seems mean to still post this post. Disloyal, ungrateful, even 'moany' perhaps, but I had this one all set in my head and I need to unload it to make room for the next one. We have had so much rain through July and into the first 6 days of August that even the locals are complaining. We have felt like we did on some of those narrow-boating holidays when we were all cooped up in the 56' by 6' floating "tube"; 8 of us and three dogs all steaming up the windows, wishing we could move.

Puddles on the drive.

Normally well used to the wet and stoic through the wet days the Irish seem to have run out of 'sense of humour' and given up on praying through the official channels. They turn their rain-splashed faces to one Michael Gallagher. "Who he?" I hear you ask (and well you might). This meteorological Messiah is none other than a country postman in County Donegal who has acheived local fame (and now, briefly, National renown) for being "always right" and, in the middle of the soggy month of July, was dishing out hope in the form of a predicted hot August. He is reported to be a keen studier of nature, convinced that the birds and animals KNOW stuff. This is not quite the clichéd "cows lying down" or "crows flying clockwise round t'spire" but it is close.

The 'waxies' get a re-coat of the protective wax. 

"For instance cattle and sheep will hide deep in the mountains in search of shelter when a cold spell is on the way.

Michael also said that a cold May is a good omen and a sign that we are in for a hot summer.

The cry of the curlew bird is usually a sign that we are in for heavy downpours but the postman has noticed a lack of them recently.

He also said that the fact that animals are not venturing to the upper plains of Donegal means that the good weather could be here to stay".

A lovely dark Delphinium drips after the
latest shower. 

Yes, I know it is all a bit of silliness on a slow news day (This one was in the Irish Mirror) but they lap it up here and the story was everywhere including all over National radio and everyone (including us, of course) was commenting that it might be wet but "there was some postman from Donegal who is 'always right' (apparently) predicting a hot August". Last year it was the turn of a sage from New Zealand who had a pet theory about the moon and planets aligning and who publishes an almanac which (allegedly again) "all the farmers buy". We looked it up and it was €22 plus postage from NZ so I doubt they do!

Dark purple buddleia. The bees love it but I've not seen any
butterflies on it yet. 

Well, I guess Michael Gallagher has gone a bit quiet as July's rain was replaced by rain from 1st to 6th of August but fair play to him. We hope he got a few pints in the pub from journalists trying to get hold of the story. Never say never, of course. It has been glorious today so we might be onto something. Met Éireann might not know it all with their gloomy talk of more anticyclones and frontal rain.

Up to their trotters in muck and mire.

It has been ironic that the piggies in August are wading about in 4-6 inches of sloppy mud around the entrance gate. We deliberately timed them to start in the (wet) spring and finish in the dust of August this year. Last year's Tamworths arrived here in June and as they came up ready in October we were worried about getting the trailer up to the gate to load them. If it had turned wet, we might be slithering about trying to push trailer and 180 kg of piggies through a morass to reach the car which would be sticking to the hard standing. I had visions of having to borrow JD Bob's tractor to tow the trailer to the hard ground.

The bees found the buddleia at last.

In the event, we had no such worries - the weather stayed dry and the trailer was easy to wheel across the ground. We could even have backed the car across the grass to hitch it on. But the 'fear' was there, so we decided to buy our pigs from the first litters in March/April, and have them finish in the nice reliable dry month of August. How we are laughing now! Now, obviously with pigs you must expect some chopping up of the ground - some people get pigs mainly for that purpose. We luckily have a well drained piece of territory for Mary and Isabelle but they have chopped up the earth round the gateways quite impressively and I have taken to feeding them over the fence away from the gateway, rather than continue with my twice daily, wellie-clad wade through with them "snapping at my heels" to the old feeding station, trying not to lose a wellie in the muck and mire.

This (deliberately)  poor address still made it.

Finally, while we are on postmen there has been another bit of national 'silliness' following the fun and games with the new 'Eircodes' (post codes) system. People have been trying to test their postmen by writing very short or jokey versions of addresses to see would the mail still get through. Our friend 'Airy Fox' told of one where a student had addressed a letter to his friend (also in Donegal) with "Your man Henderson; that boy with the glasses who is doing the PhD up there at Queen's in Belfast, Buncrana, Co Donegal" The punchline was inside the envelope, with the sender ribbing his mate that if he got the letter then he must live in a village.

Hen and Two still go off to roost in the gap where they hatched.

We were joking around that we bet that even if an envelope was addressed to us as "your man with the three white dog-eens, near Lisacul, Co Roscommon, then local postie Ger' would find us. Unbeknownst to us, Airy did exactly that (well, nearly, she did put 'Matt and Lizzie' at the top) and, yes, it got here. We wonder whether you could now be found if you merely put your post-code and Ireland but we think that this 'fun' is a bit irresponsible and must waste some postman time, plus they may have had a flush of these and could by now be getting tired of them. Credit to An Post again, though, for getting this one and thanks to Airy for the fun and the lovely card contained there-in.

A Soft Day

Well, there was a nice surprise. Here in Ireland we all woke up on a Monday a couple of weeks back to find we all now had shiny new post-codes. We'd known it was on the cards, of course, but I assumed it was way off. Not so. Liz turned on the phone that morning and fired up Twitter to find notification - it was all switched on, websites running, messages all over social media and a lot of our friends logging in to find out theirs and what it was all about.

The best strawberries I have ever grown.

It is an impressive and cunning system and seems a bit ahead of the UK system we had all been used to 'over there'. Most importantly the 'Eircodes', which are made up of 7 alpha-numerics starting with a letter-number-number for the region (ours is F45) are unique to each building where as in the UK your post code was shared up one side of a street and could include dozens of houses. This makes them compatible with sat-nav systems and internet mapping (eg Google Maps) software if they need to be so that Mr Postie can pull up right outside your house and know he is at the correct place, even in this land of few road signs and fewer house numbers. There is also an 'app' (application) which will run on smart-phones which can generate directions from one address to another.

The turkeys did leave us a few currants. The raspberries and
strawberries are safely out of their thieving ways.

I am told that the last 4 digits, being numbers or letters allow for city housing densities throughout so that in the unlikely event that someone wants to build a 2nd capital of Ireland in Roscommon, they could actually accommodate all the houses and buildings without having to re-shuffle the codes round and about. Anyway, we have sent ours to everyone we could think of who might need it; if you are ever likely to write us a 'snail mail' letter then email, PM or text us for the code.

That fabulous beef rib roast from the last post

Our only experience of it so far is that it may work too well. I foolishly sent off a pre-paid letter containing a survey result and wrote the 'sender' address on the back including the new post code. The next day this envelope arrived back in our letter box instead of having gone to the survey company! I can only assume that either someone is being a dunce, or the OCR software spotted my Eircode on the back of the envelope and, not having one on the real address, let it prioritise mine. The envelope went back into the post office with a white jam-jar sticker over my sender address (and didn't come 'home a second time!).

There is plenty of colour in the garden just now, so we can
assemble a pretty table decoration.

There is an Irish expression which most Brits know even if they think it is just another piece of cod-Oirish along with 'to be sure, to be sure' and 'Be Jay-zus' and that is "A soft day". I reckon most think that this just means 'wet' and is merely the Irish being colourful and flamboyant in their speaking. Not so, again. A soft day is a day in which the rain is of a uniquely Irish type which I never experienced in the UK - continuous heavy drizzle. You get drizzle in the UK and, of course you get light rain and heavy rain, but heavy drizzle is a seeping, silent, insidious thing which sneaks up on you and wets you through without any of the violence of a good downpour. Without even the hiss or roar of proper raindrops.

Cherries splitting badly from the wet July while still unripe.

It seems to fall all day, evenly from a uniform grey sky, as if an uninterupted, wall to wall layer of cloud was just at tipping point. There are no threatening black patches, no funny lighting effects, no patches of blue and no fluffy, cauliflower-like billowings on a true soft day. The grey can be dark or even quite bright and thin, as if the sun is about to break through and the drizzle can ease (for minutes) and return (for hours) just to tease you but you will be tempted to go out in not your most waterproof coat (ahhh, it doesn't look THAT bad!) and you will suddenly realise that your hair is sopping wet and the wet has got down your neck and is all across your shoulders without you having felt any rain drops hitting your skin or scalp.

Greek thyme.

Why am I telling you this? It rains in Ireland, so what? Only that we had an absolute classic 'soft' day yesterday and even the Irish were commenting on it. It will have been a fairly wet July over all by the time the month ends - I have cherries splitting on the trees as a result of it. Ah well, we'll no doubt survive. Oh and I did once hear an Irishman actually say 'to be sure, to be sure, to be sure' - he was our Estate Agent, John (Sean) Callaghan and we were making small talk in the jungle that used to be the front lawn. Liz spotted me about to react and gave me a swift kick in the shins.

Greek wild mountain thyme

So if we've wanted sun this month, we've had to dream it up and mentally import it from sunnier climes. When Liz was over in Poros (Greece) last month, she was lucky enough to come home via a friend's place in Athens  and was driven about by the friend. They headed for the mountains outside Athens where there was a smallholding owned by another friend and Liz was presented with a small bundle of the local wild thyme plus instructions to dry it in a paper bag and then seperate the leaves from stems. She could then use the leaves as herbs for eating, or to scent a room in a pot-pourri or whatever. That thyme came up to the 'threshing' stage recently; basically you rub the leafy ends between your hands and all the leaves fall away. You pick out the few twiggy bits which try to get threshed out too and, lo!, a beautiful scented handful. An interesting smell, says Liz, like a mix of thyme and mint... quite pine-y. Very evocative of Greek sunshine too.

Like a couple of Greek fishermen mending their nets?

Then, like a couple of old Greek fishermen mending our nets in one of the rainless periods we had the job of sorting through the yards of fruit cage netting I had taken off the big keet run (now vacant for the moment). This is under the black spruce trees, so in 2 years the fruit cage mesh had accumulated quite a few dead twigs and 'pine' cones and we wanted to disentangle all these and clean up the netting before we rolled it up to pack it away for some future use (turkeys and fruit comes to mind!). We sat down with the net spread out in front of us and gradually walked through it with our fingers, teasing out the twigs and letting it fall between us clean. We were just amused by the look of the job - more Greek memories for Liz as antidote to the 'soft' weather here.