Rent a Reverser (?)

A first look for Tigger, at the soggy, puddle-strewn front lawn

At just a week old, newest lamb 'Tigger' is thriving. I have been getting him out of the Tígín (along with his Mum, Lily, of course) each day for a run around on the front lawn. He seems to love this, following his Mum around as she grazes but often charging away from her a few yards in a mad, bouncy 'pronking' tip-toes gait of a deer, and then zooming back to her side.

Staying close to Mum

I am 'doing' them alone on the front lawn for the moment because I am not 100% sure of the ram Pedro leaving him alone and because it makes the process of letting him out and getting him back in of an afternoon, a whole lot less complicated. Trying to extract them from the East Field while not letting the rest out to play is more risky a prospect than I need.

I am not sure about Pedro anyway - I have seen him chasing the big ewe Myfanwy about and butting her a bit too aggressively for my liking so, even though he has not had a go at me, we may part company soon one way or another. At the moment I have him up for sale on the Irish 'classified ads' website (DoneDeal.ie) but I have not even had a 'tickle' so he may end up in the freezer. We'll see. If his chasing of 'Myf' is due to her not being pregnant yet and now coming on heat, then that might see him forgiven, but nobody needs a ram trying to 'T-bone' their in-lamb ewes in the midriff.

A house favourite use for a sheet of belly-pork. Mini porchetta.

Talking of animals going to the butcher's, I was involved over the last 24 hours in our good friends Sue and Rob finally getting their 2017 pigs off to Webb's in Castlerea. Friends of the blog may recall that Sue and Rob came with us over to the breeder's place near Boyle on the day we went out to collect our own pigs, 10 week olds Pride and Empress. They chose much younger babies, maybe 6 weeks old, so they were already a month behind us on schedules.

Thanks very much 'Steak-Lady' for this framed print, latest
Paris-themed picture in our collection. 

Their pair came ready about a month after ours (end of October) but Sue and Rob had little space in their freezers, so decided to keep the pigs on till after Christmas. It was very wet and now the time came, they asked me for help extracting the pigs from their 'swamp' and getting them into their trailer. Also, Sue, by her own admission "cannot reverse the trailer for a toffee" (and Rob can't drive anyway) , so could I help out at the other end of the journey, reversing her 4x4 and the trailer into the tiny narrow 'slot' between buildings which is the butcher's answer to a "loading bay".

Paris scene

That all went swimmingly in the event. Rob had constructed a really good, pig-proof 'race' up from the swamp to the hard standing and those pigs had been kept hungry so that they would be suckers for the bribe of a rattled food bucket. Pigs never explore anywhere new fast - they just amble along with their noses to the ground, taking an occasional step. They will not be hurried and you are a fool if you try. If you did spook them and made them bolt, you are not going to stop 80 kg of charging pig, so the best bet is to let them amble along and just gently (but firmly) close the ground behind them by nudging up against their bums with a big board. By this method, Sue guided them up the 'race', and Rob and I nudged up behind them till they eventually went up the ramp and we could close the trailer on them.

Pig haulier's breakfast.

In the morning, I'd set the alarm for 7 so that I could meet Sue with the 'load' at the butcher's nice and early while there was not much traffic about for us to upset. It is a known bad manouvre - the narrow gap is at 90º to a narrow but busy main street in the town. The gap is only about 6 feet wide, so as you slot your trailer neatly and professionally in (ahh shucks!), don't go in past the kerb with the truck or you will not be able to open the doors and get out! We managed that OK with Sue seeing me back and then, with the pigs unloaded and safely into the lairage, Sue finished all the paperwork, I bought a pack of Webb's superb dry-cure rashers and we adjourned to local Deli, Benny's for a celebratory coffee. Job well done. I even grabbed some croissants and Danish pastries 'to go' so that Liz and I could have a nice breakfast back at the ranch.

My new favourite Irish author, currently filling the gap left in my
reading due to running out of Maeve Binchy books.

In other news, we have been quite deeply involved in a local funeral. No names, no pack drill for the usual reasons. I think if you ask any Brit who has moved over here, what is the biggest single difference in local village or community life that they noticed compared to the UK, it will be the Irish way of death. In 55 years in the UK I probably went to half a dozen funerals at most and all of them small, quiet affairs which involved you to attend for only a short time.

Comparatively, the Irish funeral is massive, especially in rural areas where everybody would know the family of the deceased especially if they have lived in the community for all their life. Hundreds of people will attend and the proceedings can easily take up the evening prior and all of the day of the actual burial. Family and friends who have long since left Ireland in search of work or what-ever will make the trip home to be part of it. The deceased may even be one of the 'diaspora' wishing to be laid to rest in the family plot back in the village of their birth.

I apologise hugely in advance if I have any of this wrong - please do comment and I will make corrections. The last thing I want to do is cause any offence to anyone involved in 'this' or any other funeral. The proceedings follow a sequence something like this, with every bit attended by a good many of the mourners. First is the 'reposing' where the deceased is laid in the coffin at the Funeral Parlour  - you queue outside for yards down the pavement to get in one door and you slowly process, shuffling forward to view the departed and then shake hands with the immediate family . It is good to have something to say to each - I have taken to using popular local expression "Sorry for your trouble". You then shuffle down the out-corridor to the exit, passing the book of condolences on the way. This stage takes a couple of hours to get everyone through. It is common for the coffin to be open at this stage, so that you see the deceased - I have not got used to that bit yet.

Next is the 'Removal', where the coffin is taken by hearse to the church, commonly followed by all those mourners in dozens of cars - an impressive cortege threading its way down the country lanes. The hearse may pause at the house where the deceased lived, or was born, letting the 'late' soul know that he is really home, I guess. This is followed by the Mass itself. Mass going is way more popular here than (taking Communion) in the UK and churches are packed every Sunday, so it is no surprise that all our mourners pack the church for this bit, likely to be the most familiar to mourners in the UK.

Next we move to the graveyard. Depending on distance this might be all back in the cars or walking. This is the 'Burial' and can involve, again, a big group of mourners gathered round while more prayers are said and the coffin lowered into the grave. Some of these graveyards can be on quite bleak, windy hilltops, so the wise mourner equips with a warm coat, hat and gloves. We then adjourn, if invited, to a suitable location for 'Refreshments' - in the case of my Father in Law (Theo), this was a nearby pub for drinks (obviously), welcome hot soup and bread, with sandwiches or even a full 3-course meal, maybe stew and veg and a dessert. This stage can go on as long as you want - there will often be live music and happy chatter as family members and friends who may not have seen each other since the last funeral catch up on gossip and each others lives.

You Brits can see that this all adds up to quite a day, an impressive event. More amazing (to us) is that this all happens generally within days of the passing away of the person, the whole 'machine' fires up and all the stages are organised and slotted into place. In the UK, that is normally the work of weeks - we hear that person X has died and maybe 3 weeks later we find out the arrangements for the funeral. They KNOW that this is all a bit special here and there have been some excellent (including funny in some cases) books written and TV programmes made explaining the process. I hesitate to compete with those, but thought my UK friends might like a small flavour of what it means when someone here says "There was a funeral".

Additional reading - Try the book "How to be Irish" by David Slattery

https://www.amazon.co.uk/How-Irish-Uncovering-Curiosities-Behaviour/dp/1871305241

An Honour and a Privilege.

Welcome home meal - steak and chips.

This post finds us all back at home, safely gathered in after the 'away' events of last week, mainly Theo's funeral. My English readers may not know what a big thing is an Irish funeral. In 55 years in the UK I think I can recall going to around 3 and only one of those a burial, so it is a bit of a culture shock to move here and find that the norm is to go to as many as you can get to or feel duty-bound to attend. The Death Notices are a big part of local Radio Stations and there are some very amusing books and TV documentaries describing the etiquette and goings on at these events, the viewing of the open coffin, the procession through the funeral parlour shaking hands with all the family who are seated round the outside of the room and so on.

Make mine 'blue', please.

Coming at it from a British point of view, I imagined that none of this applied to me and I'd still just go to the 'vital' ones - I could not see what all the fuss was about and wondered why they were so key in Irish culture. Well, that was then, as they say and now that I have been to Theo's I am happy to admit that it was one of the most profound, moving, humbling and raw things I have ever done. It was an honour and a privilege to be part of it and to help out.

Baking-size spuds now coming out of the poly-tunnel. 

If I had imagined I would be allowed to just sit in the 'audience' as a rather begrudging low-level guest, I was in for a surprise. I am FAMILY and also one of the "big strong lads" who seem to catch the eye of professional funeral director's men when they are looking for someone to heft the coffin. I was well and truly included, and found myself honoured to be part of this, helping Theo on his final journey on earth. I walked behind the slow moving hearse from Funeral Parlour to church, helped carry and trolley the coffin into the church and up the aisle, had a prayer to read out during the service, then helped move the coffin back out of the church to the hearse. I joined the cortege driving Liz's mum's car to the graveyard, then helped carry the coffin to the grave, resting it on the metal bars while the Priest said the prayers and finally helped lower the coffin down on the straps, all four of us subconsciously synchronising to give Theo a slow descent and a soft landing. They were all new experiences for me. I am so, so grateful to the family for including me. It was a chance to do one last thing for my friend and Father in Law.

The poly tunnel is now pumping out some
lovely big spuds

The graveyard was drizzly and chilly, so I was delighted to do the final Irish bit - everybody adjourned to the local pub for pre-arranged soup and sandwiches. Obviously no photo's for all this bit but I was delighted to even supply the picture which the family stood on the coffin while it was on view and in church - I had taken a nice one of Theo a good decade ago, pre-digital days - the one at the top of the previous post. The family asked me to tidy it up, re-photograph it without the glare and email it to Mrs Silverwood so that she could print and frame a nice copy of it for use on the day. Now all this is over and we are both back here hoping that that is it for running around pre-Christmas. It has been quite a roller-coaster ride.

Three for the chop? Yes there are three birds here. 

Meanwhile back at the ranch, I seem to have acquired a reputation that is not necessarily that welcome, that of being a bloke who doesn't mind killing chickens. There are, around here a few smallholders who love to keep chickens and breed them but do not have the heart to cull out the unwanted spare roosters. The word seems to have gone round - that bloke will do them for you! Thanks. Yes I can do them and I do a good, clean, quick, stress-free, painless, respectful job on them but I don't actually ENJOY it or court the business. I do it as a favour for friends. If we then get usable chicken carcasses by plucking and 'dressing' the dead ones, then I suppose that is an added bonus. Today, then, I took delivery of 3 roosters to 'process' but they were not of a meaty breed, so a scrawnier threesome I have never seen. They were killing out at about 1.2 kg (oven ready) and we probably should have just killed them and bagged them for the wheelie bin but we don't like to see them go to waste and like to give them the respect of using them even if it is only in stock.

8 kilograms of oven ready turkey stag.

At the other end of the scale, was the turkey cock-bird we reclaimed from Sue and Rob who had reared it from one of our eggs (a child of Tom and Barbara). We had inadvertently booked out more birds that we actually had and looked like going hungry ourselves on the 25th. This lad arrived today and easily weighed more than the three roosters together. He has come out as 8.0 kg (17.6 lbs) oven ready which might be a bit generous for our two-person meal on the 25th but hey, there are always the cold left overs, curry, rissoles, turkey-burgers, risotto, soup and on and on.

Mid December and the hens are mainly off the boil but we do
still get a few eggs each day.

And so into Christmas. I may post once more before the day, but however that works out I wish all my readers a superb Christmas and a Happy and Prosperous New Year. Keep it Small-Holder, Keep it Outdoor Reared and Free Range. Keep it safe from the fox. Look after yourselves.

Sid W's Funeral

On Tuesday, Mum and Dad attend the funeral of Diamond's John's old Dad, Sid who nearly made 96. It's a raw cold day with light snow falling but, mercifully, no wind. The funeral is a quiet, dignified affair which takes place in Faversham's Roman Catholic church and then at Charing Crematorium, finishing up back at the Crown and Anchor pub in The Mall (the one in Faversham, not London!). There are few guests but they do include John's brother Brian and Brian's daughter Kelly who have come over from Australia to be there. Brian reads the Eulogy. Interestingly there are other relatives from our new part of the world (actually Donegal) but for various reasons they cannot make the trip. Had they known, Mum and Dad could almost have brought them over with them in the car!

Sid had a fascinating and remarkable life according to the Eulogy having been at various times a Naval patrol-man hunting mines in a variety of craft (there is even a connection to Thames barges via Sid's Dad, John's Granddad which may have given them their affinity for sea-faring), a shop-floor worker in the local (Beer and Rigden's and later Fremlin's) brewery doing piecework screwing beer bottle tops on, and then the main wine and spirits storeman for Fremlins. He took early retirement at 59 but then carried on part time as Driver to the Brewery MD, and the children can all recall the swank of being driven to and from school and outings in the MD's posh 3.5 litre, top of the range, Rover. Their 'real' car was a Ford Anglia.

Farewell then Sid. We never knew you, though Mum did meet you. You sound like a good man and Mum and Dad know it was a privilege to be able to support Diamond and John at your ceremony.

Deefs