Freedom and Other Animals

Just a 'random jottings' today and some catch-up animal pictures.

First up those baby chicks enjoying days 2 and 3 of freedom, They met the 'grown ups' again, felt some genuine Roscommon rain on their backs (They are going to need to get used to that!) and met both the cats. We were a bit wary of what that bit might lead to, as the chicks are not much bigger than (and a lot less able to fight back than,) the full sized rats at least one of the cats can dispatch, but we seem to be OK. The cats mooch around, go nose to nose and say 'Hello' but treat them like the big chickens. If they need to walk through the flock they make themselves as thin as possible and slink through as if determined not to actually go near anyone.

Incidentally, notice how pale pink (as opposed to bright red) Mum's comb is in the third picture. She is the chicken nearest to us. This is because she is 'off lay', i.e. not laying eggs. Her legs, though, are a brilliant yellow compared to any other chicken we have. This is, we are told, because chickens store yolk-protein in their extremities including their legs. So now you know.

A quick shot of William the Conqueror trying not to look too silly even though he has a feather stuck to his comb which he can't shake off no matter how much he waggles his head from side to side. Finally I bring you 2 cats relaxing on the soft chair and the rabbits, who have now had an entire bale of hay, untied and fluffed up, pushed into their "compost heap" enclosure. This should give them a bit of warmth and protection from the wind and rain in December.

Finally finally, Towser looking a bit too sleepy to want his photograph taken.

"Biblical" Rain

A few days after the rain soaked Queen's Diamond Jubilee Pageant, County Roscommon receives its share of the rain - heavy and unrelenting all day, one night and half the next day. Everything even vaguely bowl-shaped fills up and overflows; buckets, basins, wheel barrows and every dint and depression in driveway, lawn and fields. The poor pelargoniums in their window boxes, not yet protected by guttering are drowned in the waterfall whooshing off the end of the extension.

 We all mooch around indoors wishing it would stop and Dad publishes a jokey story in Facebook about the chickens hoisting sails on the chicken coop so that they might tack a few times before dropping anchor in Clew Bay just off Westport. The poor bunnies are rescued from their wind and rain lashed exposed position mid-lawn in their rather flimsy hutch, to the calf house where they can get warm and dry out of the weather. Dad adds to his silly chickens-at-sea story on FB with a yarn about the lifeboat having been launched to go to the aid of Ginny and Padfoot

When the bottom end of the yard starts to fill up like a lake we realise that the various JCBs and mini-diggers manouvring about have basically created a clay dam between the flat yard surface and the main water gully, so Mum and Dad are out there with the Irish pointy-ended shovels cutting gaps in the 'dam' to get the water run-off flowing again and draining the yard.

We are all pleased to note though, that once the rain eases, everything is very quick to drain away. All the puddles quickly empty and the yard dries. It is a credit to all our water-shedding, ivy and chest-high weed clearing, water re-routing and gravel-laying activities all aimed at drying the house out. This will be even better when we have got the concrete down in the 'apron' (the path round the house which slopes gently away from the walls) and (please, God!) the gutter man has done his job on the new gutters. The latter will at least mean that rain falling on the house roof is directed straight into the under-ground drain pipes under the yard and down away to below the yard in the big, cleared out, ditch.

By the Saturday morning the sun came out and really dried us out. The chicken run quickly reverted to the silty dust so that the chooks could dust-bathe and scratch like they should, rabbits were re-instated to the lawn, Dad could mow the lawn and the West Field and get back into the allotment and Mum and Dad could do a whole succession of catch-up washing machine loads. Each load flapped quickly dry in the warm breeze and was processed onwards. Roscommon may be clay laying over hard sandstone rocks but at our height (70+m) the soil on the surface is free-draining silt rather than clay, so as long as you have a decent depth of soil, surface water vanishes fast. Only where cattle or vehicles have smeared the layers, does the water sit.

We're back!
Deefs

Dewsbury and Horbury

Today is our day for rain. We always seem to get one. Everyone except essential hands (that'll be Dad, Mr and Mrs S then!) retreat into the boat and do indoor stuff. Dad, Mrs S and Mr S don ponchos and wet weather gear and move the boat anyway. Dad's poncho is a bit old by now and turns out to be not as waterproof as previously, so by lunchtime Dad's shoulders are very wet and he is shivering, so it's good to get in at lunchtime and get changed.

We continue down stream through Mirfield and Ravensthorpe. At Thornhill Double Locks we're tempted off up the "Dewsbury Arm" (of the canal) by guide-book descriptions of Mosques and Minarets - we are expecting a Turkish skyline. No such luck. The guide book is rather old and the canal is little wider than a drainage ditch, being enchroached from both sides by reeds, and at the terminus is a marina with just enough room to turn the 56 foot boat, a huge builders merchants selling slabs and concrete stuff, and a new housing estate most of which has the ground floor boarded up. Friendly locals, but of Mosques and Minarets we see none. Mum and the girls head for the supermarket for more provisions.

Back aboard and now drying out as the sun breaks through we head for Horbury where we moor in sight of the Bingley Arms, purveyor of fine Black Sheep beers (not that had any sway in where to moor, honest).

More Terry Pratchett tonight, and now the girls are enjoying the Feegles' antics re explaining their misdemeanours to their women when they get back indoors from the latest swearing-stealing-drinking-fighting outing. TP has it that the Feegles are all very brave when they're out doing man-stuff, but then they are faced with the wrath of "her indoors" pursing her lips (Och Noooo! No' the purrrrsin' o' the lips!), folding her arms (Nooo the foldin' o' the arrrms!") and a-tapping of her feet (Och - the tappin' o' the feets!) and demanding "There had better be a really good explanation for you being this late!" (Ochhh.... no the explainin' - Arrghhh Waily Waily Waily!) and so on. All good fun, and Mum doing all this in a superb Scottish accent, has the whole crew laughing and talking in Scottish

Mad

Deefski

Wet Weekend

Dad's home from work, but it's tanking down and shows every sign of being set in for a wet weekend. To be sure, the garden and the allotment need it badly but it'll be a bit miserable for Dad's deer-walk in Challock Forest tomorrow. He is guide tomorrow. No problem, he says. the deer can cope fine with the rain. It's the blustery winds that unsettle them, filling the forest with human scent well before the walking party tries to creep in undiscovered.

Ah well. We shall see what we shall see. Poor ol' Mum has a bad throat at present, so she's not even allowed to go visit Diamond, who's back into hospital for a final (we all hope) session of treatment.

Have a good weekend
Deefski

He's Fallen in the Water!

Our last full day of Narrow Boating and unfortunately a day of almost ceaseless rain. Mrs S tries hard to out-psyche the clouds with her "Looks like it's brightening up" but Michael Fish is having none of it. None the less, we have to move the boat - we have to get it back into range of the Sowerby Bridge basin for 09:00 on Saturday.

Dad and Mr Silverwood dress for the conditions (Dad's in poncho, straw hat, shorts and sandals again!) while everyone else hides "indoors", emerging only briefly now and then. Dad has to do "Chief Engineer" - the boat had been handling oddly at the end of yesterday and a fouled propellor was suspected. To sort this the back deck lifts up and there are hatches and access holes to let you get at the shaft with hands and, if required a junior hack saw. Dad pulls a great tangled mass of plastic sheet out, which explains the lumpy, unresponsive drive.

With the prop freed, we set off, chugging down from Brearley, through Luddenham Foot and down the tall Tuel Tunnel Lock (where the Waterways guy, tee shirted in his warm dry office asks our drowned-rat forms "What are you doing moving a boat around in weather like this?" (but he's happy enough to don hi-vis waterproofs and work the lock.).

Now it's only 2 locks to Sowerby Bridge, where we do not really plan to stop. It's not the end of the holiday till tomorrow and we don't want to give it a premature sad end by just mooring up here all afternoon and overnight. We are hearts set on a gently (45 minute) chug down to Salterhebble for our overnight, and then a 7:30 start Saturday to give us a bit of boat action before we hand in the old girl.

So we're between locks 1 and 2 and Dad has an attack of muppetry. He and Mr S had been hauling bits of tree out of the pound with the boat hook while lock 1's chamber filled, and Dad found himself at the bow of the boat (which was by then tied to a bollard, the stern sticking out into the pound, too far from the bank to jump across).

The chamber filled, and Dad had to get back to the stern, but the "dining room" is congested with ladies, children and dogs, so he decides it's easier to ignore all the advice and warnings you're given never to use the narrow side "Gunwale" walkway, and to "tight-rope" along to the stern. He almost makes it, his right hand is hovering over the ash-tray right at the back, when he loses his footing and splooshes in feet first.

Nobody is looking and luckily, because of the rain the pound is unusually completely devoid of "gongoozlers" (boaters term for gawping tourists). Mr S hears the sploosh and turns round to see Dad's head and shoulders in the water surrounded by a big khaki green "lifebelt" of the poncho, which has risen up around him. Dad swears at the cold and the soaking. It's only chest-deep though, so he can wade to the bank where Mr S pulls him out.

There is then several minutes of mad activity where Dad strips off the poncho and coats and races through the boat (the right, safe way this time!) to the bathroom, grabbing a supply of clean dry clothes on the way. Everyone is laughing with relief and genuine hilarity, cracking comments and enjoying a chance to break with normal children's rules about it being rude to "point and laugh". Mum nips into Sowerby Bridge for brandy and hot-chocolate ingredients.

The boat is now being guided into the lock by Mrs S and Mr S, as the chamber is long since filled, so when Dad appears back on his aft-deck (probably the cleanest dryest person on board now!) we just have to close the gates and let ourselves down to Sowerby Bridge basin level, to moor up for hot choc brandies.

Realistically, we were lucky not to have worse damage - you can get badly hurt, crushed by the (7 tonne) boat against something, injured by propellor, pick up an infection from swallowing water and, of course, drowning. Our only casualty is Dad's (work) mobile which he stupidly had in his pocket. Point for next year - all electronics inboard in bags etc, not "topsides" while working.

Much excited babble about how stylishly Dad hit the water, compared to Em-J's "polaris missile" job in 2007 (she lost her footing while black-berry-ing and slid down the gap between boat and (concave curved) bank, where-upon her life jacket exploded out and shot her back up the gap like a missile breaking the surface. Dad and Em-J now consider themselves in an exclusive club - the "Gap Divers". On the basis that you cannot call yourself a dinghy sailor or canoe-ist till you've capsized, Dad and Em propose that you can't call yourself a narrow boater till you've fallen in the water.

Pointing and Laughing becomes a boat-wide sport, and various children are captured on video and even on Dad's voicemail system (he finds out at work much later by putting the still-working SIM card in a colleague's identical phone)

Ah well, Mum eventually asks "Are we moving any further today, or what?". The boys man their stations and we cast off, turning right out of Sowerby Bridge, for the long chug to Salterhebble. It's getting on for 4pm by the time we come down the first two Salterhebble locks and we must moor up facing back up, so there's some gently bank-nosing and rope hanging onto, as Dad tries to wind the boat's 56 feet round turning on a (big) sixpence.

Mr S takes this opportunity to fall into the canal out of solidarity to Dad. He's on a rain-slick grass bank holding the bow-painter (rope), when he spots a big slug (we kid you not!) and only has time to say "Look at the size of that slu...." before he disappears from view from Dad's aft-deck viewpoint, and it is quickly apparent from the ironic cheers (and more pointing and laughing), that he's in too. Luckliy again, we get away with it - he's chosen a bit of bank that's only thigh-deep, so he is hopping about in gales of laughter.

Not a good score - funny but also fairly stupid and dangerous - 2 humans being careless and behaving like muppets, so although we're joking about "Gap Divers" and jokingly pointing and laughing the grown ups are anxious to stress to the kids that this cannot go on, and that "look what happens when you ignore all the safety advice" etc. The ladies and children can all feel justifiably superior tonight, but I'm guessing they are secretly determined not to do anything silly tomorrow. That really would be difficult to live down!

Deefski (I've not been in yet!)

The Rain Starts

Approaching the end of the holiday now, sad to say, and also one day closer to me having to reveal all on a story my Dad (ahhh... my Hero) maybe'd rather I didn't tell... a tale of muppetry and of failing to take one's own advice. Do as I say, not as I do, and all that, but that's for tomorrow. Tonight I am full of the leavings of an allotments barbeque (dubious lamby kebab things, chicken, burger) and rather sleepy, so I will relate only one day's worth.

We were, you will recall, moored under the big impressive railway viaduct in Gauxholme. We must chug gently down through Todmorden, where the gang all disembark to shop, leaving us tied up under a rather inpressive fishy "muriel" - big stainless steel fish on a wall made from "gambion" baskets (baskets of rocks). You can get to the other side of the canal to photo this wall by a rather nifty horse-tunnel let down through the drop from the guillotine lock (Lock 19, Todmorden Library Lock).

Shopped out, we chug on to Hebden Bridge for another quick halt, where all the Silverwoods vanish in a suspiciously orchestrated exit seeking milk shakes, leaving Mum with baby R and a rather noxious nappy to change. Coincidence? The Bio-hazard squad in their space suits did not think so.

It's mid afternoon by now and the bright sunshine sadly gives up on us. In scenes reminiscent of last year, Dad is in his poncho (still keeps the straw hat on though) and Mr S in his Liverpool FC rainwear, while all the women and we dogs are indoors, as the rain comes down in sheets. We moor up in Brearley just as the boys, all very wet and chilly by now, are starting to lose their senses of humour.

Another good day.

Deefski

Wind and Rain

The heat wave is finally over. It turns cooler and rainy, and has Mum firing up the central heating again. We are quite thankful of this, as Dad has us all clipped to 5mm - lovely in the heat! Dad is quite thankful for the rain, and can finally barrow trays and trays of kale, kohl-rabi and cabbages up to the allotment and stick them in, with their own little bunny-proof fence.

It's also more pleasant out walking. We don't mind a bit of drizzle, it's the heat slowing Megan down, that we notice mainly.

It's raining baby starlings. Just as we're up and about this morning, and Dad lets us all out the back door to sprint down the garden, a new fledgling starling takes the opportunity to jump from the long box in among the Albertine rose. More like a controlled plummet than a real flight, he slides down the air to land among the box shrubs at the foot of the bay tree, squeaking excitedly. 3 westies are suddenly upon him, and Dad hotly upon them.

He dives under a box and freezes - sensible move, as the dogs lose sight of him, and Dad can get a chance to scoop him up. Dad puts him on the garden fence facing outward (no dogs that side next door!). Sure enough he tries that flying thing again, this time with a bit more lift, and whirrs away across that garden to safety. We all hope he is re-united with parents and by now (4pm), getting fed and ready for his first night out of the nest.

Nearly a very short look at freedom!

Deefer

Coals to Newcastle

Sunday - meant to be a day of rest, but not in this house today. Mum and Dad are stressed - we have some friends round this afternoon for a meal, but these are no ordinary food guests. He ("A") owns and is main chef in a restaurant close to here, so it's a bit like bringing coals to Newcastle. They're sure he won't be critical, but it's still a bit awe inspiring for "us" hoping our food will be up to scratch - this is the first time they've been round for food. Let's call them "A and B Chefs". No pressure then!

Mum's also insisting on a cleaning blitz, so it's all human hands on deck, and all dogs better shut up and keep out of the way. Suits me - still tired from yesterday's adventures and actually feeling a bit under the weather. Actually "we" don't even really know how these people are with dogs. We'll have to wait and see.

Meanwhile, it's now tanking down. We snuck a walk in earlier, before the rain, but Dad was sent up to harvest some good veg for the guests and got caught in the most horredous rain shower. For a while he was taking shelter in a neighbouring plot holder's shed, but in the end the needs of guest cookery overcame the need to stay dry, and there he was, gathering beans with the rain sluicing down, digging young leeks and potatoes, trying to pick fruit without too much accompanying rainwater. He came back looking like a drowned rat, and was sent straight to the shower by "she who must be obeyed".

They are now enjoying a brief (all-be-it slightly tense) respite before the Chefs arrive

Good luck Mum (and Dad)
Deefs

Autumn?

The talk in our street has been all about dust. The big building site behind us, with its comings and goings of lorries and tracked vehicles, and the breeze, has left all the cars permanently pale brown, and we all squint as we walk to stop the dust getting in our eyes.

Suddenly this problem is gone. A day of heavy rain has wrinsed all the cars and laid all the dust. Unfortunately, heavy stuff tonight put paid to our walking plans, so we've all been confined to quarters. Dad, who did manage to get out to 2CV club tells of deep standing water in the lanes around Howletts (Zoo Park) threatening to strand the cars. The Perseids are no doubt doing their stuff, but with 8/8 cloud, they're on their own.

Have a good 'un

Deefs

Soggy Dogs

Rain, rain and more rain. The news full of footage of floods and heart break. We are fortunate down here in Kent to have, so far, just the rain. We get a quick walk, dashing out round the Rec (at Meggie's insistence) so we can all do what dogs a-gotta do, and I can have a good game of "plastic bottle". There's always one on the Rec and Dad boots it about so I can chase it down and nail it. My favourites are the Yazoo Chocolate bottles, which I can have a sneaky slurp from the end of in between nailing it.

We are towelled off on our return, looking like drowned rats.

Mum is buried in studying, Dad in Harry Potter.

Have fun
Deefs