Mapp and Lucia

I named my first dog 'Megan', my current boy-dog 'Towser' and our Rooster 'William' but usually it is Liz who names the animals as they arrive here. She seems to have an inexhaustible fund of names based on fictional characters, characters from films and names from funny radio shows. Our 2013 sheep were Constance, Dora and Florence, named for Lord Emsworth's sisters from PG Wodehouse. Last year's first three sheep were Larry, Curly and Mo, the geese were Goosey, Goocie and Gander and the Guinea Fowl are Henry and Min (from the Goon Show).

Bramble jelly from the freezer blackberries.

The pigs we are likely to buy this year are still open to debate but Liz rather fancies 'Mapp and Lucia'. Liz is much wider read and has seen and heard more films and radio shows than me, and these two names were new ones on me - another gaping hole in my education! I felt I needed to at least know who Mapp and Lucia were before I could realistically name our first pigs for them, so Liz nipped to our extensive library and pulled a paperback from the shelves, "The Complete Mapp and Lucia (Part1)", written in the 20's and 30's by one E.F. (Fred) Benson. If you know these characters you will know that they are not pleasant at all! The books are very nicely and cleverly and amusingly written, but Miss Mapp and Mrs (Lucia) Lucas are just awful people.

Kir Royale, Feigh style; Prosecco and home made Cassis

Lucia is the self-crowned Queen of her village and seeks to control and lord it over all social events and who gets invited to what, like a nasty child in the playground. She is nosy, pretentious, manipulative, devious, cunning and such a snob. Mapp, living in a fictional version of Rye in Sussex is just plain nosy and seeks to know exactly what everyone is up to, who is seeing who, what all her friends are about to wear to parties so that she can out-manouvre them, engineers herself into being the focus of all the juicy gossip and dumps horribly on anyone who she imagines has crossed her. Ideal role models, then, for our two impressionable, baby piggies!

Nice marketing idea, Heart shaped Coeur de Neufchatel.

Valentine's Day arrives and we are nearly 'kiboshed' on our plans to create a special romantic meal by an extended series of power cuts born, we guess out of the recent wind storm damage and snow in the skirts of Storm 'Ruby'. Our land-line phone chirrups in its 'You have lost power' way at around 01:00 but I ignore it thinking they normally only last a few hours. It is still out in the morning and we phone around and find that Carolyn is calling it in. Power comes on mid morning while I'm out at neighbour Una's but only for ten minutes. It is lashing rain and blizzarding snow but we are delighted to be visited by an ESB Networks guy in Hi-Viz clothing who wants to look at the power lines that run to the north of our property, He (in a van) is joined by 2 other lads and 2 more vehicles, who scurry around working heroically in the bad conditions. We get power back at midday for 2 hours, then again properly at 4 pm. The Valentine's Day meal is saved and we know we are really very fortunate. There are people out there, especially around Galway and the south and east coast counties who have been without power for days, we only had 13 hours; the freezers stayed frozen and our candlelit supper was by choice.

Home made ice cream made with home made lemon curd.

Meanwhile 2 pieces of news concerning boys called Henry. Henry the Guinea fowl had injured his leg somehow but after a few days of decided limping and looking sorry for himself, suddenly recovered and is now back to full strength and a full compliment of working legs. Our other Henry is 2 years old today (Happy Birthday little fella) and son of Carolyn of the Miniature horses. We are invited down to the house for the party, where an army of friends and relatives have gathered while he is having his mid day nap. He wakes up as bemused and dozy as anyone who is fresh out of bed and copes very well with his house being suddenly full of people plying him with presents and party food. He gets into his stride as the present opening gets into full swing - he's mad for anything car shaped, he loves a big petrol pump to go with his sit-in pedal car, but the winner on the day is definitely a junior-sized but fully equipped drum kit with stool, bass drum with pedal, snare drums and even a cymbal. He is soon whacking 7 bells out of all this lot and doting rels are videoing him on their smart-phones. Brilliant! When we last heard all the grown ups were retired, exhausted and Henry was still going strong. He should sleep well tonight, bless him!

New Doors

Saturday sees the arrival of this big yellow builder's van, a pile of tools and some stacks of wood. This all signifies that our friend, local-living but Dublin born and bred carpenter (who we will call for the purposes of this blog...) K-Dub has turned up to replace all 5 doors and door frames in the outbuildings, 2 on the Tígín, 2 on the yard side of the chicken and goose houses (formerly milking shed and calf house) and one on the back of the chicken house.

K-Dub is a brilliant Carpenter and builder whose normal work is houses and sites in Dublin but who has built for his own entertainment and practise, a working, street legal, ride-able wooden motor bike. He is geared up like our own 'Sparks' with plenty of toys including the familiar 'Paslode' nail gun, an elabourate portable bench-saw and a multi-function circular saw called a 'skill saw'. These doors are going to be SOLID, not like our own stable-door efforts made from tongue and groove which has proved to be the very devil for expanding and jamming in the damp and shrinking in the dry.

These doors are faced with one inch grooved decking timber and framed with 4 by 2 timbers for the horizontal 'ribs' and diagonal bracing. The old rotted, wood-worm riddled frames have all been ripped out and replaced with whatever size of wood worked, and here K-Dub had that same fun and games that we had on the build of the main house; the walls are hard blue sandstone randomly mixed in with not particularly hard concrete. Getting frame fixings to 'stick' was a case of trying to hit the sandstone rather than the mortar with the drill, but when you do hit stone your fixing is as solid as the proverbial rock. He also coped well with that old problem of none of these doors being exact rectangles and very few of the corners being right angles, lintels horizontal or walls plumb.

K-Dub did the whole job in a day from ripping out the old, through building the doors from planks on site, to fitting. He re-instated a horse shoe we had over the door to the chicken house, made the chickens a new pop-hole through the door and even knocked me up a fairly sophisticated window frame for the Tígín window (see 2nd picture for the tired old one which has now joined the scrap pile.)

I took this picture of the goslings at 3 weeks of age (Saturday) so that I could proudly show them off on Facebook and here but, sadly, Pride comes before a fall, and I have to report another tragedy. My 'grown up' dog, Deefer (the name on this blog), caught and killed one of them today, so fast that neither of us really know what happened. Back in Faversham in Kent we had both our dogs, Megan and Haggis completely trustworthy and able to stroll among the chickens without attacking or killing any and I was dreaming that I might get Deefer and eventually the pups, to this stage. No end of people have warned me that "you can never trust a terrier" and today I have to say, I believe them. I'd had Deefer off the lead SUPERVISED and able to walk among the horses, chickens, the young chicks and the gander.

Today I trusted her to come with me into the fields around for a walk and we returned to the garden without problem. She went off to gaze at rabbits while I headed for the poly tunnel to talk to Liz, who was weeding. There was suddenly goose mayhem outside, honking, splashing in the water, no end of noise. I ran out to see Deefer chasing through the goose family, shouted at her and stopped her, grabbed her and collared her to the house but I could see over my shoulder only 5 goslings on the big pond. Liz found the sad little corpse of a gosling on the grass. We can only assume that Deefer ran from her rabbits towards me, set all the geese off and then lost the run of herself so that instinct took over and she snapped at this poor bird as she went by. It's what terriers do. Once more I find me kicking myself.

Ah well, we are down to 5 goslings but this has spurred us on to completing a job we had been putting off. We love to see the geese and goslings on the big pond but that was never intended as a goose-pond. It is a wildlife pond. Liz had also been pushing for the geese to be contained rather than completely free range so that the damage they do to garden plants is reduced. So today the geese got herded into the orchard AND I dug the 5 foot diameter pond in the bottom corner of the orchard where there was already a handy, saucer-shaped dent and (also handily) we have on off-cut of the butyl rubber to fit. So the geese can graze the orchard where they have almost a 30 m square to graze (i.e. 900 square meters), they have the split-barrel pond, the enamel bath and now this new pond to play in, the rabbits and baby bunnies for company AND they are safe from escaping dogs. The dogs are all back on leads in the garden till geese are safely shut up at night.

Deefer was shouted at, at the time and then left to sweat it indoors for half an hour but has now been forgiven and is back among us. I have abandoned my dream that she will ever be as bird-friendly as Megan and Haggis, but we can cope with that. My final picture shows that we have, at last, some strawberries from the poly-tunnel plants, and very nice they were too, if in a limited way. These are 'maiden' plants which were very small at planting and , anyway, a bit held up by our not having completed the poly-tunnel till later than planned. The plants are now a decent size and we hope for good things from them in times to come.

Tsipouro! Yammas!

Mum returned from Greece with a small amount of a drink which was new to Dad, it being the local fire-water, "Tsipouro". Absolutely clear in colour this is 'pomace brandy', pomace being "the solid remains of grapes, after pressing for juice. It contains the skins, pulp, seeds, and stems of the fruit". It is around 47% proof, so not quite as lethal as good old Irish over-proof Poitín (Potcheen) and, it will not surprise you to know, was first produced by some Greek Orthodox Monks (weren't all these dodgy spirits?) up a mountain. According to Wikipedia ( http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tsipouro  ) " Depending on the time of year, tsipouro is used either as refreshment or as a hot beverage, and depending on the time of day, it replaces the drinking of coffee or wine. Tsipouro and tsikoudia, as with all alcoholic beverages in Greece, always seem to coincide with various social gatherings, as their consumption had a festive and symposium-like quality.

It is usually served in shot glasses, very cold, often with meze, walnuts, almonds, raisins, feta cheese, olives, or accompanying halva or other desserts in restaurants.

In 2006, Greece filed a request to recognise tsipouro as a PDO (Protected Designation of Origin) product.

We say 'Yammas' (Cheers) to that!

Much to everyone's amazement, I reach my 6th Birthday (on Monday 17th), and so, too, do my sister, Ellie, back in Faversham, and my Brother Archie, back in Maidstone. The word is that I have matured into a very sensible, capable, well balanced dog and a good 'Auntie' to the kindergarten. Cynics say that this is because I was always wishing I was a favourite only dog and I am happier that way so that I just had to contrive to remove Megan, Haggis and Coco from any position superior to, or threatening, mine and I'd be home and dry. All I have to do now is make sure Blue, Rolo, Towser, Poppy, assorted rabbits and poultry and any other arrivals stay subservient and I should remain well adjusted to the end of my natural puff. Yammas to that, too.

Mike-the-Cows's herd have now pretty much eaten off all the grass on Vendor Anna's land and on our bits so, yesterday, were moved off to give the grass a chance to recover and for them to get some grub on less grazed turf. Dad loves that the local farming mags talk about something called the 'rate of thrive' which is basically the rate at which cows put on weight in kg per day. These are beef animals so success is all about the weight of the carcase at slaughter. The farmer either buys them in at a known weight or breeds them himself, but then has to spend x amount of money on grazing or on concentrates per day, hoping that at the end the weight will have gone up sufficiently that they have made more in carcase value (weight) than he has spent getting them to that weight. I gather it can be a bit knife-edge at the moment with a poor Summer having given them poor grass growth and a lot of them having to eat into stored silage which was meant to see them through winter. Also, says Mike, with cows being worth anything from €700 up to and over €3000, you've only got to lose one to sickness or an accident and you may have no margin left this year at all. Mike seems to be doing OK, though he'd never admit that!

Yammas!

Deefer

Curmudgeonly Aunt Dog

It's Sunday July 22nd and life is currently all about bedding in the new pup and kittens with me, the “curmudgeonly Aunt dog” as I now seem to be called. We are getting there. Tomorrow is the big moment of truth day, when I get let off the lead to go kill small animals or not as takes my fancy. Not today. No, not a Monday. Mum will tell you... "Animals DIE on Mondays". It's a family superstition at this stage, with almost talismanic status. It was a bizarre day weather-wise, always cloudy and always just ever so slightly spitting in the wind but with a hooley of a breeze blowing through all day which was bizarrely warm like a Chinook or a Foehn or something. Mum and Dad are invited round to neighbour Una to pick her black currants. We are welcome to 'jam' them, she says, as she's done enough jam from the bushes and still has plenty growing. We likes Una!

23^rd

Light but persistent rain all day nearly had Dad giving up on plan A and mooping indoors, but decided that, blow it! He was not to be beaten. He will go do Plan A, he decides, get wet and grubby and THEN come back for shower and gorgeous home made soup - the remnant of the "most delicious lamb shanks in the history of the world" a few days back. I can vouch for the shanks having inherited most of the bones to either chew or bury where the pesky pup cannot find them.

Plan A was for Dad to nip round neighbour Una's (she of the blackcurrants) and chainsaw up for her a pile of old timber beams from her former hay barn. Sounds familiar? She is widow and no longer has chain-saw hefting bloke around so Dad is happy to oblige. He got wet but not a bother. You get so warm hefting the said saw (he says) that it's too sweaty inside his coat and hoodie, so he was working in ordinary cotton shirt and hoping his sweaty bod would dry the rain as soon as it landed. Sorry. Hope you're not all still eating your breakfast! Must have been minging!

Dad got an unexpected and warming buzz from realizing afterwards that he had been was sitting on a weather-worn chair, up at a battle-scarred table in a genuine Irish lady's farmhouse kitchen, being fed scones and jam and "a cup o' tay in yer hand", chatting about the weather and stuff. Not "brought there" by Mum but there, welcome and being hosted on my his own account because he’d just done her a neighbourly favour. He was feeling all 'accepted' and welcome. 

In 'train the dog not to kill small animals' we reach the planned final day of training and it does seem to be working. Although 'curmudgeonly Aunt' dog (me) is technically on the lead, in practise the lead is slack and I can go right up to the kittens and pup, lean over them, chase them about and (to a small extent) "play" with them as if I was off the lead. I have made no attempt to bite or damage kittens and seems, Dad says, indeed, to be playing mother-and-daughter games with them. At one point Mum and Dad think I may even have been 'protecting' one kit from the other as they were play-fighting. Rolo was in the small dog-bed and I squeezed in beside her facing out and batting off Blue. Bizarre (as well as exciting and optimism-inducing for tomorrow/today). Wish us luck. My only remaining vice and cause for concern (I am told) is the jealousy thing which comes out in snarling, growling and occasional snaps at pup when he approaches if I am on Dad’s lap. This is saved for the pup and does not apply to kittens. Luckily he (pup) speaks the same language and backs off. Wisdom in one so young! Mum and Dad tell everyone “We never did cure Deefer when it came to new-dog Coco” (or indeed, former matriarch dog Megan and patriarch dog Haggis) where I would try it on and generally get told to get lost.

Broad Beans

I've been asked why there was a picture of a nightjar in yesterday's post, and no mention there-of. Well, we put the nightjar in fully intending to talk about nightjars, but then got all carried away with tales of heroic battles with bay trees and jasmine arbours.

Dad had done his annual leading of a guided walk with the Friends of Kingswood, this one the Nightjar walk. It was a good one. They'd had a good turn out and not lost anyone in the dark, and the nightjars had done their stuff churring and flapping about. They also saw and heard (via the bat-box) plenty of bats but there was no sign of deer, glow worms or woodcock, which are usually seen on this walk)

Ah well, the jasmine is now all gone, bagged up and lugged up to the tip in 5 car journeys, all in Mum's little Fiat because Dad picked up his brand new car yesterday and didn't want to be filling it with skanky old jasmine.

Up at the allotment, Dad gets a good cut of spinach, a couple of artichokes and the first broad beans. Back at home he pods these out into a bucket and is that a tear I see come to his eye? He's welling up a bit missing Megan. Megan used to love a broad bean straight out of the pod (the gnarlier and older, grey skinned the bean, the better) and used to sit at Dad's feet every time they podded hoping for Dad to occasionally give her a bean, or accidentally ping one out across the terrace. Haggis and I hate beans, so we're no use to him here, and I think it brought it all back.

Poor ol' Dad
Deefski

Listen Again

Brilliant! Mum and Dad were just done eating supper, and listening to the Paul O'Grady Show on BBC Radio 2, when all our ears pricked up at the mention of a dog called "Megan" on his very sweet, touching "deceased pets" slot.

It was, of course, our own old chum, the Megster. Mum had cut and pasted a chunk of this very blog into an email to Paul just before Christmas, and he's now read it out. It was nicely wrapped around with Paul's own comments about people who say "It's only a dog!" (Dad knows a few of them).

These days, of course, all BBC2 output is available on line as "listen again" (via I-Player). Go to the BBC Radio 2 website and follow the links to Paul O'Grady on Listen Again. It was read out about 18:20 today, Sunday 17th Jan, which is an hour and 20 minutes into the Show. As it was read out we were half expecting a few calls, but we're not sure round here how many people listen to R2 at this time of night.

Brought a few tears to us lot here, though.

Deefski

Farewell to Meggie

Today we are sorry to bring you the sad news of the passing away of Megan. Uncomfortable and off her food for a few days now, Mum and Dad, fearing the worst, made an appointment at the vet's. The short version of the story is that her suffering was a result of acute kidney failure, so that the tough decision had to be made, and she was put to sleep tonight.

Dad was pleased that it was himself there and also pleased that the vet on duty was old friend and vet to Megan from the moment Mum and Dad brought her home as an 8 week old pup, John F. That was 13 years ago.

For those of you who have never been there it was a very dignified and gentle exit. She was up on the bench with Dad cradling her head and a vet nurse steadying her body. John shaved a small area of leg, readied the syringe, then drew back a small curl of blood, and pushed in the pink liquid. Megan never flinched or changed her expression at all, just carried on looking at Dad. In no more than 10 seconds, almost before the last of the syringe-full went in, she relaxed into Dad's and the nurse's hands.

Dad left the room to settle the bill, while the nurse out back wrapped Megan in a blanket, and then rather than bring her through the waiting room, walked round the side and met Dad outside. Dad carried the small bundle back to car and brought her home to Mum. We were allowed to sniff the bundle, but this was then laid to rest quickly in the orchard still in its blanket.

Mum and Dad hope that all their animals are granted such good, full and happy life and then as dignified and painless an end. You can't really do more for a friend and pet than that. Goodbye then the Megster - we will miss you a lot. I'm sure that all your many friends and admirers will wish you rest in peace.

Farewell

Deefer

All better

Within a few hours, my pain from yesterday was gone. I tried to hang it out a bit, but was busted when I leapt down from Dad's lap and landed with a shoulder-blade stretching thump to collect a proffered sweetie, without wincing or squeaking.

Unfortunately, today it's ol' Meggie's turn to be off the weather. She's off her food, taking only a half hearted interest in sweeties, and is mooching around looking fed up, ignoring breakfast and not being impatient for supper (which is a sure sign all is not well.)

Today is Mum and Dad's last day off work - back to the old routine tomorrow, so they have a bit of a tidying blitz - stuff to and from the loft and to and from the shed. Christmas tree bought yesterday is erected and dressed. Mum says it is a bit like "the tree that taste forgot" - no news there then!

Look after yourselves.

Deefer

All is revealed

The Panini boys are hard at it again today and by the time Dad returns from work (at a sensible hour this time) we have a posh new wooden "reveal" around the inside of the French doors and a much tidier garden. The boys are cruising in towards the end of the job now - I'm thinking maybe tomorrow will see them all done.

Just in time then for the imminent arrival of some of the Silverwoods, who are over so that the girls (Em-J and J-M) can be taken to a concert at the Wembley Arena, of the Jonas Brothers. This is a treat from (our) Mum, and Mrs Silverwood is coming along for the ride (or perhaps she's a secret fan?). The men are notable by their absence, strategically swerving these delights and unaccountably volunteering to stay home and look after the infants (M and Baby-R in the case of Mr Silverwood, we three doggies in the case of Dad).

We're quite alright being left on our own, Dad, if you really really want to go see the Jonas Brothers.....

Megan, meanwhile has suddenly perked up as if the discomfort of the operation-scar on her foot has suddenly eased. She enjoys a walk to the Rec, round the outside and back, positively scampering at some stages, and not needing a carry back along the tarmac path, by Dad. She is, says Mum, also no longer given to TOGG-ish "Do I come here Often?" looks (how rude!).

Fun ahead, but we'll miss the Panini Boys
Deefer

Immaculate

This blog comin' at you today from a new computer, running Vista, so I don't know if it looks any different to you from there.

Mum has the day off work, being a bit tail-end of cold ish, but by the evening she feels up to a visit to Diamond. She'd been wary of going in and sneezing all over the poor girl, just about enough to finish her off ! Also on the mend is Megan, who tonight manages a stroll to the Rec and a good old walk around (more of an amble really) while I chase the tennis ball. We meet and talk to Finzy (big black lurcher of the long wizened beard), and to old favourites Smudge and Barney.

We also meet the always-immaculate sister Ellie, just back from the groomers and looking gorgeous. Dad tries to swap me out, but Ellie's Mum is having nothing of it. She also tells us that Ellie is going through "one of her phases" of waking "us" up at 02:30 to be let out for a wee. "Phases?", says Dad. "Deefer's done that to me every night since she was born, practically!" But it turns out that Ellie, once out, snuffles and bimbles for 1-2 hours and they can't get her back in.

I can't see Dad putting up with that for too long - at least mine are a quick out, charge down the garden, have a pee and bribed back indoors with a treat. Dad says he barely wakes up, and certainly doesn't feel like he's lost any sleep over it. 2 hours? What does she do out there?

Deefer

Autumn in the Garden

While we've all been rushing about dealing with Daimond's "release" and Meggie's vet visits, Autumn has quietly come to the garden. We have some lovely clumps of white cyclamen, planted more in hope than in certainty, from small dig-ups taken from the pud-lady last year. Mum and Dad had thought they'd faded and died with the up-rooting, but here they are flourishing in the wild-stawberry-y bit at the base of the birch.

We also have many roses doing a late flush after the drought and a serious amount of dead heading, and a good crop of apples (goldens and coxes) and half a dozen good sized quinces turning yellow. Also coming out is a nice clump of Sedum spectabile, actually the two surviving separate halves of one plant which Haggis liked to sit in the middle of, in his youth,

Dad has been away in Stoke for a night picking up some kind of works award (zzzzzz) but is now back, and tonight it's Mum's turn - off on a "leaving do" for a colleague. What rock and roll lifestyles we lead, to be sure.

Dad nips Meggie back to the vet's for a check up and Meg takes the opportunity to bleed onto the vet's table from her pad-scar - not before or since, just for the couple of minutes she's on the vet's table. Other than that we are declared good to go.

Have a great weekend y'all. We are eagerly awaiting the arrival of some video footage taken on the narrow boating holiday, and now saved by Mr Silverwood, to CDs. Happy memories.

Deefski

Home for the Bewildered

The Home for the Bewildered out the back, finally finished, is now accepting "customers". A bevvy of carers and nurses has arrived, and the first residents are in. We watch developments with interest. The Management are saying that locals can get a guided tour of the building. The Angel B says she is going to get her dirtiest clompy boots on and tread some mud into their new furnishings, see how they like it! Go Angel!

Diamond is home. We met John this afternoon walking home to his own house, from having just delivered Di into the tender care of fiersome Stockton-on-Tees friend of the fambly, Joan (quake, tremble). House has to be kept really really really clean because Di's immune system is still under par, so there must be absolute minimum risk of infection. One gets the impression Joan is the one to do it! No Ragworth allowed yet, so he's still at his "hotel" and no little white furry dogs yet either. Good to have you home though Diamond!

As promised, some recent Cambria pics. First a view you'd never see unless you owned one probably and had it up in dry dock to scrape barnacles off the bottom. This is taken with a wide angle under the port bow. You can just see the aft end of one of the new inner planks. the pale grey paint is the only "original" wood preserved in the restoration - the very bottom boards, pickled in salty mud since at least 1970 and almost certainly well before. At some stage in the barge's 103 years the underside may have been "doubled" (covered with a new layer of planking over (outside) the old) but we have no way of knowing, and these boards may actually be truly original 1903 wood.

Next, again with the wide angle, is a nice shot of the framing under the port bow. Finally is one of the hold with Dad's colleague Richard wandering about for scale. Running along the top of the shot above the camera and out to the right ( port side, as we're looking aft from starb'd bow) are the 2 new, 90 foot long "marjin planks", which form the sides of the hold hatches, take the hatch coamings, and support the long-ways, short "carling" beams.

All good stuff. Meggie, meanwhile, has spent a day at the vets having her feet poked and prodded. Turned out she had no grass-dart (which had been a possibility) and a small pink growth on her pad (which has been there ages and is just part of being an old girl) which might have been causing pain was cut away and cauterised, and sent away for biopsy. So she's on anti-biotics and mild pain killers, and has to wear a lamp shade for a few days. Wonder what is the price of NOT taking her pic for my blog....... mmmm... perhaps I prefer to live long and be poor.

Deefer

Happy Birthday, Megan

Happy Birthday to you
Happy Birthday to you
Happy Birthday to Meggie
Happy Birthday to Youuuuuuuuuuu!!!!

...and the humans have managed to co-incide it with a weekend day, so they are around all day to celebrate it with us. We get a nice walk in the early morning Rec, before the hoards of kiddies arrive, and we find a sponge rubber ball which is denser than my tennis ball, so it throws better and is more fun to chase. We meet assorted dogs - Barney the Springer (who "we" have known since he and Meggie were pups), and a new westie called (we think) "Skiboo".

Skiboo lives down the Graveney road and was originally one of three. His Mum had always had three, replacing dogs as they passed away, but 3 years ago, sadly, Skiboo's Dad also passed away, and Mum was finding 3 a handful. Skiboo looked very fine and handsome, a bit like Haggis but is apparently a bit of a nightmare around small children and any other dogs than westies.

In the Rec, the last big English Elm on our corner has finally succumbed to Dutch Elm Disease and produced only a sprinkle of leaves last year and is now officially dead. It's younger brothers and sisters have all gone over the last few years, and been chain-sawed off at ground level. We hear that a different fate may befall this one; its magnificent bole and thick branch-bases being offered to the artistic community for turning into a sculpture.

So for now the tree surgeons have come and lopped it to make it safe, and cut away the wrist-thick ivy stems at the base, so it stands as an ivy-covered statue, the rot inside it evident from the rotted out hollow centres of all the sawn off boughs 30 feet up. Haggis pee'd on it too many times, I reckon.

So, Meggie wins us raw pork ribs for "birthday cake", and we all mooch around the house and garden in the hot sun. Some might say that Mum and Dad are a bit subdued due to pink wine last night, but I'd never suggest such a thing. Megan looks very well on it, and is back in perfect shape (no pot belly) after her Cushings 3 years ago.... well, and now of course, but the Vetoryl every day is obviously working. Her eyes are starting to cloud a bit, but as far as we can tell, she can see OK (when she wants to!), and there's nothing wrong with her hearing (apart from selctive-deafness).

She is surely a testament to the long life giving qualities of being a totally chilled out babe. (Bad news for me, then, says Dad)

Have a Great Day, ol' girl
Deefer

New Steps

A beautiful sunny morning, but now after the thaw, very sloppy underfoot. We go for a gorgeous walk all round the Abbey Fields and behind the allotments. Sunny it may be, but still rather chilly in the wind, so why then does Megan still like wading in the puddles. When it's hot you can understand it, cooling off the dusty, foot-sore pads, but in January?

In the "No accounting for dogs" department, it's up there with "Why does Haggis take himself off upstairs to the humans' bed as soon as they sit down to eat, only trotting back down when he hears the meal ending noises - scrapes of chairs and crockery/cutlery?" No-one has ever told him to or even asked him to. The humans just got used to the start of each meal being synchronised with him disappearing, and a quick search would always find him up there, curled up.

As part of that walk, there was always a bit of fun at the end, negotiating the hazardous steps back up from where the monks' carp-ponds used to be, up to the allotments level. The steps were uneven, faced with mud, fronted with protruding wooden risers and "protected" with a very dodgy looking scaffolding-pole hand rail. The steps were all of different heights and of very different depths, and everyone was always amazed there were not more accidents.

Many people over many years complained to the Kent Rights of Way dept to try to get something done and finally, this Christmas, a size-able crew of guys showed up with machines, wood, concrete and a porta-loo (!) and a week later we have this magnificent, solid, even, safe flight, with treads of grooved, non-skid concrete and a nice wooden handrail either side......

And that's me at the top, checking them out

Deefer

Megan Mingeth

There we are, all getting ready for the party last night and, yes, Meggie did get her finger nails painted tarty-red (looks disconcertingly like Dad has gone too far up the quicks when clipping her nails!) when Diamond makes an off hand comment about the fact that megan is a bit niffy. Whammo! It is decreed that we should all be bathed. Cheers Diamond!

So today, an hour later than normal due to the change to GMT, we get a nice long walk all round the boat yard in the drizzle. We note that there's a new barge in town, the Ethel Ada (London). Unusual name, we thought - we will have to look that one up in the books - but on the web for all that....

http://nationalhistoricships.org.uk/index.cfm/event/getVessel/vref/200

She's fully rigged but now in one of our floating dry-dock lighters, presumably for her Ministry inspections.

We return from our walk all sopping wet from the rain, so Dad takes the opportunity to put us all through the shower. We ming no more, smelling instead, fragrantly of coconut. Damp dog and coconut, maybe, but not too bad for all that. We are now stretched out across various furniture and slices of floor, steaming gently dry.

Deefski

Megan

Quite a nice pic, we thought, of Meggie bimbling through the same Autumn leaves you had me in last night. No such luck tonight though - Mum and Dad arrive home from work both late and both frazzled so that, so far anyway, we've not had a walk tonight.

It's shaping up to be a mad weekend, too, with the humans here having a "Sex and the City" party Saturday night (so I suspect Megan will want her toenails painted tarty-red again, like she did on the last episode night. Plus Dad has promised to take a few more people out into Challock forest to see the deer in rut again (eh heh - three women in the forest and none of them are Mum - how racey is that?).

And then there's a lunch do for Diamond's friend Mary. I suspect we'll be fitted in around all that lot somewhere, and a camera and some more autumn leaves may be involved if the sun shines.

It's the weekend!

Deefer

Symphonia Gastronica

Poor Meg is suffering from a poorly tummy. She wakes Dad to be let out at 03:30 this morning and stays out ages eating grass. By "proper" wake up time she's off food althogether, and ignores her breakfast, which is good news for me as I get to hoover it up when no-one's looking.

She sits on her bed looking pathetic, and with her abdomen making an interesting cacophony of squelches, belches and groans. This, you may recall, is called the Symphonia Gastrica in the local family humour. Megan is not amused, and is definitely feeling sorry for herself. Dad leaves paper down and alerts the Angel B to let her out for comfort stops "in case she explodes".

When dad gets back from work, Angel B reports that she has been sick, and now seems to be recovering. She greets Dad along with the rest of us as enthusiastically as normal, and then walks to her food bowl, noses it against the skirting board with a clunk, and stands back and gruffs at Dad, looking him in the eye as if to challenge him to pretend he doesn't get it!

She ate a hearty supper.

Go Meggie, and thanks for the breakfast

Deefski

Megan and the Long Bridge

For the first time in her whole, 12 year puff, Megan gets lost. We are walking on the Rec. Meggie is old, so she tends to amble along with a unique rolling gait, her hips and back end seemingly unwilling to trot since the bad times of her Cushings (before she was diagnosed and put on the Vetoryl). So she is never going to "run off" in the traditional sense, but she can roll along at a fast human-walking pace when the mood takes her.

We are at the top of the Rec (south east corner) and turning, as usual across the top takkin' the "low road", prior to turning back along the "high road" above the bowls and tennis courts. Megan, as expected, is bimbling near the basketball court to save herself the loop, seemingly intending (as usual) to rendezvous with us when we've done the loop.

Half way along the low road, out of the corner of Dad's eye, he sees her head up the bank, but this is not cause for concern, as she's probably just seen a squirrel. But it is cause for concern when she doesn't meet us back at the basketball. Our increasingly frantic circling about, looking round bushes and diving among buildings, with Dad whistling, fails to find her, and everyone Dad asks just looks blank.

Suspecting she may have taken off up the famous "Long Bridge" (longest railway footbridge in the UK... http://www.faversham.org/pages/standard.aspx?i_PageID=15816 ) towards the cemetery, Dad phones Mum to get her to check the "walked back home option". Dad takes off over the bridge with us, while Mum comes from home to the Rec, cutting off that exit.

We speed-walk across the bridge and back through the graveyard (poor Haggis is too old for all this fast stuff) to home.

We get dropped at home, while Dad returns to the Rec, hoping to close the "pincer movement" with Mum. Everyone's praying by this stage. Megan has never "run off" before.

Blessed relief then when a kind stranger phones Dad's mobile from the number on her collar. 4 small children have found her and asked the man to phone the number. She is, indeed across the Long Bridge, but has gone on from there rather than looping back through the cemetery, presumably given up, and is now ambling home. The kind man tells us he'll hang on till Dad arrives, and there is a happy re-union. Mum, Dad and Megan walk slowly home. Megan is exhausted. What a relief.

Deefer

The last one?

Another nice bluebell-iferous pic, this one of Meggie (with me obscured behind) and taken yesterday on a slow gentle walk (Megan and Mum are with us, and neither do Dad's "route-march" pace willingly!).

This, though, is pretty much it for picturesque bluebell walks - although the bluebells are probably at their finest, the beech leaves are now well out and the chestnut coming into leaf, so the light levels are falling. So too the herb and bramble layer is thickening up and hiding much of the colour. Never mind - we had a good run at it, and the sunny heat has been gorgeous. Challock's car park was choc-a-block yesterday.

Enjoy the good weather

Happy 12th, Meggie!

Happy Birthday Megan - 12 today!! Here is a pic of her, eating her birthday cake! It might look a little to you like a raw pork rib from Sainsbury's but let's not split hairs. Naturally we all got a couple (although Haggis is so slow eating his I suspect he may have had 1 and a half, to Meg's 2 and a half, but he can't count, so (Dad) your secret's safe with me!

We also had, treat of treats, another bluebell walk but this time with 6 of us - bro Archie, Mum (Mollie) and Dad (Hector). Dad had actually tried to get Ellie-Bez but her Mum was working

Pics of all that, and more, when I have time!

Happy Birthday, the Megster

Deefs