Looks like we peaked out at 106 page views last night, and we're now back down to 96, I see. Must have been the consistently high numbers of viewers while the Sussex Saga was running. I'm afraid we're now back in the hum-drum of normal work days and walks.
Haggis's 12th Birthday next weekend though.........
Deefer
Friday, 31 July 2009
Yeurkkk! Rabbit!
We've mentioned before about the ARF diet for dogs (Species-) Appropriate Raw Food. When dad used to go on the Westie Chat forum there was a group of mainly Americans who swore by the system of feeding no tinned food to their dogs because of the cereal/rusk in it, and fed their dogs "chicken backs" and other raw meat of species appropriate to the size of dog.
We know from when we've tried it, that it's true that the food is almost 100% digestible, and the dog's poo comes out chalky white, pretty much just ground-up bone. The ARF lot also say that the firmness of the poo lets the dog effectively strip it's own anal glands (by the extra effort, shall we say, not wishing to upset anyone's tea). Anyway, you can read all about it by Googling ARF or clicking on the link
http://www.westieclubamerica.com/health/digestiveproblemsdiet.html
Anyway, as I've said "we" try it every now and again - and often get the "chicken backs" (spine, rib bases, pelvis and Parson's nose) raw when ever Dad is spatch-cocking a chook to roast it.
Tonight, though, the humans are having rabbit, and although the saddle bit is way too meaty and lovely for humans to pass to dogs, the rib-cage bit and neck end get passed down. They are leapt on with gusto by Meggie and the H man, but I amaze everyone including myself by taking one lick, and then turning up my nose and walking off. Yuck! Rabbits - grand for chasing but don't try to feed me them as dinner. I'm not off my food - I dive into the tinned as soon as it's offered.
There's now't so strange as dogs!
Have a great weekend
Deefski
We know from when we've tried it, that it's true that the food is almost 100% digestible, and the dog's poo comes out chalky white, pretty much just ground-up bone. The ARF lot also say that the firmness of the poo lets the dog effectively strip it's own anal glands (by the extra effort, shall we say, not wishing to upset anyone's tea). Anyway, you can read all about it by Googling ARF or clicking on the link
http://www.westieclubamerica.com/health/digestiveproblemsdiet.html
Anyway, as I've said "we" try it every now and again - and often get the "chicken backs" (spine, rib bases, pelvis and Parson's nose) raw when ever Dad is spatch-cocking a chook to roast it.
Tonight, though, the humans are having rabbit, and although the saddle bit is way too meaty and lovely for humans to pass to dogs, the rib-cage bit and neck end get passed down. They are leapt on with gusto by Meggie and the H man, but I amaze everyone including myself by taking one lick, and then turning up my nose and walking off. Yuck! Rabbits - grand for chasing but don't try to feed me them as dinner. I'm not off my food - I dive into the tinned as soon as it's offered.
There's now't so strange as dogs!
Have a great weekend
Deefski
Wednesday, 29 July 2009
One Hundred and Two
Today we celebrate passing a new milestone in bloggishness. Just every now and then we nip into the Site Meter stats you can link to from this page (top right), just to see how often it's read and where the readers are from. We have several regulars, we know, (recently Mrs S's Ozzie rels have joined us - Hellow you guys!), and then you get one offs from (we notice recently) Germany, Romania, Singapore, all over.
We generally chug along at about 40 visits a week and 50-60 page views. Lately though, with the Sussex saga this has swelled to an all time record of 102 views as of today, in the last week. We are delighted - sometimes it feels as if we are writing into the big black void - it's good to know 102 people have spotted us this week.
Perhaps not a best-seller yet.....
Deefer
Tuesday, 28 July 2009
Miracle of the Legs
With the "Saga of the Sussex" now brought to a close, we resume normal life, or what passes for it in this house. Today, in fact, Mum is off sick (pleading not guilty to Swine Flu... "It's just a cough!") and Dad has the day off to guide the judges round Faversham-in-Bloom's Front Garden Competition. This involves driving the lead car round 30 odd addresses in town, twisting and turning in ever decreasing circles in the back streets, before adjourning to The Sun for lunch. Very nice too, he says.
Prior to that we'd had a quick walk at the Rec, but the H and I had been promised a "proper one" in the afternoon. So we headed for Challock Forest where we planned to do the 2-miler sculpture trail route in reverse. But just below what we call the "rib cage" sculpture (these are Stour Valley Arts sculptures among the trees, made out of mainly local materials) we come across an intriguing A4 paper-laminated temporary sign saying "Miracle of the Legs". An arrow points straight on.
We follow 4 more signs till we are walking northwards above the SVA's "Cloud Chamber" sculpture (a log igloo which works as a camera obscura), where upon the signs run out, leaving us flummoxed.
Dad has a vague memory that at one of the last Friends of Kings Wood Committee meetings he attended, SVA were proposing this sculpture which involved carved wooden legs grafted onto existing trees and wondered whether this might finally be the finished product. Amusingly, at the time, we had learned that the legs were carved as copies of the legs of a lady we know, who also used to be on the Committee (Hi, Mrs B) and was a reguler walker of two rangey springers in the Forest.
However, we could find nothing, so we are none the wiser. Miracle of the legs? Maybe they've miraculously vanished. Nothing for it but to go home and google it.... tara!
http://docs.google.com/gview?a=v&q=cache:B-PuxHNO4f0J:www.ashford.gov.uk/AshfordGov1.1/pdf.aspx%3Fpage%3D10803+Miracle+of+the+Legs&hl=en&gl=uk
Deefski
Prior to that we'd had a quick walk at the Rec, but the H and I had been promised a "proper one" in the afternoon. So we headed for Challock Forest where we planned to do the 2-miler sculpture trail route in reverse. But just below what we call the "rib cage" sculpture (these are Stour Valley Arts sculptures among the trees, made out of mainly local materials) we come across an intriguing A4 paper-laminated temporary sign saying "Miracle of the Legs". An arrow points straight on.
We follow 4 more signs till we are walking northwards above the SVA's "Cloud Chamber" sculpture (a log igloo which works as a camera obscura), where upon the signs run out, leaving us flummoxed.
Dad has a vague memory that at one of the last Friends of Kings Wood Committee meetings he attended, SVA were proposing this sculpture which involved carved wooden legs grafted onto existing trees and wondered whether this might finally be the finished product. Amusingly, at the time, we had learned that the legs were carved as copies of the legs of a lady we know, who also used to be on the Committee (Hi, Mrs B) and was a reguler walker of two rangey springers in the Forest.
However, we could find nothing, so we are none the wiser. Miracle of the legs? Maybe they've miraculously vanished. Nothing for it but to go home and google it.... tara!
http://docs.google.com/gview?a=v&q=cache:B-PuxHNO4f0J:www.ashford.gov.uk/AshfordGov1.1/pdf.aspx%3Fpage%3D10803+Miracle+of+the+Legs&hl=en&gl=uk
Deefski
Monday, 27 July 2009
Citron Brioche
Dad is driving a work-mate home today to Ashford, and she is going on about "Citron Brioche" but in a dog context, and leaving him completely confused. It's only when he says "But isn't Citron Brioche a kind of lemon flavoured pain-au-chocolat thing?" that she stops, and realises she is actually talking about the dog breed "Bichon Frisee". Easy mistake to make?
Meanwhile our saga of the Good Ship Sussex comes to a close. No more dramas. Just an early start for the boys climbing the 2 locks out of Salterhebble, and then chugging back along the 45 minutes of well wooded canal to Sowerby Bridge. Here we kill the speed completely and execute a very nifty reverse turn to dock back alongside an sister-ship at the wharf, to be greeted "home" by Susan and all the team at Shire Cruisers.
It's been a fantastic week of energetic and relaxing fun and, as usual we are already talking excitedly about doing it all again next year. While we've been chugging along the ladies have finished the packing (all the Silverwoods' stuff arrives "packed" in black bin liners (nice and squishy to fit in the weird shaped cubby-holes and lockers on these boats - no place for rigid suitcases here!- so it's simply bagged back into those for the move back to the cavernous boot of the S's people carrier.
We dogs are disembarked and tied to a handy bollard, the younger kids carried to the cars and strapped in, while the grown ups and the older children chain-gang the stuff up out of the boat and across the right car. Mum executes a lst blitz of tidying and wiping down ( we just KNOW the cleaning gang is going to be fearsome Yorkshire gals, who probably were up at 05:00 scrubbing their front steps, and we don't want them to think the worst of Kentish domesticity).
Then we buy a few bits from the company shop, say our goodbyes to each other and to Susan and co, and we go our separate ways, the Silverwoods heading for the Thomas the Tank Engine land of Drayton Manor (that one mainly for young M's benefit), we off across to the M1 and down South again.
It's been a blast
Deefski
Meanwhile our saga of the Good Ship Sussex comes to a close. No more dramas. Just an early start for the boys climbing the 2 locks out of Salterhebble, and then chugging back along the 45 minutes of well wooded canal to Sowerby Bridge. Here we kill the speed completely and execute a very nifty reverse turn to dock back alongside an sister-ship at the wharf, to be greeted "home" by Susan and all the team at Shire Cruisers.
It's been a fantastic week of energetic and relaxing fun and, as usual we are already talking excitedly about doing it all again next year. While we've been chugging along the ladies have finished the packing (all the Silverwoods' stuff arrives "packed" in black bin liners (nice and squishy to fit in the weird shaped cubby-holes and lockers on these boats - no place for rigid suitcases here!- so it's simply bagged back into those for the move back to the cavernous boot of the S's people carrier.
We dogs are disembarked and tied to a handy bollard, the younger kids carried to the cars and strapped in, while the grown ups and the older children chain-gang the stuff up out of the boat and across the right car. Mum executes a lst blitz of tidying and wiping down ( we just KNOW the cleaning gang is going to be fearsome Yorkshire gals, who probably were up at 05:00 scrubbing their front steps, and we don't want them to think the worst of Kentish domesticity).
Then we buy a few bits from the company shop, say our goodbyes to each other and to Susan and co, and we go our separate ways, the Silverwoods heading for the Thomas the Tank Engine land of Drayton Manor (that one mainly for young M's benefit), we off across to the M1 and down South again.
It's been a blast
Deefski
Sunday, 26 July 2009
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!)
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!)
Saturday, 25 July 2009
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
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