Cows would never make good burglers!

That sounds a ridiculous statement, but when you live next to a dairy farm, you have plenty of chance to observe cow behaviour, for good or bad.

I can always tell when they have the boyfriend working of the lass who does the milking.  The cattle will come down from the fields making a din, obviously unhappy, and their noise is accompanied by a regular beeping of the Landrover's horn, as the very impatient boyfriend (who HATES cows and anything to do with them) chivvies them along, nearly hitting the halt and the lame who bring up the rear with the front bumper of the Landy.  When anyone else brings them in, they are quiet.


 We get an awful lot of racket when there the calves are separated from their mamas too.  The calves are left with them for a couple of days and then they are seperated, and the calves come to live with the earlier ones, and mum is left to her own devices.  Reluctant to leave her calf initially, she wanders round the yard at night, bellowing non-stop (they don't even seem to pause for breath!) but after a couple of days she will join the rest of the herd when they go back out to pasture after milking, seemingly forgetting she ever had a calf at all.

But the MOST noise you get from the herd is when they are doing something they aren't supposed to.  This morning, they were meant to be in Park field (I think).  Anyway, I knew they were somewhere they weren't supposed to be (a field along) when I could see them on the horizon, all bellowing fit to bust and obviously so delighted they had made a bid for freedom that they had to tell the world about it.  Next Door will not be pleased as it means fence mending is on the agenda, quite apart from getting them all back where they were meant to be.

Meanwhile, I am giving myself a break from walking today and plan to pick more apples and work on the garden.  Have a good weekend.

Keeping busy

A strange old week, for happenings and weather.  Steady rain throughout the day on a couple of days, then an afternoon clear enough to get a walk in.  I have been challenging my lungs with some steep hills.  Normally I would try and avoid the steepest as they are such a struggle, but I need to try and restore myself to pre-illness fitness, and especially so as I had a letter from the Hospital yesterday telling me that I have an appointment the 2nd week in October to present myself for respiratory tests which have to be undertaken WITHOUT having taken any of my asthma medication.  THAT is going to be a challenge and a half, especially as the Nurse I saw mentioned it can be quite distressing.  Not nice to have that to look forward to, but if it means they can say exactly how good/bad my lungs are and perhaps change my medication for something more helpful, then it will be worth it.  (I might add the 2nd half of the respiratory tests are done after medication/large dose of Ventolin).

Anyway, I took myself off the loooooooooooong steep hill towards Brechfa yesterday and although I was puffing like a grampus, I managed it, though it is half an hour's walking uphill all the way before you reach a flat spot.  I had to stop at intervals, but that was to be expected.  Earlier in the week I had walked to a neighbour's house - that had the first part of this same hill on the outward journey and a much steeper hill on the way back, and I managed the latter with just one stop.

Earlier in the week I had to take my husband to A&E as he had damaged his wrist splitting logs (the splitter had hit the log just on the handle and the shock-waves twisted the wrist).  Anyway, after complaining about it aching for a couple of days, a lump suddenly appeared and the pain got worse, so we thought an X-ray might be in order.  It turns out it is just a sprain so he has to rest it (not an easy thing for my husband, who is active and it itching to get all our firewood split for winter.)

We have wandered round the antique shops and charity shops, sorted out our Antiques Fair/Fleamarket goodies (praying for dry weather on Sunday but it's not looking good) .

I keep saying I must get all the apples picked.  It is no good expecting them to get any larger and I am fed up with feeding the Jackdaws and Magpies.  I have taken what windfalls I can and cooked them up, being very frugal and using even the smallest ones in Wartime fashion.  Speaking of which, I am thoroughly enjoying the Wartime Farm programmes, despite them using what are obviously cull cows (due to their udder problems - the Jersey cow's udder was nearly on the round when she walked, so no wonder she had torn half the teat off.  One of the other cows has a mis-shaped udder too.)

A neighbour has Soapwort growing near their home, but not enough to repeat Ruth's hair washing experiment!  I guess it was needs must in those days, though as she said she has some unusual knowledge which many folk wouldn't have had in those days.

Spotted in the paddock . . .

I was just idly looking out of the window across the paddock when I saw Ban sat in the grass.  I called her name.  She ignored me.  I called louder.  I tapped on the glass. Still no response, so I began to drop the sash window, and at the noise she looked at me, and I saw it WASN'T Ban at all, but a tabby with a white bib - just like our late much lamented Timmy, who died about 8 or so years back now.

I went outside and stood by the apple tree at the edge of the paddock.  The stranger looked at me and sank lower in the grass, and lower . . .  I came inside and left him to it - I presume it's a tom, they usually are at this time of year, looking for a territory of their own.

D, who claims to have noticed him first, wants to call him Snarf (from Thundercats).  I have banned him from doing so! Timmy2 (my choice) will probably move on anyway, especially when Tom, the resident stray tom cat who "thinks" we feed him (he is mistaken - we feed Miffy and Amber) will knock 7 bells out of him, I don't doubt, as he does that with any cat he meets.  He is close to being trapped, neutered and rehomed somewhere else . . . 

I have never lived anywhere where so many stray cats turn up in my garden. Like my good friend in America (Morning's Minion), I am sure they are drawn as if by magnet - though in her case they are actively DUMPED).

Antique shop prices . . . think of a number

We had a little wander around the antique shops in town this morning, just window-shopping. These days, the antiques shops are often set ups where lots of different dealers rent a space (according to their pocket) and stock it with what they think will attract a buyer.  In an ideal world, we'd do this too, but we can't afford take a chance on paying a regular rental and perhaps not selling anything for weeks.

Anyway, we had a wander round and there was only one piece of Torquay pottery - a big mug with a good long motto on the back, but at £25 I felt it was all the money and more, and think it's probably a good few pounds more than it's worth in the current market.  Sometimes items for sale are old stock, bought at the top of the market a few years back, which still haven't sold and I can quite understand folk not wanting to sell stuff for half of what they paid for it!

There was a rather battered copy of Eden Phillpotts' "Widecombe Fair" too. As I picked it up part of the spine fell off (that sort of battered condition). That was priced at £10 and bears absolutely no resemblence to general market value (which would be £3 or so in good condition).  I collect Eden Phillpotts and would have bought it at a sensible price, but this was obviously one of those "Oh it's old so it must be valuable" pricing decisions.  Personally, I do my research before I, say, list anything on e-bay where if it's that much over-priced it just won't sell. 

I have decided to sell my collection of Portmeirion pottery (wedding gifts originally) as after having them wrapped up for 3 years, and now collecting the Torquay pottery in its various guises, I far prefer the Torquay pieces and would rather put the money from the Portmeirion into some good pieces for my collection.  I did my research - found out prices new, saw what they went for on e-bay (where there will be P&P on top) and priced them at e-bay prices and they will later be offered for sale on there if I don't shift them locally.  Several women have picked them up, saw my marked price, and despite my offer of a very good deal if they wanted to buy the set of bowls or plates, they loftily remarked that they are "over priced".  It's that old car boot sale ethic - if you're trying to sell at a car boot sale, then you have to do so at give-away prices, even if what you are offering is desirable, yet in a shop setting, it's often "think of a number" . . . Everyone has different levels of knowledge - if it's something a dealer has never come across before, they may price it high and hope to be lucky.  Sometimes the price is a blistering one from sheer ignorance, but on the odd occasion we have picked up a bargain because it's in our area of expertise!

Ah well, we came home empty-handed but I did buy myself a pretty little circular wicker basket with handle yesterday at the boot sale (for blackberrying), and I was given a water-damaged (as in it was still soaking wet!) beautifully-embroidered picture when I expressed an interest in it.  I have it currently soaking in Ariel and hoping I can get the dirty marks out and the mould just starting to form on one corner.

Visit from a little ghost cat . . .

I was laying in bed last night, having just stopped reading and turned out the light.  I felt a cat jump gently onto the bed, walk across me and then down into the hollow between me and my husband.  Having been convinced all "lurkers" had been put into the kitchen, I sat up and said to K, "I thought you said all the cats were downstairs - yet one's just walked over me."  I put my hand out to see who it was - and there was nothing there . . .  He hadn't felt anything (well, I suppose he wouldn't, it was me that was walked across).  I can only assume it was a little ghost cat, visiting, and giving it some thought, I think it must have been my darling Lucky, as the strides were very short (she was a little short-legged cat).  Bless her - coming back to say hello.

My eldest daughter has spoken of a ghost cat on her bed before now too.

I am sure the pragmatic amongst you will think - daft woman, it was just her imagination, but I am sure the animal-lovers may think differently . . .

Cats and Crumble . . .

I did some baking this afternoon: a pizza for supper; an apple crumble and a small loaf of bread.  I left the two latter, covered with a clean teatowel, on top of the oven to cool. 

Anyway, we have just been seeking out lurking cats and putting them in the kitchen where they sleep overnight.  Fluff trotted across the kitchen floor, leaving wet footprints behind her, and she had a wet hind leg.  I looked about: no grey cat in sight.  Sheba (aka Misery Guts) and Fluff don't get on, so I assumed they had had a spat and Fluff had ended up in the water bowl.  Yet there was no spilt water. 

I went across to the cooker to put the bread and the cooled crumble away, only to find out that Fluff had attempted to make a bed on top of the lovely warm apple crumble, and THAT was why she was wet - she was covered in apple juice!  Ah well, just as well we have plenty of apples!

Snap!

The Weaver of Grass has just written wonderfully about her fear of spiders.  I can quite sympathise with her - around this time of year there seems to be a population explosion - or they all come into the house to keep warm over winter.  I am afraid I don't care for them either, and have to deal with them with the working end of the Dyson pipe especially when I am decorating - as I am in the kitchen at the moment.  I say sorry to them before they go to meet their maker but I am sure a Dyson-death is fairly instant and preferable to drowning in paint.

Anyway, there was a time when I wasn't too bothered about spiders.  I can remember my friend Tricia had one with yellow markings on its back which lived in her dad's toolshed and she had hysterics every time we had to go in there.   At that time, I was OK with spiders, as long as no-one required me to pick one up.

Anyway, this went on until we were having Sunday lunch one day.  Bear in mind this was the cusp of the 1950s into 1960, so there was linoleum on the floor and just a square of carpet in the centre.  We were all sat down to our roast, and I could hear a sort of scrabbling noise over the lino.  I said about it to Dad (mum was too deaf to hear it) but he didn't think anything of it.  Anyway, a few minutes later something tickled my neck and when I put my hand up to rub my neck, the biggest spider this side of the African jungle fell into my gravy.  I have never screamed so loudly before or since, and neither have I liked spiders.  Oooh, it gives me the heeby-jeebies just remembering it!