We are sharing our crop with fantails, bees, and our chickens. Accessing figs is a great chicken exercise opportunity as they spring into the air to peck at just-above-chicken-height fruit. It’s as well we have more than one fig tree. Plenty for everyone.
Figs are so photogenic.
I take mine on crackers with blue cheese. Well at least that’s what I do with the ones that make it back to the house. Most of them I eat right there under the tree. Delicious.
What’s your favorite way to eat figs?
It turns out that a big factor in the art of farming is keeping animals in somewhere (their paddock, pen, run) or out of somewhere else (the veggie garden, the fruit trees, some other animal’s paddock, the neighbour’s rabbit hutch).
We have already had a few fails on this score. Notably the curious incident of the hoofbeats in the night, and more recently some rogue visits by the young dog to our neighbour’s block. Much as the phrase ‘Have you seen the black dog?’ sounds like something your local spy contact should counter with ‘No, but I hear Helsinki is wonderful this time of year’; around here it is a straight question. Oft asked with a nervous glance around for said black dog which only serves to strengthen the impression of a covert operation.
Over time we’ve solved the various escape problems. Ponies are now contained after our most recent fencing extravaganza — I call it an extravaganza because it cost us at least as much as a day hire on a couple of elephants and a troupe of go-go dancers — and the black dog has been deterred by some crafty gate macrame. What you didn’t know that macrame was an essential farming skill? Shame on you.
Craft projects with Chrissy B #1. Gate Macrame
The difficulty is that each animal we add to the menagerie comes with its own set of escape techniques. Case in point, those kunekune pigs. One night last week the Forebearing Husband was on his way to the barn on an important manly mission involving a bucket and an electric fan (don’t ask). It was very dark so when he heard a snuffling and grunting in the grass alongside the driveway he thought heffalump and deftly moved the bucket and fan into a helmet and quarterstaff arrangement (no pictures, it was very dark remember). Poised to defend the compound he waited. Nervously. Enter Nell, ‘Hi human, is that food you have there in your bucket?’.
At ease soldier. Pulse rate returns to baseline. Pig is returned to her assigned area.
Nell and Fig. ‘Hi human, is that food in your bucket’. A pig’s enthusiasm for breakfast is beautiful to behold
Turns out the pigs can dig under the new fences. Turns out they can manage this even when we think we’ve blocked potential egress points with roofing iron. Dammit! As Deborah said later, it’s our reasoning power vs the food drive of those pigs. Surely the humans will prevail?
Wish us luck!
Yesterday I went out to do some weeding in a thicket of black nightshade that has sprung up down by the barn. There I was, toiling away pulling out plant after plant, when it suddenly occurred to me that instead of weeding I could call this harvesting. Funny how just that one word change transformed my feelings about the task.
Goodness that’s a sh**load of weeds.
But wait, I’m not weeding, I’m harvesting.
What a lov-er-ly lot of biomass for my compost heap.
Thank goodness the farmlet has oodles more weedy biomass for me to harvest? How very fortunate.
How do you approach weeding? With loathing or joy? Or possibly just a few sharp implements.
I know you’ve all been hanging out for cute piggy pics, so here they are. I am in the process of writing a longer pig post, but it’s not quite coming together, so consider this a little something to keep you going.
Here they are; Fig and Nell, who made the most of a wet summer by lying in muddy patches as often as possible. Photos by Stephen.
A mud bath. Much more fun than a regular bath…
and so very good for the complexion.
Since I don’t have much to say just now, I thought we could finish with a song. This was one our Grandma used to like to sing on muddy occasions (growing up in England one encounters plenty of muddy occasions). I’ll start and you join in. If you’re not sure of the tune you can listen here; the first chorus is at 37s. Off we go!
Mud, mud, glorious mud.
There’s nothing quite like it for cooling the blood,
So follow me, follow,
Down to the hollow,
And there let us wallow,
in Glorious Mud.
From The Hippopotomus Song by Flanders and Swann, 1957.
Tap, tap. Is this thing on? … Ah, hello? [clears throat and peers out into the darkness]. Anyone still there?
Yup, I’ve been gone a lot longer than I expected. Stuff happened — some good, some bad. Stuff that got in the way of writing. Then, as the weeks went by, it got harder and harder to figure out how to break the silence. A bit like when you owe someone an email and the longer you put it off the guiltier you feel, and the harder it is to start.
It’s okay though. I had another stern negotiation session with my brain, and we agreed I would just write something. Anything. Therefore consider this your official warning. I’m Back.
So, could we turn those light on again now?
P.S. My brain’s says no-one is reading this anyway. If you want to challenge her you know what to do.
It’s been a sobering year for our family and there may be a few tears today amongst the joyful moments. We send our love to all of you and hope for a less eventful 2018.
Now run away and hug the ones you love. x
Happy Christmas from the farmlet
Thanks for waiting. Now we can get on to talking about the sheep.
The same weekend we acquired kune kune pigs we also bought two ewes, one with a set of twins, and one with a single lamb, from a neighbour who farms Wiltshire sheep. The Wiltshire breed shed their wool in spring which makes them a good choice for amateurs like us who don’t
want to have a clue how to shear.
Two of the lambs are wethers (that’s farmer-speak for neutered boys), who, when they reach about a year old, are destined for the freezer. In autumn we plan to send the girls for some sexy-time with our neighbour’s ram, and if all goes well we could be raising farmlet-born lambs by next spring.
For obvious reasons I’m going to keep the Forbearing Husband well away from the cute little lambies. Fortunately for our culinary hopes, our sheep show no signs whatsoever of wanting to interact with us, so perhaps the Forbearing Husband and I really will manage to eat those lads. If not Stephen and Deborah will just have to find it in them to mop up any excess meat. I’ve already decided that if I can’t bring myself to eat our home reared animals I’m going to embrace vegetarianism.
All in all it’s feeling rather pastoral around here.
We have officially moved to the next level in our efforts to make ourselves look like Real Farmers. In a recent flurry of animal acquisition, beasties have fair-to-flooded through the gates of our little acreage. In just one weekend we added two kunekune pigs and five Wiltshire sheep to our livestock, more than trebling our previous stock count of one-and-three-quarter ponies*.
The kunekune girls, Prunella and Fig
The pigs are named Fig and Prunella, that’s Fig and Nell for short. As in, ‘Fig ‘n’ Nell, where have those pigs got to!’. Deborah named them, but you can thank the Forbearing Husband for their bawdy joint sobriquet. Fig ‘n’ Nell can look forward to a future providing orchard grass control and porcine entertainment. The idea was always for them to be working pets rather than sausages.
The face that made a grown man consider going pork-free for life
We do have a plan to eventually raise a couple of larger breed pigs to make into bacon and ham, although that may now have to be taken under advisement. Soon after the arrival of the piglets we sat — proud piggy-parents — watching the girls enthusiastically chow-down on loquats. As juice dripped off their little chins, and happy grunting filled the air, the Forbearing Husband turned to me. ‘I don’t think I’ll be able to eat pork ever again’ he confided sheepishly.
Fig finds herself unable to stand after a bumper intake of yummies (photo by Stephen)
That’s certainly something, coming from a man who when brunching at a cafe habitually orders meals that include meat from a pig. I wonder how long he can manage without bacon and egg pie?
Now don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten about the sheep. I’ll be back soon to fill you in on all the woolly gossip. I know that Nurse Jenny for one is probably raring to find out about our potential for creating hand spun knitting wool.
* I’m not counting the dogs and cat as stock. They would like you to know that they consider themselves well above that status.
After an Unfortunate Incident on Tuesday morning I’m laid up with a sprained ankle. If only I could say I sustained the injury vaulting off a pony, or leaping daringly in front of an escaping sheep, but no. In a (literally) pedestrian manner I slipped on a road marking slick with rain as I crossed the street on my way to work.
The Forbearing Husband is referring to me as Gimpy.
After a day of ingesting painkillers, sitting with my foot elevated and hobbling about on crutches — while also of course maintaining a (passably) professional presence at work — I realised that driving was out of the question. Forbearing Husband was on a work trip to Auckland so I had to ask Deborah to come and drive me home. Thank you Deborah.
It’s all rather annoying as it was my turn to be in Auckland yesterday. I had made plans to take my lovely friend The Doctor out for dinner on Wednesday night, and then today I was meant to be nose to the grindstone earning some dollars to pay Phil the Fencer and his boys. They are back here working on more fencing, and I fear the bill will be horrendous.
Instead I’m sitting with my feet up drinking tea, reading and blogging, and listening to the Forbearing Husband digging. He’s trying to find where those expensive fencing boys have broken through our stream water supply pipe. Hold on, it’s not sounding too bad after all. Enforced down time? I’ll take it. Just pass me that arnica cream could you?
What’s your advice on how to heal a gimpy ankle?