Red Squirrel Captured!

... By Camera

GOTCHA! Here he is, the elusive red squirrel I've been telling you about in recent weeks.

 Isn't he lovely - enjoying a breezy but sunny start to the day in a garden near Jedburgh.

Home on the Range

.. or, the Saga of the Aga

FOR WEEKS I harboured a secret desire to have an Aga cooker installed in my new home. After all a country kitchen without a range is like an egg without a yolk.

Methuseleh: Original owner 

of oil-fired stove?

 I tried to explain this to my husband but he went all Algerian on me and claimed not to understand a word I was saying - considering he's fluent in Arabic, French and English there's only so many times he can pull this "I'm a foreigner, I don't understand" routine. However he suddenly became extremely articulate, regurgitating half the Oxford English Dictionary when he saw a collection of glossy Aga brochures and he said it simply wasn't in our budget and we had to make do with the oil-fired stove that was already in place ... despite the fact the original owner must have been Methuseleh himself! He was exerting his authority and putting his foot down. As most wives know, we take this sort of strop as a bit of a challenge.
 Every time I tried to light the oil-fired stove I approached it with great trepidation as one would if searching for a gas leak with a welder's torch on full blast.

Slapstick heroes: Laurel & Hardy

 The long predicted blowback when it happened was twice as traumatic as expected and while I would've enjoyed being a spectator I played the starring role. Blowback is a term first used in 1973 by the CIA to describe the unintended consequences of an undercover operation, but it is also quite an apt description of what happened to me. The two heavy metal cooking plates were blown into the air by the sheer, undiluted force of some sort of explosion which left me momentarily deaf. A fine shower of black soot descended in slow motion over the kitchen landing on my face and singed eyebrows. Just in case I was on fire, I dived at the kitchen sink plunging headlong in to the tepid, greasy water lined with orange scum from a tandoori dish that had been soaking overnight. There was a smell of burning and I wanted to make sure it wasn't me. Feeling like a bit part player in the Laurel and Hardy classic "Dirty Work" when the icons of slapstick played the roles of chimney sweeps, I looked a sight for sore eyes. Yes indeed, a fine mess.

As with all dramas that life throws at me without warning - but on an alarming and regular basis - my other half was miles away blissfully unaware of the murderous incantations I was muttering against him.
 It was one of those "final straw" moments and once I had made sure I wasn't in the advanced stages of self-immolation, I proceeded towards the study and went on the internet where I found a man who sells reconditioned, wood burning Rayburns with a 12 month guarantee. Furthermore, he specially modified his so that a window could show off the roaring fire from the furnace inside. Perfect.

Shooting season finally over for
Benghazi's rebels

 I then set in motion a carefully co-ordinated operation requiring military precision, the co-operation of a local builder and a special courier service to deliver my Rayburn all the way from Cornwall while he-who-should-be-obeyed-but-rarely-is was accompanying me on a film trip for a TV documentary on Benghazi, in war-torn Libya.

 The plan was simple. The builder would remove the old stove, instal the new and it would all be presented as a fait accompli on our return. My other half would immediately fall in love with the new addition and praise me for being so thrifty to find this wonderful bargain. What could possibly go wrong? Obviously I'd forgotten Sod's Law!

Home made: My 

reconditioned Rayburn 

with fire window

 While out filming in Benghazi my mobile went off right in the middle of a burst of AK-47 fire by gun-toting rebels. It was the builder. With one finger stuck in my ear I held the phone close to the other and heard him tell me the good news - Methuseleh's monstrosity had been removed. Then followed the bad news - the new stove couldn't be fitted because an unsafe asbestos panel had been discovered on the rear wall and the area needed to be fire-proofed against the immense heat generated from the new cooker which also needed a double lined flue installed as the current one was designed for oil-fired systems only. On top of the £4,000 plus additional costs he quoted me, he added that the old stove had been condemned because it had been chugging out deadly poisonous carbon monoxide fumes!

 "Look on the bright side. You're lucky to be alive. We'll sort all of this out when you return. Sounds as though you're having fun but the shooting season is closed now," he said on hearing the latest crackle of gun fire. "Tell that to Gaddafi",  I responded before closing the line.
 It took some weeks for hubby to forgive me. But once the Rayburn was finally installed and I produced my first chicken casserole harmony was restored once again.

Future installment: A BEE IN MY BONNET - coming soon(ish)

Bats: A cautionary tale

Walk away and don't look back

PERHAPS it was the sweeping drive, the rhododendrons lining either side in full bloom, the visual impact of the looming 18th century coach house or the mature woodlands, streams and pastures - whatever it was, it was love at first sight.
 He-who-should-be-obeyed-but-rarely-is was accompanying me on my latest jaunt in search of the perfect country retreat. His concern was growing with each journey as he realised this wasn't one of my two-week fads, it was lasting much longer. My search had taken him up hill and down dale in Yorkshire, across Wales, through Cornwall and Devon and around Malvern country. And more importantly, we'd just found a buyer for our Soho flat.
 "Midlife crisis," chipped in the back seat driver Joyce, my octogenarium mum, as he advised me to put a lid on my squeals of delight and restrain my enthusiasm as the car came to a crunching halt on the gravel drive and the seller approached with trademark Scottish hospitality.
 After a couple of hours viewing we left with differing views. My usually silent half said there was too much work, too much upkeep and the house was falling down while all my mother could go on about was the enormous amount of blue bottles, where did the sewage pipe end and what would happen if the water well dried up?
 There was also the matter of distance - London was a six hour drive away and that's where my work was for three days of the week.
 After taking their counsel for all of 90 seconds, I got on the phone to a local builder and surveyor and put in an offer with the estate agent as soon as I got back to London. House sales are done differently in Scotland and usually someone's word is their bond so there's none of the accompanying nonsense associated with gazumping in the volatile London market.
 I knew the house was in a state of disrepair - as soon as you see the word "character" mentioned in the blurb you know there's a few wrinkles and ailments.
 The diagnosis from the builder was not good either when I met up with him on a subsequent visit. "Wood worm, dry rot, rising damp, an unexplained bulge at the back, more than 20 wasps nests in the attic," he exclaimed and then, in a conspiratorial tone he moved forwards and whispered in my ear and there's something else: "I can fix all that but you've got bats. My advice is turn around slowly and start to walk away and never look back."

Blood sucker: Christopher Lee

 My goodness! I thought Bram Stoker's novel on Dracula was the work of fiction - now I felt as though I'd just entered a real life Hammer House of Horror film and Christopher Lee would waft into view from no where cursing the faint aroma coming from the wild garlic growing in the woodlands.
I began to do some research on builders and bats and was gobsmacked. These flying pipsqueaks, barely the size of a small mouse, had more rights and protections than any child in Britain. In fact, had children got the same rights as bats and the protection of zealous bat conservation groups I doubt there would be many cases of child cruelty. Perhaps we should do away with social workers and retrain the members of the Bat Conservation Trust. I mentioned it to an acquaintance of mine, a well travelled international diplomat who suggested I have a weekend-long cigar-smoking party which might drive them out. A more sanguine response came from Professor Geoffrey Alderman after a studio show we'd just concluded discussing Israel's occupation of the West Bank. Geoffrey and I should, on paper, be sworn enemies who hiss and spit at each other before, during and after a live TV debate but once the discussion is over we usually sit back and enjoy convivial chit chat. Israel aside, we've a lot in common including a love of good, quality food. I expected him to come up with quite a radical, robust solution but his advice was: "Just sit back and wait and they'll probably clear off." Believe it or not as the first warm rays of spring sunshine arrived they did, with the exception of one in an outbuilding but by the time all the remedial work was done he'd cleared off too. The builder was delighted. He had regaled me with tales of multi million pound projects being halted all because of bats, huge fines and prison sentences threatened. The scenario was of nightmare proportions and I read the other day that even Prince Charles has been plagued by delays and costs surrounding his community projects on the Duchy of Cornwall Estate because of the ubiquitous bat.
 A quick check on the internet and you'll discovered all bat species and their roosts are protected and you could end up in prison if you..

 * Deliberately capture, injure or kill a bat

 * Intentionally or recklessly disturb a bat in its roost or deliberately disturb a group of bats

 * Damage or destroy a bat roosting place (even if bats are not occupying the roost at the time)

 * Possess or advertise/sell/exchange a bat (dead or alive) or any part of a bat 
 * Intentionally or recklessly obstruct access to a bat roost

 As Autumn arrived last year I remember hearing some noises coming from the attic and just brushed them aside as the patter of mice feet. Still in the middle of renovation work and with holes here and there in the ceiling, I tried to ignore the noise and focus on some TV.

 While watching CSI New York there was quite a dark sequence but I couldn't for the life of me understand why bats kept appearing in shot, so I assumed it must be part of the plot to add to the suspense and atmosphere. I even congratulated myself on such a good spot, may be my eyesight was not that dodgy after all, but as I continued watching I realised the bat on television wasn't in New York at all ... he was in my living room and kept flying in to my vision. All the above dos and donts came flooding back along with images of Klaus Kinski. Adding to my irrational fear, I half expected him to morph into my living room as Nosferatu and so just sat there in the dark, frozen with fear in front of the flickering box, until it buggered off back into a hole in the ceiling.

Spot the bat

Dead or alive?

 I've not been up in the attic since and I do have plans to turn that into a study bedroom but I imagine it could still be a race against time before he returns with his buddies. In the meantime cast a glance at the picture to the right which I took today. It is of a bat hanging around the side of a  door - no idea what sort of bat, but I was showing it off to a man from the Forestry Commission who was there to inspect some trees. If  you look at the picture on the left you can see what a tiny little thing he is (the bat) - no more than two to three inches, I'd say.

 My man from the Forestry reckons the bat is as dead as a door nail but I cautioned him against poking or prodding the creature saying it was an offence to disturb a bat. His look of disdain revealed that he was also well aware of all the rules and regs and didn't need some "daft town bat" from Soho sharing the countryside code with him. However, intrigued, he also took a photograph of the creature to show his bat friends. But I'm still convinced this Rip Van Winkle of the flying rodent world is enjoying a very deep hibernation-style sleep. What neither of us can figure out is why he decided to rock up and attach himself onto the outside of a door frame where he's fully exposed to the harsh elements and all sorts of predators - he could easily have slipped in to my kitchen or lounge and hung around undisturbed there instead. Short of calling in a rescue team from one of the many bat conservancy groups there are, he could have spent winter inside with me.
 By the way, if you recognise his species, or have a theory as to why he's chosen that spot to hang around please do feel free to share. We'd all like to know, I'm sure.

Next installment: THE SAGA OF THE AGA

Silo Snippets

No sign of a squirrel today but three red-breasted robins were spotted vying for pole position on the bird table; with Spring and the mating season around the corner there could be trouble ahead!

Silo Snippets

 A red squirrel has arrived on the scene - three days running now he/she has provided a display of acrobatics, tantrums and ingenuity trying to prove that a bird feeder isn't really squirrel-proof. Off to buy some nuts for the little chap and once I work out the technology, I'll provide you with proof of my sighting.

Woolly Jumpers

Subversive Sheep
 OVERWHELMED by the prospect of mounds of runny cowpats and more crap in the way of red tape, I consigned to the bin my ambitions to own a small herd of the magnificent long-horned Highland Cattle and so I began to think about what else I could stick in the pastures to give some credibility to my smallholding in the Borders.
 I needed something that was not going to create heeps of slurry but also something that wouldn't demand my attention 24/7; something that could withstand the ever-changing Scottish climate and be hardy enough to fend for itself.

Mary's fortified home

My Eureka! moment came during a shopping trip to the historic market town and former Royal Burgh of Jedburgh. Following in the famous footsteps of the likes of Bonnie Prince Charlie, Sir Walter Scott, Robert Burns and William Wordsworth I wandered down the High Street to head for the Co-op ... okay, so the town's sole supermarket wasn't trading for business in those ancient times, but those celebs did tread the same streets. Perhaps the most famous of them was Mary Queen of Scots who took up residence in Jedburgh, though not by choice - a trip to her 16th century fortified jailhouse just off the High Street reveals the full tragedy of the life of Mary Stuart, born 1542 and executed 1587.

 Worth a butchers: Learmonth's counter

As I ventured past the town's one and only butchers AJ Learmonth, the array of meat on offer was mouth-watering; beef matured on the bone for 21 days, locally sourced venison joints, burgers and sausages. Family butcher Allan Learmonth had more trophies and certificates in his front window than I've seen anywhere since the London Olympics. The only glittering prize which seemed to be missing was an Oscar. One of the young assistants looked slightly dumb struck when I asked if he offered a halal service (Islamically prepared meat and poultry excluding pork which is forbidden to Muslims) and on receiving a negative response I turned, slightly crestfallen, resigning myself for another box of Linda McCartney sausages in the Co-op's frozen food section. As I looked back wistfully at the window, I noted another sign boasting about the succulent locally sourced lamb. Texel, Suffolk and Continental Cross (the sheep equivalent of Tom, Dick and Harry for all I knew) available in a wide range of traditional cuts, or butchered to customer requirements. That was it, sheep it would be and if I felt like a leg roast or some lamb chops I would call upon the services of the local butcher. 

Sheep will go to extremes to try and escape

I immediately phoned he-who-should-be-obeyed-but-rarely-is and he approved of my suggestion with equal enthusiasm. Sometimes I think he approves of most things as a refusal can often lead to complications and my husband hates complications in his life. However I do know he was listening this time because he mentioned Eid (an important Muslim holiday probably on a par with Christmas in the UK) was fast approaching and we could invite friends around and make a sacrifice. Full of enthusiasm I told a local gamekeeper, who told someone else who then relayed my plans in the local hostelry and within 24 hours I had two sheep in my field. It was a great sense of achievement and with glowing pride I went out every morning with a bucket of pellets to feed my new acquisitions. The first day I was bitten on the hand by one and the second day I was knocked over by the other as I stood between it and its feed. All minor set backs, I told myself. On the third day one of the sheep escaped while the other one had to be rescued from a Houdini-style upside down position it had managed to get itself in while knotting its wool on the barbed wire fence. By the time hubby came to inspect the new stock one had its head covered in a dark blue antiseptic cream from the vet and the other seemed to be playing host to thousands of flies despite the lilac-scented fabric conditioner I'd squirted on its rather messy nether regions the previous day. Furthermore, he took umbridge at the fact I'd bought a couple of ewes when he'd specifically asked for rams. I pointed out they were male sheep but all of their wobbly bits and horns had been removed at their previous home.

 Woolly jumpers - Zwartbles breed

 "I can't sacrifice those; they're not complete. I will be a laughing stock," he moaned. As a convert to Islam, I'm constantly learning on the job, so as to speak, and discovered that an animal chosen for sacrifice on Eid Al-Ahda must be fully intact and be the best of the best. I remembered something similar in the Bible and a Jewish friend told me the Torah states that a sacrifice must involve "an animal without blemish". I knew if I tried to argue the point that my sheep didn't carry any blemishes but were missing a few bits that I would lose the argument and so I had to go and find two more sheep with all their working parts. As it turned out a close neighbour (she lives three miles away) had just returned from an agricultural show with an array of awards for the prize-winning Zwartbles she had reared - I'd never heard of them but she told me they are bought by some of the best kitchens in Britain because of their lean meat and distinctive taste. We agreed a price and soon I had two new additions to my modest flock. I spent the next few weeks until Eid feeding the sheep every morning, chasing them around every afternoon and evening to try and get them back in the field. They made my life a complete misery and the woolly quartet appeared to be working together to make their escape. Feeding times became a nightmare as three would charge me in one direction while the fourth would sneak up behind and trip me up. 

Suicide mission using the well known
'bucket trick'.

Another time I went flying, as one deliberately rammed its head in the bucket, running off kamikaze style, no doubt trying to find the nearest busy road - apparently the bucket trick is well known to rogue ruminants, according to farming friends. In the end feeding time became a battle of wits usually requiring me to adopt the stealth and ingenuity of a Grenzschutzgruppe 9 commando. I had to sprint into the field, quietly empty the feed in a trough then leg it before shouting "come and get it". When they weren't trying to escape they were getting themselves into all sorts of jams - bearing in mind the average vet call out is £60 just to turn up this lot were really taking the mick. Were they my children they probably would've been taken into care but I swear, apart from cussing them, I never laid a finger on those sheep other than to apply medicine or a squirt of deodoriser or unpick them from barbed wire or rescue them from a ditch. And I don't even want to take you down the route of worm control, some things are best left unwritten.

 Only now, several months down the line, do I feel able to share with you my experience with sheep, possibly the most subversive animals in God's kingdom. I unburdened my sorry experience with a bloke from North Northumberland the other day after he revealed that he is a full-time sheep farmer. Full of admiration, I asked him how could he keep sheep and keep sane at the same time. He took off his cloth cap, looked at it silently for a few seconds and slapped it back on his head and said: "They are troubled creatures who only know how to do two things. One is to try and escape and the other is to attempt to kill themselves. Have nowt to do with them if you have a choice." 

 Wise words, indeed.

 Next instalment - being driven batty

From Red Lights to Red Tape
 Settling in the country one of the first things to focus my mind was what to do with nearly 30 acres of woodland, pastures and a walled garden - after all in Soho every square metre is accounted for and used to maxim capacity.
 I loved the idea of having some fierce-looking Highland cattle strutting around looking majestic and powerful until a local farmer advised me on vets bills, vaccinations, care of duty and how labour intensive keeping such beast could be.
 They also create massive loads of poop and you have to have a plan to dispose of the slurry which would involve a tractor and all sorts of accessories including storage tanks and contractors to remove it in bulk. In fact water and slurry removal is just the start and while I can imagine this could have greenies and environmentalists salivating at the thought of producing biomass fuel etc. I'm no eco warrior, sorry.


And the form-filling. You can't just buy a couple of cattle and throw  bales of hay at regular intervals over the fence. Most farm animals have to be registered and accounted for so they can be traced from birth to the very last field they grazed before going off to the abattoir.
 So the first thing I had to do was register my land with a Scottish Government agricultural department called the Rural Payments and Inspections Division - I thought heading to the countryside would mean an end to red-tape and form-filling but this is Britain and there's no escape. In fact there's so much red tape in the agricultural world it beggar's belief how horse meat has got into our food chain. It seems to me that every single sheep and lamb, cow, heifer, bull etc. has to be accounted for from the cradle to the grave, or from the byre to the griddle. But let's not dwell on the horse meat scandal - horses in the Scottish Borders (where I am based) are highly prized, loved and valued and just about every self respecting Border Reiver has at least one for the annual ride-outs ... one of the most booze-fuelled, anti-english festivals dating back to the 13th century.

Each town in the Borders raises hundreds of riders between June and August in memory of the honourable reivers who would rob and plunder their english neighbours with a passion only the Scots can muster. Being a Geordie, coming from the tribal areas somewhere in between, I find this equine-led hate fest against the English amusing, but I digress.
 In the end I decided keeping cattle would be too much bother and so went for what I believe to be the easy option sheep - easier to handle and just leave them to graze ... or so I thought.

 Next instalment coming soon:  Woolly anarchists