BORN IN THE GUTTER

.. During a lightning strike

SNAPPED: Mike Smith snaps the storm

WE HAD the mother of all storms in the Scottish Borders the other night just after enjoying the hottest July day on record ... it was, a storms go, bloody terrifying and one bolt zapped my TV satellite dish sending shards of lightning whizzing around the courtyard. The force of the bolt was so strong it knocked out the power in our home and since hubby was away I thought better of trying to sort out the fuse box until the morning. I went to bed pitying the poor animals outside on a night like that.

 Little did I know that my white peahen Philomena was sitting on eggs overhead. It was only the next day I noticed the peafowl gathering on the roof top staring down at the gutter; they're such curious creatures I knew something was going on and so decided to join in on the spectacle and climbed up the ladder. As I reached the top and peered over the wall there was my lovely white peahen looking slightly ruffled and agitated. Just at her feet was a titchy ball of fluff and as it moved I realised I was looking at the first born of the peafowl; he or she (it'll take some weeks before we find out) looked quite unremarkable bearing in mind the stunning beauty of Harry, the father. I am assuming the white peacock is the father since he and Philomena were bought together. The new mother was flustered. Certainly she had picked a fox proof location to hatch her egg (only one) but there was no way down for the little one and so I decided to intervene. I went back down the ladders and got an old fishing net then returned to the scene and, after some death defying manoevres, scooped up the chick and gingerly returned to terra firma. Once in the courtyard I released Storm (an appropriate name, I think) and Philomena swooped down to be reunited. Harry came around and shared in a family meal before he started getting a tad rough with the youngster and so I moved him on and out.

A NIGHT ON THE TILES: Little Storm at mum's feet

Quite why Harry (left on the left) began pecking the chick's head in such an aggressive way is beyond me but it certainly wasn't a term of endearment from where I was standing.

GOTCHA! Storm in hand

Now I'm going to have to ring around and find out what I should be doing, if anything, to make sure the next generation of peafowl are going to thrive.

* Three of my four missing peahens have now returned none the worse for their experience. I have a feeling they'd found another home in the district for a few weeks and, on hearing the dreadful screeches and mating calls from the peacocks, decided to return.

SOHO 2 SILO SNIPPET

 I may have to apologise to the dreaded fox ... two of my three missing peahens turned up last night after an absence of some weeks. The three peacocks looked very happy but not quite as relieved as the other two peahens who've had quite a demanding time during the mating season! Welcome back, girls!

YOU'VE GOT TO BE KIDDING

.. Charlotte makes me out to be a right Charlie!

 WATCHING little Charlotte race around a field today while her mum and the rest of the nannies looked on, two things struck me.
 Firstly, she's starting to grow horns and secondly she doesn't squat when she pees leading me to two conclusions: the emergence of horns shows a natural, healthy development but I am beginning to think that she is a he!

BUDDING STAR: The two black dots

of fur also reveal emerging horns

 Charlotte, or more appropriately Charlie, was born on April 23 - St George's Day - and when I picked her up to give her a cuddle told my other half that we had a little she goat after a swift glance under her tail. Only a few hours old she seemed strong, healthy and of the female gender.

GOATING AROUND: Charlie with Daisy

 But now barely a month old, Charlie is already beyond a cuddle as the kid finds the call of the wild far more alluring than me waving a can of goat mix, so I am unable to check more thoroughly if she is a he. Today she interrupted her play to stop for a pee and, unlike the other nannies who squat, Charlie stood there without ceremony to answer the call of nature. Since the flow of liquid came from an unexpected direction I am beginning to think my "it's a girl" proclamation was a tad premature.
 He-who-should-be-obeyed-but-rarely-is was informed by phone earlier today and said - no doubt with smug satisfaction - that he will clarify the situation when he heads back North to the Borders. I must admit the very thought of hubby running around the pasture trying to grab hold of Charlie fills me with joy and I will try and record the moment on video for you.

PIPSQUEAK!

.. There's a mouse in the house

ACTUALLY this "wee, sleekit, cowran, tim'rous beastie" * would have seen me running for cover and shrieking like a boy soprano if I'd spotted him in a pasta jar in my flat in Soho.

 However, three years of living in the countryside has toughened me up when confronted with such furry, little creatures ... and after an initial start, I did afford myself a little chuckle before releasing him into a nearby wood pile.

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 Although how he got inside the birdseed bin is beyond me since the lid is usually weighted down with a log to stop my feathered friends from trying to sneak a free meal.

 However, in future, I will take a good look inside the bin before plunging my hands downwards to grab the seed. Quite how I would've reacted if I'd physically grabbed the mouse, I couldn't say and nor do I want to put it to the test.

 Hubby was amused but I'm not so sure how he would have reacted since a big spider made an appearance from underneath the TV last month and he leapt from the sofa like a scalded cat.

 * In honour of the great Bard of Scotland below is Robbie Burns masterpiece poem To A Mouse which he wrote, apparently, after turning his plough, accidentally, through a nest of mice while he was farming some land.

 

Wee, sleekit, cowran, tim'rous beastie,
O, what a panic's in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi' bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee,
Wi' murd'ring pattle!

I'm truly sorry Man's dominion
Has broken Nature's social union,
An' justifies that ill opinion,
Which makes thee startle,
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,
An' fellow-mortal!

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen-icker in a thrave 'S a sma' request:
I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,
An' never miss't!

Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin!
It's silly wa's the win's are strewin!
An' naething, now, to big a new ane,
O' foggage green!
An' bleak December's winds ensuin,
Baith snell an' keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' wast,
An' weary Winter comin fast,
An' cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell,
Till crash! the cruel coulter past
Out thro' thy cell.

That wee-bit heap o' leaves an' stibble,
Has cost thee monie a weary nibble!
Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble,
But house or hald.
To thole the Winter's sleety dribble,
An' cranreuch cauld!

But Mousie, thou are no thy-lane,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes o' Mice an' Men,
Gang aft agley,
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promis'd joy!

Still, thou art blest, compar'd wi' me!
The present only toucheth thee:
But Och! I backward cast my e'e,
On prospects drear!
An' forward, tho' I canna see,
I guess an' fear!

Saints Above - a success story at last

.. No kidding, meet baby Charlotte

ROLO: Leader of the pack, or rather herd

THIS winter I took possession of a small herd of wild British Primitive Goats from a lovely farmer in Cumbria who, because of health reasons, had been forced to sell up.
 The goats' main purpose is really conservation management because they're not prolific milk producers and since they're wirey, boney animals you would be hard pressed to breed them for meat. I thought they'd be ideal to bring some of the wilder pastures under control the natural way while fertilising the ground as they went!
 However I'm wondering if they could become a bit of a tourist attraction because the history of this herd is staggering - their lineage can apparently be traced right back to St Cuthbert, one of the most significant saints in Christianity with a cult following.

DAISY: One of the smaller goats in my

herd of British Primitives

St Cuthbert: 634-687

He died in 687 but his followers decided almost 200 years later to set out on a journey to find a fitting, lasting burial place for him after the threat of a Viking invasion, and since everything took months if not years in medieval times, such pilgrimages involved a great deal of forward planning.
 So when they left their island base at Lindisfarne Priory they took with them plenty of livestock to eat on the way. They wandered for a full seven years, lugging the saint's bones about with them, until in 883 they were given a church at Chester-le-Street, near Durham.
 In the late 10th century a fresh Danish invasion threatened, so Cuthbert's bones were moved again, this time to Ripon, over 300 years after he had first come to the great Abbey as a master. After only a few months at Ripon, Cuthbert was once more carted off.  In 1104 they were finally moved to the new Durham cathedral, where a magnificent shrine had been prepared. During this final move the body was found to be perfectly preserved as was the head of St. Oswald (apparently placed with Cuthbert's body for safety).
 Sorry I digress ... you must be wondering what this has to do with my goats. Well it appears that the herd accompanying St Cuthbert's entourage were so badly behaved they either escaped or were cut loose to wander wild and freely around Northumbria and the Borders.

FAMILY AFFAIR: Mum, Ivy and little Charlotte enjoying a

rare bit of sunshine in the Borders

 There are still wild goats that roam around the Cheviots to this day and my little herd is an off shoot. So that's their claim to fame.
 All I can say is that this wandering gene must still be implanted because my goats get all over the place - including the top of a neighbour's roof! They are great climbers but I have managed to bring them under control courtesy of an electric fence. After a wee zap on their noses, they no longer seem curious about the grass on the other side of the fence, thank goodness.

A FEW HOURS OLD: The new kid on

the block makes her first appearance

 One of my goats - Lily - ate a couple of rhododendrum leaves when she escaped ... and that could've proved fatal. Myself and a friend who is training to become a vet, spent a good deal of time over two days pumping her full of Earl Grey tea to cleanse out the toxins. It worked.
 When I took possession of the herd I was told all the nannies were carrying courtesy of the magnificent looking billy or male goat, called Rolo. So far only one - Ivy - has produced a kid and she was without name until the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge named their second born Charlotte.  So please meet Charlotte - the next generation of pure bred British Primitive Goat. And what a lively little cracker she is proving to be.
 There was a heart-stopping moment when she didn't appear to want to take milk from her mum but he-who-should-be-obeyed-but-rarely-is intervened. A sharp pull on the udder and a squirt of warm milk in Charlotte's face did the trick - I was well impressed.
 Despite her near brush with death, Lily looks as though she's fit to burst and so I'm hoping she will produce a kid soon but Daisy and Rose look too skinny to be pregnant. We'll see ... watch this space.

THREE LITTLE MAIDS

.. Now all are gone

 I recently sent out a snippet reporting how I'd seen a fox being chased across a field by all 8 of my peafowl ... of course appearances can be deceptive and the master of deception as regular readers know is The Fox!
 A few days later three of my peahens disappeared without trace leaving me to conclude that the silly birds were lured in to a trap by the cunning foxes which plague these parts of the Borders. And what better way than to lure someone into a false sense of security by allowing them to believe they are the hunters and not the hunted.

OUT-FOXED: Last one standing. My Indian peafowl was one

of a quartet but now she's on her own ... and without a name 

 Either that or someone netted the birds but that theory seems most unlikely unless any readers from this region can tell me otherwise after experiencing similar unexplained disappearances.
 Their absence has not only caused me some upset but now that the mating season is upon us you can imagine the three peacocks - Albert, Edward and Harry - are non too pleased by the shortage of peahens.
 Left standing is Philomena, a white peahen and the last of the Indian blue peahens. I'd not given her a name but any suggestions are most welcome <she's pictured right>. If they are laying eggs I've not seen any so far and am unlikely too since they roam freely during the day and perch high up in a sycamore tree at dusk.

Everything is a source of fun
Nobody's safe, for we care for none
Life is a joke that's just begun
Three little maids from school 

SILO SNIPPET

 UNBELIEVABLE! Yesterday just before dusk a magnificent looking fox ambled across the pasture ... with all eight peafowl in tow. He was like the Pied Piper as he trotted over the grass followed by five peanhens and the three peacocks. Was he trying to lure the birds into the bushes for a quick bite or were they chasing him away? Suffice to say I ran out across the fields and using the lure of corn brought the daft birds back to home base. Can anyone out there explain this bizzare behaviour?