LONELY QUAIL, ELVIS & THE ROYAL MAIL

..Or two's company and three's a crowd

ELVIS, far left, with his two anti social

housemates

 I'VE OFTEN thought that if food takes an effort to cook and a greater effort to eat then it's not worth the bother! Quails and their eggs fall in to this category so I generally tend to give them a wide berth on menus and had no intention of buying any for our smallholding.
 However, he-who-should-be-obeyed-but-rarely-is, decided that egg-laying quails would bring a touch of exotica to our growing menangerie of hens, geese and turkeys and so a trio of Japanese painted quail duly arrived without prior consultation. This will, of coure, come back to bite hubby who should know by now that for every action there is a reaction.
  For example, it wouldn't surprise me in the least if some equally exotic new additions find their way into our farm in the Borders ... watch this space.
 The quails are being kept in temporary accomodation until hubby comes good with a promise of state-of-the-art housing for his birds. I can't see how we are going to make a fortune from these weird, excitable little things ... I can't recall seeing any Quail breeders make the Forbes List.
 As small as they are they are also not without problems. Three days ago I noticed two of them ganging up on the smaller of the trio, aiming dart-like for the left eye with their tiny beaks and so I intervened. He, or even she (how do you sex a Quail?) has been a constant companion ever since my rescue and snuggles up to my neck on an evening. No longer a resident in the hen pen, this Little One has managed to secure a spot in the house and accompanies me everywhere.

IN THE BAG: Elvis, now making occasional appearances at

 Jedburgh Post Office

 Today we ventured to the Post Office where we wowed a whole line of queuing customers when the Little One poked his head from out of the top of my handbag. After the initial "oohs and aahs" the questions came thick and fast until I was asked if he had a name. There was a two second silence in which I decided everyone would think I was a bad, irresponsible owner if I had not given him a name. As they looked on accusingly by the third second I blurted out the name "Elvis".  This had the net effect of those arround me subconciously taking one step back, holding frozen smiles with a look in their eyes that said I needed to be in a padded cell. Who knows why I blurted out such nonsense; I've never been a fan of The King and nor do I have any of his records ... let's just be grateful that Wills and Kate put  a little more forethought into naming their son George.

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.

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