THE DARK SIDE

..OR how living in the countryside is not a bed of roses

DRIVEN BATTY: imagine this flying around in your lounge

EVER since moving to the Scottish Borders and regaling you with tales of countryside life many have told me how they wish they were here living the dream.
 Admittedly the isolation, getting closer to Nature and studying animal behaviour has been splendid, at times amusing and very spiritually rewarding but if I've over romanticised things then I do apologise. It is only fair to warn that there is also a dark side to countryside living.
 Losing a goose to a badger and then a turkey to a fox was devastating and a brutal reminder that life and death are constant companions here. But there's also the massive spiders lying in wait by the bath plug and if the thought of little furry rodents and creepy crawlies send shivers down your spine then perhaps the countryside is not for you. The dreaded Scottish midgie is also in plague-style proportions at the moment.
 Renovating a 200-year-old coach house has been an unsettling time not just for me but for those who share the same space - wether I like it or not - under our roof.
 Lat year while watching a creepy episode of CSI my viewing in the dark was interrupted by a daft bat which flew through a hole in the ceiling. At first I thought it was part of the program plot and wasn't quite sure why a bat would fly in and out of camera shot until I realised that the creature was zooming in and out of my vision in the living room.

BATH TIME: Spiders love hanging around

plug holes and sinks

 The odd mouse has provided a challenge and then with the arrival of the poultry came the dreaded rat. Hubby has put down poison, in a most inventive way to lure the rodents and not the livestock, but the pests were equally innovative and moved from outside buildings into the attic. The building, like many of that period, has natural air conditioning, secret holes, passages and a second skin to circulate the air.

 One evening there was so much noise coming from the attic I thought the rodents must be line dancing with clogs on their feet.

 In the end I brought in three Geordie moggies, half feral, to try and remedy the situation. The rescue cats came from some stables which were being demolished and a volunteer from the Cats Protection Charity Shop* brought them to the farm when she heard via the RSPCA that I was after some good mousers and ratters and prepared to offer a good home in exchange for their services.

MOUSE: Not so cute in the house

 Being feral, the trio are incredibly elusive, but have obviously discovered the secret passages and warrens which are contained within the building so while they are housed and fed in the stables they must be getting around already.
 I say this because last night, while again viewing TV in the dark, I heard a large scamper overhead, a flurry of activity and then something drop from the hole in the ceiling. It was a mouse and as I leapt in the air running in the opposite direction I'm not sure who was in the greatest flap. Having recovered my composure I followed the mouse to a dark corner and put down a humane trap containing a half eaten chocolate bar.
 Unbelievably it worked as you can see from the picture to my right or, if you prefer, there's a short video clip of the intruder just below. I popped down to the stables this morning to thank the cats but they scattered into dark corners as I opened the door. Feral they might be, but their manners are impeccable ... another dead mouse was left in the open as a gift in exchange for the far tastier meals I'm leaving out for them.
 I don't even have photographs of the trio, so elusive are they, but I'm sure in time this will change. Meanwhile they are doing an excellent job and I expect to be clear of rats, mice and other pests in the coming weeks.

 * I can't praise the work of the Cats Protection Charity Shop enough and have already made a small donation. Please feel free to do the same, the details are below.

Cats Protection Charity Shop
162-166 HIGH STREET
WALLSEND
NEWCASTLE
NE28 7RP

SHELL SHOCKED STUDENT REACHES FOR THE TWEEZERS

.. Or how Daisy became a life-saver

 LEAVING Soho for the Scottish Borders was not a popular move with my daughter Daisy but this weekend saw her roll up her sleeves and finally embrace countryside living full on after I picked her up from her student digs in Newcastle for the summer recess.
 It was a baptism of fire. First she was hounded by the turkeys, then ran screaming as the goose patrol headed in her direction followed by feeding sheep who, despite my assurances don't bite, tried to take off her perfectly manicured hand.
 A wee bit precious at times, she has her own fashion and beauty blog the contents of which bear no relation to the muck, mud and dramas flying around here. But, after just a couple of days she abandoned her delicate pink pumps for a pair of green wellies, ditched the garish orange nail varnish, donned some denim dungarees and really got stuck in with the activities.

GOING TO WORK ON AN EGG:

 No ruffled feathers as Daisy checks out

her handywork

 After knocking out a few home-baked scones she then busied herself around the hen pen to check out the new arrivals before billing and cooing over Peewee, our one and only gosling.

 But she really stepped up to the plate when I brought in an egg and showed her how the chick inside was really struggling to break out. In an ideal world, and according to the experts, hatching chicks should be left to their own devices but this little critter was obviously in distress.

 "The rules say you stand by and watch and leave it to God and Nature," I told her. I wondered out loud if I should return the egg to its mother but she seemed to have abandoned it and didn't even attempt to peck me when I removed it from a spot more than six inches from her side. Daisy said it was obvious the chick would die if its mum had already pushed it to one side. She sighed, picked up her laptop and after half an hour she went for her make-up bag to extract a pair of tweezers. "Reverting to type", I sighed inwardly, but I couldn't have been more wrong. The tweezers were not for her eyebrows but for Operation Hope!

CLINGING ON: Wee chick

 Using the skill of a surgeon she spent the next two hours pain-stakingly removing the entire outer shell by tweezers having read up on the dangers of trying to help a chick hatch. One false move and the internal network of blood vessels supporting the little guy could've collapsed and brought about massive blood loss and a rapid demise.  She knew she had to remove the shell but without breaking the rubbery outer membrane but it was the membrane which was causing the trouble. The skin was so thick the chick was unable to break free from its surrounds. Daisy's normally squeamish and her nursing skills - on me anyway - are deplorable. So I was well impressed when she continued  in her mission to save the tiny Scots Dumpy fragment by shell fragment.

TOM HOPE: On his way to mum

All of his exterior blood vessel support system was being held together inside a very fine membrane underneath the more rubbery one which held the chick in a vice-like grip. After another hour of delicate work an almost indistinguishable blob of matted feathers, gunk and other yucky stuff lay on the kitchen table. Out came the hair dryer to keep the tiny bundle warm while I plugged in the incubator and set  the thermostat at 37.5C. We left him overnight still attached to the equivalent of the afterbirth or placenta wondering and agonising if we had done the right thing by intervening when we did.

 By the next morning he (we're sure it's a he) was chirping away and had managed to disentangle himself from the yolk sack which would have supplied him with lifesaving nutrients during the night. In fact I just read this morning that chicks can survive without food or water for 24 hours after hatching because of the nutrients in their system.

CRACKING CHICK: Tom Hope ponders on

his new life ahead

 Daisy was well pleased with the outcome and has now named the little fluffy ball Tom Hope.

  The next big test was to return him to Josephine, his mum, and hope she would not reject or even attack him. I've read stories in other peoples' blogs about mother hens going psycho for seemingly no reason at all and killing their young. Josephine put the temper and mental into temperamental before she went broody and she is still approached with caution by me while hubby gives her a very wide berth these days after feeling the sharp end of her beak! However, considering she already has five healthy chicks one more was not going to be the issue. As I put some feed on the floor of the coop I snuck tiny Tom under her wing. I'm not sure she even noticed. But the photograph above, taken a few hours later, reveals the miracle chick in the foreground is now settling down to life as a member of the endangered Scots Dumpy breed all thanks to a pair of tweezers, Daisy's steady hand and a night in an incubator.

 If you have any tips or similar stories about how to handle a difficult hatch please share.