Ducks Behaving Badly: Part Deux

This morning began like any other morning at Newhouse Farm. As soon as it was light enough to let the animals out (which mercifully is a bit later on now it's winter) I dragged myself away from the warmth of my bed, piled on layer upon layer of clothing to keep out the bitter cold, and thrust my feet into a pair of wellies as I headed outside. James, Dick and myself take it in turns at the farm to let the animals out of their houses each morning, which they sleep in during the night to keep them safe from predators such as foxes. The animals don't know the meaning of the phrase 'lie in' and are always bouncing off the walls with enthusiasm to start the day as soon as possible - the cockerels are by far the worst and will start crowing at 3am! What's more they're always ravenously hungry and as soon as they see me approaching they'll start honking, grunting, or gobbling noisily until their food containers are topped up with their daily ration of feed.

The chickens were the first stop on my list. They sleep in a large indoor enclosure at the rear of the potting shed, which contains a series of wooden perches suspended at different levels for the hens to roost on. It's here that the hens demonstrate the meaning of the phrase 'pecking order', as the most superior hens (including William the chief cockerel) sit on the upper perches and the inferior hens sit on the lower perches: the lower the height of the perch the lower down in the ranking the hen is, and the higher the risk becomes of being pooped on from above. Such is life! The hens were already wide awake this morning, clucking animatedly, with the cockerels letting out piercing cock-a-doodle-doos that blasted away the last vestiges of sleep from my mind more effectively than any alarm clock. I pulled open the door of their enclosure and they went charging towards the outside world as if there was simply no time to lose. Clearly there was lots of very important pecking and scratching to be done  today. I topped up their feeder with corn and gave them a little more grit to help digest their food. I've found it's always slightly risky topping up the chicken feeder first thing in the morning, as this involves walking into the chicken enclosure whilst some of the hens are still trying to jump down from their perches. Hens aren't the most elegant birds when it comes to flying, and in order to join the morning rush hour they often fling themselves from their perch like a feathered missile, as if they've been launched out of a catapult. Time my entrance incorrectly and I could end up with a mouthful of feathers and a flapping chicken in my face!

Next stop on my morning round was the pond enclosure where the Muscovy ducks live along with a couple of geese and a pair of Indian Runner ducks. It had been raining heavily throughout the night, so walking through their enclosure was like stepping onto a muddy ice-rink with the ground  perilously slippy beneath my wellied feet. I slipped and skidded towards my first port of call, a solitary house positioned to the west of the pond that is home to Nigel. For those of you not in the know, Nigel is a rescued Muscovy duck who came from the RSPCA and occassionally suffers from depression. His son, Mork, used to live with him but they must have had a falling out because nowadays Mork refuses to stay in the same house as Nigel. Instead Mork has moved into the house situated across the pond from Nigel's, in which several young Muscovy females live. I've tried talking to Mork and Nigel about it but, hey, what can you do? They'll have to work this family disagreement out for themselves!

It's a tough neighbourhood down by the pond. Nigel, who's a bit old and arthritic, used to get badly beaten up by the young Indian Runner duck punks. To put it bluntly, they used to rape him, not a very pleasant sight and I'm sure particularly unpleasant for Nigel. So to make Nigel's live easier nowadays he receives special treatment: every morning he gets let out of the pond enclosure so he can spend his days contentedly sitting beneath his favourite tree unperturbed by the Indian Runner ducks. So this morning, as I let Nigel out of his house he waddled over to the enclosure's gate and waited for me to open it for him. He clearly loves his new freedom and as he walked towards his favourite tree he bobbed his head, hissed contentedly and wagged his tail. Once Nigel was safetly outside I let all the other ducks and geese out of their houses, and this was when the chaos began. There was a squawking, a flapping, a honking and a hissing as all the birds tried to ram as much corn down their gullets as quickly as they possibly could. But there's a strict pecking order for the animals by the pond too: the geese firmly rule the roost and woe betide any greedy duck who gets between a goose and its breakfast. As the cacophony of breakfast time commenced, I walked away from the pond and continued on my morning round.

Now it was time to head towards the pigs and the turkeys, who live in neighbouring enclosures on the upper paddock. I could hear the pigs whining and grunting long before I could see them, and as soon as they clapped eyes on me they upped the volume and started squealing as if they'd never been fed before in their lives. After the night's rain the pig enclosure was one big mass of mud, and their feeder was half submerged in a particularly muddy puddle. Before I could give the pig's their breakfast I was going to have to extricate their feeder from the mud... MUCH easier said than done. To do this and remain in one piece I knew I had to distract the pigs so they wouldn't trample me whilst I moved their feeder. After a bit of cogitation I decided the best way to distract them was to put some of their feed in a large plant pot and put it in another part of their enclosure to keep them occupied, which ought to buy me a few minutes of time. It worked, the pigs were distracted by the food, and I straddled the electric fence and tried to tug the large metal feeder clear of the mud. It was stuck fast, and to make matters worse... so was I. My left foot had sunk into the mud like it was trapped in quicksand, and my right foot was still the opposite side of the electric fence, leaving me staddled perilously across it and in a bit of a pickle. Trying to keep my balance I heaved at the heavy feeder, my fingers slipping as they tried to grip it through a thick layer of mud. I knew that as soon as the pig's noticed what I was doing they'd come charging over and my fate would be sealed in a muddy stampede. I gave one last desperate tug at the feeder and with a slurping sound it came free from the mud and I hauled it over the fence. I tugged at my left leg and freed my foot from it's muddy prison, escaping from my precarious position astride the electric fence just in the nick of time. Phew!

I re-positioned the pigs' feeder in a rocky area of their enclosure, filled it with their ration of feed, and headed towards the turkeys as the pigs greedily munched on their breakfast. I opened the door of the turkey house and saw the turkeys still standing on their perches, giving me a startled look as if to say: "Who are you?". Once I stepped away from the door they started launching themselves off their perches and into the outside world. The previous statement I made about chickens launching themselves off their perches like feathered missiles applies to turkeys too, except that turkeys are about three times the size and therefore thrice as dangerous! The previous morning I'd moved the fence of the turkey enclosure to give them some fresh greenery to peck and scratch at, and I watched as the turkeys made a bee line for this fresh area this morning. They were such funny creatures, bald headed with strange dangly snouds above their noses, and I'd developed a certain degree of fondness for them. Suddenly it occurred to me what the day was - 27th November - the turkeys had less than one month before Christmas. With that ominous thought I left the turkeys in peace.

Last stop on my morning round was at a little wooden hut with a sign above the door that read: 'The Hollies'. I always looked forward to this place the most, as this was where the goslings (now fully grown geese) that I had incubated and raised lived. I scattered some corn into their feeder, slid back the bolt in the door and bid them a cheery good morning. They looked up at me, softly honked, and then ran outside, flapping their wings vigorously to greet the day. Some mornings I happily spent time with 'The Hollies', walking around their enclosure with them and watching their funny and endearing behaviour. But not so this morning... I still wasn't feeling fully awake and desperately needed a cup of coffee! I headed back to the house, the two farm cats and Molly the dog tagging along beside me. These three had a habit of accompanying me on my morning round, trotting along by my side as I walked from one enclosure to the other, watching me curiously as I dealt with the various ducks, pigs and turkeys.

Just as I was about to enter the kitchen a strange flapping noise coming from the roof of the farmhouse caught my attention. It sounded like a pretty big bird had alighted on the roof, so I took a few paces back to see what it was. I couldn't believe my eyes: two of the young Muscovy ducks had flown out of their pond enclosure and were now sat on the roof directly above my bedroom. "Oi!" I yelled at them, "What the hell do you think you're doing?!" They ignored me, and simply bobbed their heads and looked around from side to side. I recognised them: they were two of the young females that Mork had moved in with, and had a tendency to escape from their enclosure to go after Nigel's food. I'd never seen them fly this high before though. Then in a burst of excited flapping another Muscovy duck flew up to join them. This duck was bigger than the previous two and wobbled precariously as he tried to get his balance on top of the roof. "Get down now!" I shouted, but after looking in my direction the ducks ignored me once again. "You're in big trouble!" I yelled a final time, then realised how empty this threat was. For one thing they were ducks and therefore couldn't understand a word I was saying, and secondly there was no way I'd be able to reach them on top of the roof anyway. I could either stand here all morning shaking my fist and yelling at the sky, or I could go inside, have a cup of coffee, and make sure that the following morning I clipped their wings so they wouldn't be able to fly out of their enclosure again. Clipping wings means that the flight feathers on one wing are cut short, unbalancing the bird so that they aren't able to fly. "I'll show 'em" I thought as I walked towards the kitchen, "There'll be no more ducks behaving badly from now on."

Will I actually get round to clipping the duck's wings? Story to be continued...

Pigs of Happiness

I saw this and thought of the two pigs at Newhouse Farm, happy pigs despite the heavy weather. I hope the pigs spread a little bit of happiness your way too!

Friday 13th Strikes the Wheelbarrow

Friday 13th brought with it torrential rain, thunder and lightening storms, and severe weather warnings that threatened 80 mph winds across Cornwall. Here at Newhouse Farm we decided to batten down the hatches in preparation for the heavy weather. Dick headed down to the bottom of the valley and lowered one of the wind-turbines whilst Steve, the farm's handy-man who had been spending much time up rickety scaffolding this week as he rendered the exterior of the farm house, decided it was best to pack up work and head home. Peering out at the wild weather I decided it was best to stay indoors... after all it was Friday 13th and there was no way I was going to tempt fate by venturing outside to continue planting onion and garlic sets on the top paddock.

And how thankful am I that I did. Just moments ago, as the wind whipped the farmhouse, Dick called hastily to James and I to look outside. Grabbing rain coats and wellies we all dashed out the door and ran up the steps to the top paddock, where we discovered that the ancient cherry tree had come crashing down onto the vegetable beds. This beautiful old tree had died a few years ago, but rather than chop it down for firewood the Strawbridges had decided to leave it where it was as it made such a magnificent spectacle. Covered in a thick layer of green lichen, the tree was draped in fairy lights which lit up like Christmas decorations whenever the waterwheel was generating too much electricity.

But alas the Cherry Tree hadn't been able to survive the thundering storms of Friday 13th. Dick, James and I all stood aghast as we looked at the fallen tree. It lay sprawled across the vegetable beds where the wind had blown it over, narrowly avoiding the brussel sprouts. The pigs and the turkeys looked on from a safe distance as we surveyed the damage. Then suddenly we noticed something... crushed beneath the trunk of the tree was Newhouse Farm's only decent wheelbarrow, now a useless piece of crumped metal. All the other wheelbarrows at the farm were fairly rusty, but this wheelbarrow was a new addition and I'd propped it up against the trunk of the tree only a few days ago after I'd been preparing the vegetable beds for planting. Although it was a shame to lose the only decent wheelbarrow I was pretty glad about one thing... thank goodness I had decided not to do any work on these vegetable beds, or I might have ended up like the wheelbarrow!

How I nearly got a Goat and ended up with a Fiddle

I'd been thinking for some time how great it would be to get a goat at Newhouse Farm. It would make a lovely addition to the menagerie to have an animal that we wouldn't have to end up killing for its produce. The ducks, geese, pigs and turkeys at the farm were all delightful creatures, but I couldn't let myself get too attached to them as I knew they're all destined for the plate. But a goat would be the sort of productive farm animal that I could allow myself to develop more of a friendly and lasting relationship with. An idyllic notion was rapidly developing in my mind as I pictured myself contentedly milking a goat each morning like Tess of the D'Urbervilles or some other country heroine! I'd even be able to give the goat a name, probably Betty, something I'd refrained from doing with the other 'meat' animals so as not to personalise them. I knew on a practical level that keeping goats could be extremely high maintenance but, heck, they were just so cute.

Now that the dream of having a goat and becoming a milk maid had taken hold I poured myself into research. What exactly did goat keeping involve, and what would be the right sort of goat for me? Firstly I started researching the different types of goats and fell more and more in love with them with every picture I looked at. Pygmy goats were especially adorable, but these miniature animals weren't of any use for milk or fleece and sounded like they could become quite a handful. Angora goats with their beautiful coats caught my eye next, and although they weren't useful for milking their fleeces could be turned into mohair wool. Maybe I should ditch the milk maid idea and picture myself instead with a spinning wheel, contentedly spinning wool to knit into lovely mohair mittens for the chilly winter ahead.

But it was a type of goat called the Golden Guernsey that really caught my eye. These sweet tempered animals were known as 'smallholder's goats' or 'backyard goats' because they were a little bit smaller than most breeds and therefore didn't require as much space. Admittedly because of their size they didn't produce as much milk, but then I wasn't planning on going into business and selling it by the bucket load. I just needed enough for me, James' and Dick's daily coffee and tea requirements. What's more, after a few phone calls I discovered that there were a couple of 6 month old Golden Guernsey kids for sale not too far away... my dreams of having a goat could become a reality sooner than I had anticipated and I was filled with excitement.

Yet the more I researched goats the more I began to doubt whether this was really such a good idea. For starters, I wouldn't be able to have merely one goat. Goats were herd animals and needed company, so to keep one by itself would be tantamount to cruelty as a single goat would soon become depressed and unwell. If I wanted to become a goat-keeper I'd have to get two goats at the very least, and possibly even four. And then the sheer responsibility of the daily commitment goats would require started to daunt me. After a goat has had a kid it needs to be milked twice a day, without fail, come wind, rain or shine. I wouldn't be able to miss a day's milking or the goat could develop mastitis. And obviously to produce a kid the goat needs to be mated, so that would involve adding a billy goat to the herd or borrowing the services of a stud from a neighbouring goat keeper.

I had to admit it, the peaceful image of milking a goat in the sunshine was starting to crumble, especially as the harsh November weather with it's relentless wind and rain continued to batter the farm house. I began to feel concerned that keeping goats would require an intense daily commitment which I didn't feel ready to make. I might feel like milking a goat when the sun was shining, but a cold, wild, wintry night would be another matter. If I didn't get milking goats I could still get a couple of meat goats, but that would defeat the purpose of building a long term 'relationship' as they'd soon end up as dinner. Angora goats were utterly gorgeous creatures but I had to be honest with myself: I didn't knit, I didn't know how to spin wool, and quite frankly it was unlikely I was going to learn. An angora goat would just end up as an exceedingly hairy pet that wasn't contributing to the productive nature of the farm.

Eventually, after much deliberation, I decided that getting a goat right now was just too much too soon. It would be a bit like having a baby: nice idea, but there was no way I was ready for that kind of commitment just yet! I realised that the advantage of raising animals for meat was that we rarely had to deal with the stresses of old aged animals. With exception of Nigel the depressed duck and Megan the ancient 3 legged cat, at the farm I was surrounded by youthful exuberance and with that came a sense of freedom. As soon as an animal was fully grown it was ready to be killed for its meat, and I could start the process of incubating and raising youngsters all over again with a clean slate. My reasoning may sound harsh, but I didn't want to feel restricted by having to care for a herd of dairy goats, cute as they may be.

Satisfied that I'd made the right decision, I still felt a bit dejected that I'd had to be so practically minded. Goat-keeping would have meant learning how to milk and how to churn cheese, skills that would have been enjoyable to learn. As the picturesque image of milking goats faded from my mind, another fanciful notion took it's place... fiddle playing! For some time I'd had the desire to learn a musical instrument, as we often had musicians visiting the farm and I always wished I could join in with them when they played. I'd had a musical childhood learning first the piano, then the clarinet and guitar, but it had been years since I'd played and the ability to make a pleasant sound had left me. What I needed was a new instrument to practice through the long wintry evenings that lay ahead, and as I love bluegrass, cajun, folk and gypsy music what better instrument could there be to learn than the fiddle. Yes, this was a much better idea than getting a goat... I'd only have to practice the fiddle, not milk it! All I needed to do was to find a teacher nearby. Lo and behold a few evenings later, as I leaned against the bar in the village pub, I found one.

Story to be continued soon...

Happy Pigs = Happy Pork

The incessant rain we've had at Newhouse Farm all week has turned the outdoors into an absolute quagmire, but there's a couple of animals who seem to be in their element... the pigs. There was a brief window today when the sun burst through the rain clouds and I ventured outside with the camera. I found the pigs rooting through the mud, heaping it into mounds as they searched the softened ground for hidden roots and shoots. As soon as the pigs saw me approaching they started squealing hungrily, a noisy and melodramatic act to try to convince me that they've never been given a morsel of food before in their lives! Ordinarily I simply tell the pigs to shush, but today I relented and threw several handfuls of radishes from the vegetable patch to quieten the pigs' incessant pleading.

I stayed for some time and watched the pigs as they munched on the fresh greens I'd given them, and then began to root through the earth again. Muddy and messy, snuffling and softly grunting, they were as happy as a pair of pigs could hope to be. Watching them I felt torn as my head and my heart struggled for supremacy. My head told me to remain stoical about the fact that these pigs would soon end up as pork, whilst my heart kept veering towards sentimentality - those pigs were just so funny and adorable and I didn't want them to be killed. Now that I live alongside livestock I keep being faced with this struggle, and I can't help but become attached to the animals I've spent so much time caring for. But I know my head must win out - if I'm going to eat meat then I've got to ensure that it's lived a humane and happy life.

I know that I'm fortunate to be able to have this experience of caring for animals that will become the food that ends up on my plate. After all not everyone can fit a couple of pigs in their back garden, or get to see them living free-range in the countryside. So I wanted to share a few of the moments that I captured on camera today when the pigs really made me smile. If they make you smile too that's great, but if they make you question the pork you buy in the future that's even better. I hope you'll see that happy pigs = happy pork. Enjoy! And don't forget you can click on these pictures to make them super-sized.

Mud, mud, glorious mud...







"Feed me!" & How to make a radish disappear.

"It must be here somewhere" & "Do I have something on my face?"