Bank Holiday weekends can sometimes be a washout but for once the weather matched the forecast and, while not as hot as predicted, was warm and dry enough for me to toddle up to Ramsbottom to give Tony and Kath a hand with the shearing of the sheep.
Whatever I was expecting, it certainly wasn’t the sight of Tony, still in his Sunday best shirt and tie, hand clipping a ewe. After a few minutes of chat it was down to business and I was given the task of trying to ‘roo’ a ewe. Unfortunately the wool hadn’t risen enough for it to come off easily and, despite tugging and pulling, I couldn’t seem to make the fleece come off and had to resort to clippers. With the ewe fairly immobilised by a head restraint, it was quite straightforward to clip the back and down the sides of the belly. Doing the legs was a different matter as they don’t like their legs touched so trying to clip the fleece from a squirming, wriggling sheep made it a slightly more difficult task.
The second ewe we did was one of the older ones and well used to the process. She stood quietly while the fleece was literally pulled off her. When the new wool starts to grow it pushes the old growth off to some extent and that means it can be pulled, or roo-ed, easily. Again, starting on the spine the fleece is peeled off the sheep like you would a banana, except that it’s wool, warm and smells differently. The ewe, I’ve forgotten her name, stood quietly, burping occasionally.
Finally we attempted a ram. This is a whole different ball game, if you’ll pardon the expression. Firstly, they have horns and, secondly, they are much stronger than the ewes and a lot more wilful, so even getting them into the head restraint was a task in itself. I held onto the horns while Kath pulled with the halter but it wasn’t easy. This one had to be clipped and so, again starting at the spine, we clipped the fleece from its back. The ram let its displeasure be known by having a wee a couple of times and dropping a few sheep currants, but neither found a target. He settled down as we did the belly but got understandably skittish when it was time to trim the fleece from around his tea and sugar, add to this my nervousness with a sharp pair of clippers and it’s a wonder there wasn’t blood. I was proud of my ability to shear and only once nicked a sheep but not enough to draw blood – although it was enough to make the ewe a bit nervous.
As a bonus I was given the fleece from the chocolate coloured ewe that I clipped. As soon as my carding brushes arrive I will attempt to turn this into some sort of yarn and knit something from it, the first time I will have done the whole process from clipping to knitting via carding, spinning (not sure how to do this bit yet) and washing. It seems every week I learn something new and I feel good that I can do these things. I look forward to learning more and, maybe one day, passing on some skills to my offspring.
It was more than even I had hoped for and just about everything you could want was represented: hens, ducks, turkeys, guinea fowl, dogs, sheep, pigs, goats, cows, horses, tractors, alpacas, hamsters, rabbits and bees. I haven't been this excited since I crossed the border into Albania. We got to the showground around 9am and we didn't leave until many of the trade stands had packed in and gone at about 6pm. Where the time went to I have no idea. It was fantastic. I got to speak to people about cows, goats, sheep and spinning and for all the questions that got an answer, another dozen sprang into my head.
I was really buoyed up by the positive attitude of the people I spoke to, their hard lives made better by the quality of life they now enjoyed. I was at once elated and depressed. Elated because this is what I want for our future, somewhere to live where my family can enjoy food and drink untainted by chemical additives, where it is produced locally and doesn't sit for days in the back of a trailer, trundling across Europe so that Tesco shoppers can enjoy the fruit (and veg) of the season at unseasonable times. I know it will be hard work but I am not afraid of that, not if it means giving Agnieszka and any children a good standard of living. On the flip side, it made me depressed knowing that, for a few years at least (how many? Three? Five? Twenty?) we will be stuck in that cultural sewer pipe known as Farnworth and that money will restrict what we do here, or in Poland. It was a sobering thought and one that made me think hard over the following few days. Depressed I might be about my current finances and lack of 'easy' opportunities but the resolve has hardened and the determination is there. One day, we will have it. I am sure of it.
An hour’s drive is all it is and the parking was fairly painless to find, albeit painful to pay for (£4.50 for four hours). Even at quarter to twelve the pubs weren’t empty, with plenty of people topping up the previous night’s levels. Occasional groups of stags and hens were wandering around, looking for a starter pub and several old soaks gave character to the tatty centre of town.
As a child we used to come to see the lights, so my impressions are of trams lit up, the prom aglow and a happy feeling. How different it looks now, on a cloudy, chilly Sunday in May. What anyone could find attractive about the place is beyond me. Even the highlight – a trip up the Tower – now has to be combined with the circus for a bargain ticket price of £12. The Pleasure Beach, Waxworks, Waterlife Centre adding to the cost by charging around the ten pound mark. Compared to that, the 50p to get on North Pier seemed something of a bargain. A pleasant stroll past fair rides and a bar, a good view of the Golden Mile and the smell of the sea. As we left, we passed a man on the way in, leather jacket, smoking, smelling, a patch of dribble from a recent toilet trip (or accident) marking the front of his fleecy jogging trousers. Ah Blackpool, you will stay in our memories, but for all the wrong reasons…
I’ve recently had discussions with some other allotment-holders about the availability of plots and it seems that, to get one in Farnworth, I have to wait until current holders pop their clogs. So far two years has passed and we’re not in possession of our own ground. So you can imagine how happy I was when the place where I keep the bees offered me a plot there. Strictly speaking it’s a bit naughty as I am not resident in Manchester, but the need for land is so great I took it anyway. My dad said that when we finally get ourselves sorted he will give up his, so it looks like the end of the long days to Rainford to dig and plant will get closer as the year draws on.
So on Saturday we took the 15 minute drive to Whitefield and started work on our own allotment, slap bang in the middle of the site. It is, unfortunately, almost completely covered in grass, so a lot of back-breaking, blister-forming, slicing, turning, digging, sweating and swearing will be done before it’s anywhere near ready. The soil itself is clay, but not too bad, although the rubbish being unearthed makes me wonder what the site was used for previously – a tip I think, judging by the mattress springs I dug up.
Four hours of toil cleared about a quarter of the site and we were more than happy with that. A line of beetroot and spinach, some poached-egg plants and a few rows of beans went in and that was it for the first session. I went back a couple of days later to water but in hot summers (ha!) that’ll have to be every day I think. Now all we have to worry about is turning over the rest.
Having chickens is really nice. Whenever you go out the back door they rush to the end of the run, expecting grain or other treats. When I try to get into the run, to replenish their food or water, they all make a break for it, to chew on the pathetic-looking broccoli or to trample my salads. Most worrying is their obsession with the rhubarb, which they try to demolish before I can move them on.
So far two of them are laying, with the third just wandering around scratching and making a mess. They have completely ignored the purpose-built sand-pit I gave them to dust bath in, choosing instead to eat the sand and crap on the roof. To bathe they have dug a pit in the corner of the run and flick soil over everything.
While I argued with myself that they have enough room, I am still not wholly comfortable with their accommodation. I would like them to have more room, a bit of grass to play on, somewhere they can wander about in. However, I am also trying to learn about them and their needs so that, when the time comes that we have a nice big garden, I know what I am doing.
We still haven’t named them, though. Nothing seemed to come to mind when we got them and, now we have had them a month, there’s still not been any inspiration. They’re known collectively as ‘students’ because, after they are let out in a morning, they have a drink and some breakfast and then go back inside (and presumably to sleep) for a couple of hours before emerging again some time later in the morning.
One thing I have realised is how tied we are now. If we can’t find anyone to look after them we are going to struggle with time away from the house, even for a weekend. It’s one thing reading how tying animals are, and quite another to have it hit you when they arrive. I’m glad I am finding this out now and with chickens, rather than later with a cow or two.