The praties are dug and the frost is all over...

One side of the potato-pit was white with frost -
How wonderful that was, how wonderful!

Sunday mornings these days are spent trying to perfect the art of milking. It's a nice thing to try and learn and I do feel I am getting somewhere. Most of the milk now goes in the bucket, rather than up my sleeve, on the floor or across my trousers, and the goats seem happier that I am getting faster. I find my biggest problems are with the goats with the smaller teats, getting the grip just right is difficult if I am not to spray milk into my hand. But, as they say, practice makes you better.

This Sunday, following a week of snowy and icy weather, as well as milking the goats we attended to the feet of the rams. It took three of us to turn them over and hold them, they wriggle and squirm worse than the ewes, and Dorset sheep aren't small. The Dorpers were fairly placid, although one started a fit of coughing when we righted him and I was concerned he might keel over at one stage, but he calmed down and then just got in the way.

The farm itself is in the middle of fields, as farms usually are, and on these crisp frosty mornings the views are stunningly beautiful. As the sun rises it glows, orange, low in the morning sky, making the ice on the grass twinkle and sparkle, like a sprinkling of glitter over everything. As I was carrying hay into one of the barns for the calves, I looked over the fence into the big field. The grass was white, the trees in the distance covered with hoar frost, and on the left, a red poll cow stood, a beautiful dark red, unmoving, a stark contrast to the rest of the icy scene. It would have made a lovely photo...