I am always amazed when we go out, how close the great outdoors is to us in Farnworth. Granted, it isn't wild and windy moorland, more the sort of heavily trampled semi-annoyed slightly rough-looking countryside, but it is still good to get out into it and away from the noise and smell of the town.
Just half an hour from us is a smallholding (in Ramsbottom, how apt) where they keep Shetland sheep. We went on Sunday to have a look at the flock with a view to keeping some in the future. Why? Because the fleece on these sheep is one of the finest of any native breed, they don't eat too much, they lamb easily, they're friendly and they can be bucket trained. They come in a variety of colours and softness, so it is possible to use the wool from around the head to make 2-ply, very soft yarn, or from around the 'breech' (making sure any dagnuts, dangle-berries and cling-ons are removed first) to make rougher jumpers or socks. 
This one, above, was my favourite colour, and the sheep are a good size to handle; not too heavy to turn over and not over-prone to disease. Obviously, like all animals, their welfare is paramount and a good, healthy, happy animal is less likely to drop down dead. So now all I have to do is find a field...For more information on the Shetland breed, have a look here:
Thanks to Tony, Kath and Natalie for your time and energy answering endless questions.
It was the perfect day for planting: sunny, warm-ish and bright. 
The robin was bobbing about in the hedge and a blackbird was singing from a tree. The only downside was the constant noise of a motorbike scrambling somewhere on the other side of the railway. When they stopped it was bliss, just the wind and the birdsong, the scent of woodsmoke and the knowledge that a job has been well done. We’ll see how well the spuds do this year.
From Spraying the potatoes:
The actual process of making cheese is not difficult, but it is essential to get the temperature and the timing spot on.
We ended up with a block of Cheshire cheese about a pound in weight, which is sitting in the back room where it’s warm ‘maturing’ for three days. It’s been a long wait though, as every time I tip off the excess whey, you can smell the tang of the cheese and the temptation to break a bit off and ‘test’ it is strong. 
On a larger scale, things are still following the same rigour and basic recipe, where you take 45 litres of milk:
Add starter culture and rennet and allow to coagulate at the right temperature before draining off the whey to reveal curds that will become, after a week's maturing, Cheshire cheese:
And after three months, Cheddar:
Finally, time for a sit down and a brew. 
Answers on a postcard please. 
To satisfy my increasing interest in all things ovine, we attended one of the lambing weekends at Reaseheath college. These are partly for their students to get some real hands-on experience and partly to raise money for the college. As well as lambs, they had pigs, rats and rabbits, along with some college-made cheese and a few plants, but it was the sheep and lambs that were the draw.
We arrived at 10am and, although not the first, were glad to be able to wander round and look at sheep in the relative peace. Almost the first thing we saw as we came into the shed was a sheep with its water bag showing but, deciding it would be a while before anything happened, we wandered off. Returning half an hour later, we found two lambs and a chuffed-looking ewe in a pen. After that we didn’t stray very far.
Our first birth was a breech, i.e. arse first. This we had to watch on the overhead monitor, the crush of people in front blocking our view, as the student, and then the shepherd, attempted to turn the lamb around and deliver it safely. Warnings were given, by the man on the mike, that sometimes this doesn’t always end in a live birth and we should be prepared for a disaster. His explanation of a prolapse was equally as informative, calling on any women present to understand his ‘weak muscle’ theory and, we can only imagine, get mums to explain to kids what he was on about.
Another wander, a return to the main shed and a better spot, so that for the second birth we were more fortunate. Again, there was a problem, this time presentation was head and one front leg. First try was a student and, quite worryingly, again they couldn’t get things right and it was up to the shepherd to step in (accompanied by more imminent warnings of death) and correct things before the lamb was born. Seeing it there, damp and white, on the straw, new life, brought a tear to my eye.
After twenty minutes of licking the first born, the ewe wandered over to the wall, lay down and moments later a second lamb appeared. Simple as that. We weren’t able to see it happen, but the speed and ease was amazing. By this time it was early afternoon as no more births appeared imminent we took our leave. An interesting day, but one where I hoped there were more people to talk to who would explain things in more detail. The students there didn’t seem interested and the shepherd was taciturn, so as a finding-out session it wasn’t so good but as a general day out it got top marks.
Is it because we are a more secular country? When I was little we always seemed to be at Mass, each and every feast day in church, every Wednesday during Lent for benediction. A Catholic thing perhaps? Easter, once a major time of celebration – and marked throughout mainland Europe with festivities – now passes by with a mountain of chocolate, a few pints on Easter Sunday and a frantic scramble to get to the beach before everybody else (whatever the weather) on Bank Holiday Monday.
Recently we watched Victorian Farm on the BBC iPlayer, following three people who, for a year, experienced what it was like to live on a farm in the late nineteenth century. I found it fascinating, not just for the inventiveness of Victorians, but for the marriage of traditional and modern, the mix of old and new. They celebrated all the traditional festivals, starting the year in September (Michaelmas) and then going through Christmas, May 1 (Spring) and Lammas (Summer) before ending at harvest time and the end of the farming year. At each one they stressed the importance and the symbolism of the feast. Today, people worship at the altar of Ikea, or the church of Tesco and ‘don’t have time’ for things like this. Sad, isn’t it?
Last weekend we went to a ploughing match at a farm in King’s Moss. Despite the poster’s proclamation of ‘a century of ploughing’ and a promise of ‘gentle giants’ we were disappointed to see no horses. Just lots of old(er) men on their renovated tractors. One guy, from Rhyl, said he’d been recovering from cancer and restored his little red Fergie (the red 'frog' one at the top of this post) from a chair. ‘It was either that or go under,’ he said matter-of-factly.
The newly-turned earth reminded me of Ploughman by Patrick Kavanagh.
On the windowsill in our back bedroom, tomatoes, calabrese, coleus and mesembryanthemums are all showing above the soil. We’re rapidly running out of room, but the onset of growth heralds the start of Spring and the knowledge that days are getting longer and work outside will begin in earnest. 
After initial disappointment I was please with the results and am waiting now to see what we can use it for. As it is similar to twaróg then it might mean we have kluski for tea, or my favourite – kopytka. Whichever we have, I know it will taste even better with some home-made cheese on top.
Although the photo didn’t come out very well, you can just spot the sheep wearing a crown of straw. The others didn’t dress up, they just stood around, taking a bit of molasses-enriched silage and staring at us as we learnt about lambing and general sheep health. From the draughty barn to the draughtier field to round up some lambs and bring them back up to the farm.
As predicted, the two groups in the field moved into one quite smoothly and then, not liking the look of us, set off at a run across the grass. Between us, and thanks to strategically-placed hurdles, we managed to get them through the first gate, then along the next field where they instinctively headed for the corner furthest from where we wanted them to go. Plenty of running, arm waving and ‘sheepdog’ whistles ensued and eventually they were coaxed to the right gate.
They did this so expertly, through the gate and into the holding pen, that they must’ve done it before. It seemed easy and even our tutor said we did well, some of the full-time students aren’t so competent.
What actually happens is they wriggle and writhe, twist and squirm. I got as far as turning the head but when I tried to step back, the sheep followed me. After a couple of goes it got fed up and wrestled its way free so you have to start all over again. Although it isn’t easy, I did manage to do it twice and clip a few toenails. Once they are in position, the sheep sit quietly and seem to be ok with you checking their feet. If I want to keep sheep, which I do, healthy feet are very important and tipping sheep over will have to be second nature!
We were shown outside pens of four-week-old piglets, then taken into the farrowing unit and given a week-old piglet to hold. Mine was quiet for two seconds until it realised my hands were freezing (they’re kept nice and warm) and then started to squeal loudly. I dropped it back in with its mother (fenced to stop her rolling on top of them but with enough room for her to lie down) and moved along. The smell was incredible and the urine stench made your eyes water. I wasn’t the only one glad to get out into the crisp Cheshire air.
The third part of the day was supposed to be with cows but the 250-strong Holstein-Friesian herd is managed by an outside company so wandering around with the cows wasn’t possible. We were, however, shown into the £1.5 million milking parlour and watched as the first cows came in to be milked. Like the sheep they knew were to go: straight to the end and then turn to face outside so the milking hands could reach the udders. Cows get milked in batches of 34; a swift and automatic process with all the herd going through in around two and a half hours.
If things will never be the same again then I for one want to be prepared and this course was part of the process towards knowing enough to get by. I hope I know more than I did last week and slowly edge my way into self-sufficiency.
Having never held a chicken before, let alone caught one, it was good experience as now I know I can do both. Whether I can wring its neck, should the time ever come, remains to be seen. What the day did teach us, was that we are capable of keeping them and I am really looking forward to getting our own for the yard, while I know Agnieszka is looking forward to me moving the hen house out of the front room to somewhere more suitable.
Cut to a second visit during the recent spell of crisp, cold weather. All 26 of the turbines were visible and we had a great walk up to the top of Knowl Hill where you could see the majority of the giant blades turning in the stiff breeze. It looked fantastic, like giants waving their arms about in a regular but slightly manic fashion. Standing underneath I wondered if, should one of the blades fall off (ok, so I think about things like that, get over it) would we be able to run out of the way quickly enough. At 40 metres long I doubt it. Let’s hope that never happens, otherwise the 40,000 houses this wind farm supplies will be affected.
In recent weeks attention has turned once again to the Russian gas producers and their ongoing spat with Ukraine over alleged stealing and non-payment of bills. In retaliation, Putin has thrown his dummy out of the pram and cut the supply to Ukraine. This has the knock-on effect of reducing supplies to other east European countries such as Bulgaria and Slovakia who rely on gas from Russia and whose access to it is via a pipeline that crosses Ukraine. The whole of Europe is now concerned they’ll be freezing over the next two months as power-mad short-arse Vladimir Putin shows what a mighty country Russia is and tries to improve his position by bullying neighbours and blackmailing them over gas.
If ever an event showed us it is time to look at more alternative sources of energy it is now. Stop using the excuse this technology is too expensive to invest in, you poured enough money into failing banks over the last months, and provide incentives in cleaner, greener energy that make it affordable. Then we can all do what everyone wants to but no-one dares – stick two fingers up to Putin.
That aside, we had the most wonderful break. We spent New Year’s Eve in a small and almost empty pub, sat by a log fire, playing dominoes and drinking real ale, while the hippy-rasta barman crocheted to pass the time and where, at midnight, six small rockets were set off. Once they’d exploded, the silence descended again, to bring in the new year as it has done for centuries.
On the Friday we woke to find a dusting of snow and drove the short distance to Ravenstonedale and followed a walk from the local paper, cut out by the landlady of the B&B. Although a gentle walk, it was made more difficult by the 44 gated stiles that we had to get through. Designed for people with very long legs and no bum or belly, they involved plenty of both stretching and breathing in. As we reached the halfway mark, we noticed a cloud bringing snow heading our way and I kept an eye on it nervously until I realised it wouldn’t overtake us and envelope us in a blizzard. 
Finally, on Saturday we headed home via Glenridding and a hike up towards Helvellyn. Bitterly cold in the wind, over paths covered in sheet ice, but terrific views. Slight nervousness when Agnieszka’s knee went, giving her another bruise to match the one she got from a tumble on a slippy path, but it seemed to be ok and we got back to the car park without further mishap.
Over Kirkstone Pass and through Windermere took us back to the motorway and it was dark before we reached the M6. A clear run and we were home in an hour and a half. As we approached the Manchester area, the light pollution was really obvious, especially after three nights of almost total darkness. The following day in Farnworth, the notion we were back in a city was reinforced by the piles of crap littering the streets, the graffiti and the track-suited inhabitants of our adopted town. Welcome home, to 2009.