It was a long weekend of endless celebrations. Kizzie was 21! People came and went. Sometimes they looked bright and shiny and sometimes they looked dull and limp. We thought this could be down to the amount of Quail Ale consumed. Balloons festooned Wattlebury Cottage, bumping merrily in front of the Trusty Barometer. No matter, the days were long, blue and sunny, even though it was mid-January. Cake was eaten, Poppers popped and Songs were sung. Harvey wore a shiny Gold Hat and tried to purloin remains on plates. Dad cut logs and then cut more logs. Mum kept taking bags of rubbish to the bin and we waited patiently for tasty morsels to arrive.
The Fox ate the Bossy Rosecomb ( it would be uncharitable of me to snigger) and Drongo and Nog made headlines in The Wattlebury Gazette for their achievements in Shows recently. It read "Local Lads Make Good" We were very proud of them. Gordon x
This morning is relatively calm, and warmish for January. Mr and Mrs Buzz are wheeling peacefully over the field quite low - with not the usual pesky crow in sight to bother them. Mysty the little Roe Deer is contendedly nibbling in the Lower Paddock - still not having joined up with friends and relatives as is usual in the cold of winter. Perhaps the persistant cold frosts are still a little way off. Dad will be off to buy our food this morning and we heard him mutter that he needs a new coil for his chainsaw so that he can cut up the fallen trees. We love Saturdays with lots going on. Must get busy on the manure heap. Will write again later. Love Gordon and Sylvia xxx
Of course it didn't end up as idyllic as first imagined. Rarely seems to. Dad had a nice bonfire and all was ticking along nicely - until the farmer next door decided to move his sheep from the field behind Lois. To cut a long story short they did a detour and ended up in our woods. Mickey scampered at great speed back to the safety of his barn and peered cautiously around the bales at the melee that ensued. After dashings here and there the sheep were back on track and off to another field. They have left a rather nice warm looking woolly decoration on the barbed wire that Sylvia has her eye on for a cosy nest. That could be a good job for Neddie and Seagoon to do tomorrow. And as we settled down for the evening we heard the delicate tones of Ms Fox in the meadow. Dad shut the barn door and bid us goodnight and we climbed on our perches and settled contentedly down for a good night's sleep. Gordon x
Ponds magically appeared
It did indeed rain yesterday. And it blew. We ventured out in the afternoon to see what tasty shredletts had whirred down from the trees. In fact there were whole trees to pick through. And ponds where ponds had not been. The sun shone bright in a clear, but cold blue sky and calm was restored once more. Mum, ever the optimist, called it a 'Clearing-up Shower' - I would hate to see a Rainstorm! Gordon x
This morning it is blowing a hoolie. Dad appeared like a dark master at the barn door, fumbled around for his headtorch and illuminated us like the London Eye on New Year's Eve. We blinked and stretched and decided it was definately not a day for unnecessary exploration. The light flickered as the wind whipped the swinging wires into a frenzy and the rain gusted horizontally across the yard. We wished we were by the Little Fire at the cottage.
We all love the Little Fire at Wattlebury Cottage. If we get cold or have had a bath we are sometimes lucky enough to be able to sit in front of it and warm up.
So fierce the genteel competition the sometimes one creature will resort to sitting on top of another in order to get the maximum warmth. We all wish we were there now.
Gordon and Sylvia xxx
I forgot to mention that dark December morning recently when Dad had been complaining about his lost gloves. We all searched the yard. Mum quizzed him on his whereabouts.
There's a Hole in my Bucket
It was a particularly cold and frosty morning I might add, and Mum had lunged her welly playfully into Harvest's swimming pool to break the ice only to discover she had a hole in her boot. It was painful to observe.
"I will keep these for the summer, when it is dry" she told me. I really couldn't see the point in this, but considering the look of discomfort etched across her face, I merely nodded in enthusiastic agreement. Then the hose wouldn't unfreeze so the bucket was unearthed and filled - albeit rather slowly - and trudged across the yard to refill the aforesaid swimming pool. (Fortunately one of minor proportions otherwise I dread to think how long this might have taken.) It was half way through this procedure that Mum had spotted the hole. Sadly (for us) this prompted a rousing chorus of 'There's a Hole in my Bucket, dear Gordon, dear Gordon.' It seemed to keep Mum warm and inspired and she worked quicker and quicker trying to beat the leak.
"There they are!" Dad had triumphantly pulled his shabby rubber gloves from the innards of his coat. Looking like rabbit's entrails they appeared from the very bottom of the lining bit by bit through a hole in his pocket.
It was with great trepidation that we jumped from our perches and tentatively peered out of the barn door. The trees were still there. The yard was still there. The Robin was still on his Lamp Post. Harvest was muttering Bonnanny to Harry the Peacock. The grey clouds were scudding overhead and it actually all looked very much like yesterday. What a relief. Thought the world as we knew it was coming to an end. So what was all the fuss about? And still a liberal scattering of bread and a bit of stale cake.
Happy New Year everyone! Gordon, Sylvia and Friends xxx