Thursday 19th February 2009 – my first mole

It’s offical! I am a mole catcher of note……….well, I have caught one, a big one and very exciting it was too! The smug satisfaction stuck with me for at least 3 days. It has now worn off despite the fact that the dead mole is ceremoniously hung on the fence by the back gate for all to admire providing a daily reminder of my achievement. There are two problems – the dead mole is starting to smell and it hasn’t to date, been joined by any of it’s friends.

Rather than providing a marker of my mole hunting efficiencies – the said dead mole only serves to fuel suspicion that  I have gone stark raving mad.

I have become completely obsessed with my trapping. Armed with my spade, gloves and traps, I am on a one woman mission to restore my view from its current lunar appearance back to uninterrupted meadow. I have approached my task with a significant amount of planning and preparation. The first rule of war, is, I understand, know your enemy. As such I have spent many a long evening researching everything there is to know about these velvety devils. I am alarmed by the breeding cycle and as such have put down the books to focus on manoeuvres. I eagerly follow runs and have spent far too long squashing old mole hills so that I can monitor their recent movements.

Sadly, all of this for just one mole. I shall not be deterred – the war continues.

Meanwhile, there appears to be trouble in the hen house. Having been convinced that out of my 11 surviving birds, only one was a cockerel, suddenly, it looks like I’ve got at least one more. They may just be butch hens but I am sure I heard a stifled cock a doodle do from one of them. This could explain my lack of eggs – still nothing and the weather is so much milder. Clearly, no amount of mild weather is going to encourage the cocks to lay!

I think more hens are called for.

6th December 2008 – An opera singer in the woodshed!

Returned on Friday from a few restorative days in Devon. The benefits of coastal and moor walking combined with the obligatory pint at lunchtime are still evident in my rosy glow. I swear that despite the time of year, we could have walked (and talked!) in shirt sleeves! Just the ticket for my previously exhausted state.

 

I have neglected to update you on the very exciting arrival of 12 Moran chickens , following a deal in a pub car park in Gloucestershire. Not as seedy as you might think but did manage to acquire them rather cheap (hah hah!) on the basis they are not as yet sexed. Hopefully there will be plenty of productive hens amongst them particularly as four have been ear-marked for a special god-daughter’s Christmas present. D is secretly hoping for a high proportion of cockerels so that he can wield his axe, French peasant style with the anticipation of a hearty coq – au – vin on his lips!

 

Anyway, lovely to return home to my chickens, woofs and husband of course.  A dear girlfriend and new man, Mark the opera singer arrived for the weekend to much excitement and rapid guzzling of wine. The dull headache and lie-in on my part, the following morning – clear evidence of the previous evening’s excesses. Whilst having my croissant and quietly discussing the day’s plans with Steph, a rather guilty looking Jack Russell wandered into the kitchen and promptly rolled over in a sort of ‘sorry, I couldn’t help myself’ pose. Dismissing the relevance of such behaviour, which as a JR owner tends to be a rather regular occurrence, Steph and I quickly coated and booted in order to take advantage of clear blue skies and a crisp winter’s morning.

 

The scene that greeted us was sufficient to warm the heart of the coldest of Iron Maidens – men hard at work – D and accomplice fencing the pig paddock and Mark chopping wood in between bursts of Oklahoma. Our warm smugness soon disappeared on spotting a motionless chicken by the stable and the JR, who on spotting my look of horror quickly rolled over again in an attempt to look endearing but clearly giving away the identity of the culprit!

 

As predicted, it had taken only a matter of days before one of my beautiful birds fell victim to the worst predator of all – the terrier. At least it was days and not hours I suppose, but sod’s law says that was the only hen!

 

We have spent most of this afternoon building the pig palace, helped along with frequent swigs from the hip flask. I quite fancy moving in myself – so far it looks very snug and certainly much less draughty than the house! It would appear, that half a tonne of Berkshire sow comes higher up than me in the pecking order when it comes to housing requirements! The amount of effort that has gone into insulation and draught-proofing is quite incredible!

 

Steph and the singing woodman have departed but not before we had a rendition of Old Man River from the terrace, which boomed around the forest, leaving the hair on my neck standing and no doubt putting the fear of God into any unsuspecting walkers out for their Sunday stroll.