Spring is springin on the farm! Woop woop!!

After about 15 months of rain and wind and hail and rain in the 4 months we've now lived here - oh and daily mist on the windiest way to work imaginable outside of the Pyrenees - I now understand deep pagan reverence of the changing seasons. That first splash of sun on that first clump of snowdrops... sorry if I sound like an overexcited punter on Gardeners' Question Time (I still can't stand it), or an overzealous Imbolc celebrant (might be closer to that)... but Aaach, how Fine!

The last week or so has been brilliant. Valentine's Day was truly lovely - picnic in a dune surrounded by blues of sky and sea and estuary; ambles and scrambles in secret coves; crab from the local bay. But it's also been lovely to spend 'normal' weekends at our amazing  shared place, just doing stuff with our friends and neighbours, invigorated, together, positive, happy, cheesy..

Last weekend everyone seemed to wake to the rising sun and sap and whatnot, and start digging the veg patch - and start not-digging mulching (some of wet last summer's hay coming to great use finally) - with a peaceable vengeance. Forgot about the camera that time. So here's a sample of some of the goings on at Trelay this weekend...

 

In the Cornish Hedge by our cabin

Below our reed beds..



... a good sign that the reeds are doing their job
filtering out (eco) detergent from the laundry room's outlet..
Should get a few frogs out of this lot!

Fixing fencing for the return of Mumma Pigs post weaning

We're in Cornwall, so must be Pirate FM.
And we knows what's in our meat ere..

Roger preparing digging out cable for the hens'
new place - bigger space, grass instead of
quagmire, and next year's veg patch;
but requiring electric fencing  for now.
Their old spot near the 'village'
will become a garden

Ollie building his treehouse / army HQ.
Useful for supervising some of us
making the new hen enclosure below.
Also to spot any enemy / pirates

Perfect weather for Cadno and his buddy bach, Gareth, to dry out our
winter soggied yurts...

... and to re-oil the frames,
and reassemble ready for the new season!

Click here if interested! :)

Weaning time for the two sows who've farrowed so well.
Twinkle's led from the barn back to her sea views..

..reacquaints her self with Maggie..

.. and is then reminded who's boss.
Or at least told not to sniff bums. Pigs ain't dirty

With mothers safely away, a new task to be done..
Marie went from pig and hen fencing to ear tagging
the piglets with Ash and James coming away from
their flooring / tiling of the remarkable Old Stables
renovation to help Christine pin the 20+ not so wee babies
against the wall.  Very difficult operation, ear-piercing
to humans as well,  but  here's some results...

..proudly displayed!

Have I mentioned that we've got ourselves a Landy?! Here is our
very own Felix. After much ebay drooling, we finally found the
workaday beast of our dreams, within our communal budget
(helps when lotsof people can chip in a bit and then all
share the larks). He's missing an eye, but hey, it's pirate
country; and no need for MOT etc as we're keeping him
on site for shifting stuff - wood from the woods, and..

..no, not a third cabin, but spare chicken coops
that are still really heavy!
We are trying to be green, honest.
That's me driving our landrover by the way..

And another one down there, hearty lifters all. 

Clare and Marie lovingly carrying the hens down to their new home.
(Not quite so lovingly the cockerels)

A well-earned quick pint at the Wainhouse, and then back for another
fantastic Cadno roast from a previous offspring of dear Mama Maggie

Cheers to a good day

Next morn on Marie's daily sheep check (and now feed, given sodden fields
and impending Paschal Feasts), we noticed that one poor ewe couldn't run
over as she couldn't see - her wool felted over her eyes in one mean dread.
The one in front's now got a not so cool ball cut, but seems happier.

After that, I attacked brambles by the cabins,
exposing more snowdrops and clearing 'curtilages'; and
then relaxed in the hammock for the first time this year..
before its wire relaxed and dumped me to the floor.
Need to find some good rope for that end..
It's getting chillier and will be bitter yet, so good to have
one last load of wood (possibly maybe the last ever
delivery now we can harvest our own woods more??)
Marie, Jackie, and Christine all somehow appeared separately,
as everyone in so much else this weekend,
to get tasks done more easily together.

Polytunnel
(Margot's away for the weekend, but her convening spirit is there now too),
sheep,
sunset..



.. over Bodmin Moor and Tintagel way..

.. and lighting up the other way.

Life and Death, part 2 - Cockerels

Well, actually just the death bit here I'm afraid, but feel I need to write about it. You might not want to read this if squeamish; or veggie/vegan. But at least, I hope, it's an immediate, honest account of part of life.

Four cockerels had to go - we've got one left to do the business, and apart from their increased fighting, it's just not sustainable to have them as gobbling pets. That's how it is keeping farm animals - the boys don't have such a long life. Still, they had some life which is a good thing I suppose... And they had space and good food, and sea air.. and very wet clay right now. I'm not quite as virgin to farming as this slightly tortured stream of consciousness might make it seem; but being the cause of death is new to me, and cleaning buckets of blood makes the meaning of meat that bit more real.

So yesterday we separated four cocks, and didn't feed them for 24 hours. And today after dark we picked them up by their feet, one by one, and took them, in quiet shock, to the pole barn to be killed. We tied them upside down to an upright, and dispatched them with a dispatcher. What a horrible term - clinical, efficient, to the point - but actually that's what needed. No messing about - break the neck, go with the reflex flapping of wings, and then cut the throat to let the blood drain out.

Tim did the first three, me watching closely. I did the last. I could feel the sort of plier ends of the dispatcher come together cleanly; thankfully there was no struggle, no horrible botch. It was ok. I struggled to cut the neck though, and although I knew he was dead, it still felt gory, messy, revolting repeatedly slashing against a tough little tube lacking any equal reaction. Thankfully Philippe was on hand, and suggested going in through beak, which allowed a clean cut. Amazing how red the blood is, and how quickly it coagulates. And praise be for shock - just the act of carrying them, combined with the dopiness of dusk, meant that they were remarkably calm going into it all, despite some obvious awareness as they were brought in.

It was actually the plucking that affected me more, holding the carcass, warm as my hands touched more skin. Five of us did this, in the haybarn next door: initially quiet, respectful, grave; but chatting more about that and this as we developed rhythm and confidence plucking the feathers, and as a natural response to the macabre event and equally macabre cold evening of this November floodtime. We chopped the heads and legs off, Tim blowtorched the strange hairs off, we washed out the horrible buckets, and that was it, done.

Coqs au vin to come sometime, using all the meat as fully as possible; the appropriate follow up to a necessary reality I think. I might not sleep like an angelic log but, as a recently revived carnivore and lifelong eggivore, I am glad I was able to be involved and have a little more conscious connection to it all.