Apr 10 2020

Lock Down Lambing!

Lock Down Lambing !


Here we are lambing for the last time but in the strangest of circumstances!

No cars hoot on the corner by our gate, no planes or helicopters buzz overhead. No distant whistle of the steam train across the river. No one walks by calling greetings over the hedge, no one drops in with kids to see the lambs, to have a cup of tea or a glass of wine. No friends for supper, no Sunday greetings in church: only isolation and “lock down”.

No one knows how long it will last, when it will end. And it is the same right across the world. Suzu-Chan in Tokyo, an architect student, house bound now with her mother and brother, tells me she is learning to knit!

And yet things on the farm continue unchanged. Lambing simply goes ahead as usual.

Handsome Hercule

The magnificent Hercule has done a wonderful job yet again this year. He will leave us later in the summer when eventually the sheep sales reopen. A gentle fellow, he has had his time with us.  He is by now too closely related to our flock to be able to run with the ladies again next year. So the time has come for him to move on to pastures new to beget yet more beautiful pedigree Whiteface Dartmoor lambs on fields afar.

As ewes graze quietly on the top fields, their lambs playing together in the sun, it’s so difficult to believe we are living in such strange and frightening times. I look across the hills to Dartmoor in the misty distance and the river Dart below; not a person in sight. Just the baaing of sheep across the valley and maybe the sound of a solitary distant tractor way above me on a neighbour’s farm. It is so hard to believe what is happening across the world. But then, once home, I look again at the news and the grim reality hits hard.

Lambing is tiring, full on, relentless; early mornings, late nights. But this year we are so grateful we have our sheep to care for. We have space around us, hard work, long days, short nights. The animals know nothing of this madness. They centre us and keep us, oh, so grounded and busy.

Donkeys sun themselves outside their barn.

Chickens peck through the orchard. The yearlings graze quietly on the top fields and Hercule and the boys relax on their hillside. And down in the yard still more lambs are born. The sun continues to shine and grass is growing at last.

Yearlings in the sun

But everything has changed. Now we must print out a form from the NFU if we are to travel to the local farm shop to buy animal feed. We must consider carefully if we really need to leave the house. Should we risk the town or order from the village shop? Do we need to go shopping or can we make do with what we have in garden, fridge and freezer? Can we sign up to get medication delivered or is the service overwhelmed already?

So glad am I that I love gardening !

So many questions, so many challenges to all those things we have taken for granted over the years. We will surly find ourselves in a very different world out there when the lock-down is finally lifted.

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Mar 31 2020

A Walk around the Garden

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Mar 05 2020

Towards Spring

The sky is a dark luminescent blue, a bright sun shines through the valley. Despite the sharp March wind, flowers are exploding everywhere. This is the first day without rain for months and months.

All around are celebrating the warm glow from above. Birds shout, sheep laze in the fields, donkeys clamor to get out into their paddock. Only my chickens must stay in as I still ponder the strange disappearance of dear old Claude, the cockerel.

We spotted him at the top of the donkey paddock as we drove down from the top fields in yet another wild rain storm, having fed the ewes. “Get him in, in a minute” said Paul “but first let’s tackle the flood in the donkey shed” It was three o’clock in the afternoon. An hour later he had completely disappeared, no shrieks, no feathers, nothing. In came the three feathered ladies without him. I searched for days but no sign of him. He was such a big boy it must have been a mighty fox to vanish him so fast without a shred of evidence! So the girls stay in for now, bored but safe.

Slowly the ground is draining and grass is just beginning to grow.  I look at the weather forecast and the week ahead is a little better. So I hope this is not just a tiny welcome respite with another storm secretly waiting in the wings to buffet us again tomorrow.

The muddy girls are down from the top fields now and coming into the yard for tea with last year’s ewe lambs. As lambing approaches we will separate them again and send the little girls to fresh pasture, leaving their mothers to start the cycle all over again.

Except that this year will be our last year of lambing. Hercule has done his time and must move on to a new flock and fresh blood. Instead of replacing him, we have decided to call lambing a day. We will reduce the flock gradually over the next two years to just a few sturdy lawnmowers and plant more trees. It’s both a little sad and, at the same time, exciting after thirty years of breeding Whiteface Dartmoors. But time moves on and we must be realistic.

And realistic is what we are all struggling to be at the moment with the threat of a coronavirous world epidemic swamping news and social media. Strange times indeed; what of stories of the severe flooding across our country, the storm damage, of international news, war zones, draught in Africa, Australia’s recent fires? All I read on tablet or in newspaper is speculation and fear of the spread of this virus both here and across the world. Oh and the rain has returned, sweeping sideways in a huge grey curtain across the valley. I spoke too soon!

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Jan 25 2020

Autumn into Winter

Autumn into Winter

Spring will come again!

One day it will be spring again. But still it rains, relentless rain, rain and more rain. Gale force winds ravage the valley and have done all through the autumn and into winter: sideways rain, any which way rain, just rain.  The huge Monkey Puzzle tree swirls dangerously as the wind whips over the hills and down through the valley. Sheep cower in the hedgerow and donkeys stand morosely in their big shed surveying the sodden hillside. Even the old Claude and his aging feathered ladies are reluctant to venture out in the maelstrom.

The Dartmouth Fatstock Show, that ancient annual meeting of farmers and their stock held in our little market square in the town centre, came and went in a downpour. We all put a brave face on it willing the rain to stop, but it didn’t!

Sheep and cattle were judged, turkeys auctioned, farmers caught up with each other exchanging news. And all the while the rain poured down.

Since way back at the beginning of the last century the Fatstock Show has been held on the second Tuesday in December. Local farmers come to town to show off their stock. Not much has changed except, of course, licensing and movement restrictions since the dreadful Foot and Mouth outbreak in 2001 followed by a TB crisis. Sadly, that brought an end of the pig classes but sheep and cattle entries have increased hugely. It’s a very local affair bringing together the farming community. The Bond family have been chairing it since the 1930’s!

In this time of increasing awareness and anxiety about climate change, rising sea temperatures and global warming, farming worldwide is getting a bad press. But farming is an umbrella term. Not only does farming vary from country to country, continent to continent but right here in Britain it covers a miriad of different sources of food production nationwide.  In Lincolnshire satellites control combine harvesters. In Gloucester there are still huge diversified farms both livestock and arable.

Here in Devon all our neighbours farm differently: some organic, some moving towards wilding and a very few still in the old style of the 1950’s. Happily the latter is on the wane as awareness grows. Change is on the way. But how did we get to this? Before the Second World War most farms in Britain were diversified: crops, cattle, pigs, sheep.

But we have to go back much further to really see how patterns of farming changed, back indeed to Sir Robert Peel who, under pressure from a new urban elite, repealed the Corn Laws in 1846. These laws had for years put a tariff on imported grain. Now this were gone.

By the 1870’s grain prices had plummeted following the opening up of imported grain from the American prairies and, of course, the arrival of big powerful steam ships capable of transporting their cargo across the Atlantic much faster than ever before.

These imports of wheat, meat and dairy products flooded the market and British wheat prices plummeted: sound familiar! It wasn’t until the first world war that more than a million acres came back into food production. This time those steam ships importing food were under attack from German U Boats.  

When the war ended farming boomed for a while until 1921 when the government repealed the Agricultural Act. This marked a very difficult time in farming. Wages plummeted 40% in one year, land was left unused and many country people moved to the cities and towns. And then the 1930 brought the Great Depression.

By 1939 the country was at war again and the fear of starvation became very real indeed. The government launched the Dig for Victory campaign. Rationing became harsh and it was clear we must stop relying on imports and grow our own food to survive. Prisoners of war were sent to work on the land and the Women’s Land Army of 1917 was revived. The Land Girls had arrived. By 1944 80.000 women were working on the land. They took over the farms left by men who had gone to war. They used heavy machinery, felled trees, drained Fenlands and, of course, they were paid less than the men: 38s for a 40-50-hour week for a man, 28s for women! It took a few more years to sort that out! But the nation was fed.

The fear of food shortage lived on after the end of the war, as did rationing. The government promised guaranteed prices and an assured market. This all led to mass over production, a huge increase in the use of chemicals, butter mountains, grain mountains: food waste had begun.

And now the pendulum is swinging. I smiled when I read of Lord Addison’s dismay in the 1930’s: “….an increasing extent of good land is reverting to tufts of inferior grass, brambles & weeds….” Sir Emrys Jones, Cultivation Officer for Gloustershire 1939-45, agreed “countryside is becoming a wilderness in modern times, hedges overgrown, millions of rabbits, mildew in crops…..”

Sounds to me a bit like wilding! Times are indeed changing. The real fear of climate change is finally filtering through and farmers are moving with the times and a new awareness of how we can help is emerging.

Farming does generate greenhouse gases but can also store carbon dioxide in soil, trees and plants. Minimal tilling of the soil, planting cover crops between main cash crops, and crop rotation are just some things that can boost the organic matter in soil so it holds more carbon. Cows get a particularly bad press as major producers of methane.  But even this is controllable by the feed they are given to eat.  And, of course, we can all plant more trees, extend our hedgerows, encourage wildlife, stop using chemicals. Go green!

Maybe we can gradually take back control of our world, remember a time before the industrial revolution and the repeal of the Corn Laws. when the air was still clean. And, most importantly, we have modern science to help us, if only we would listen.

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Oct 28 2019

Home From Japan

As summer fades to autumn a golden sun shines through the kitchen window. Sinking fast, it’s slipping out of sight behind the hills and only 3.30 in the afternoon. Autumn has arrived, light is fading, afternoons grow shorter, trees are turning, birds are leaving. And now the clocks have changed.

A certain melancholy fills the air as the garden gets ready for the winter sleep. Roses give of their last wistful glowing blooms. Dahlias and cosmos soldier on despite the damp, tomatoes vines wither, everywhere evidence of preparation for cold and hibernation.

There was a chill in the air as I went up to the farmyard this morning. Mist hung in the valley and exquisite little spiders’ webs glistened in the early sunlight. After days of rain blue sky slowly emerged through the greyness, sun crept up coyly through the valley. Millie and I counted contented sheep as we walked through the fields. Silence enfolded us broken only by the sudden cry of a wheeling buzzard overhead: this too, a cry of autumn.

Rice Fields in the evening sun

And yet it seems only moments ago we were struggling in the heat and humidity that was Japan. No rugby for us but another wonderful holiday with our family in the Japanese countryside, all rice fields and mountains, so different from Devon. There we were back again in the little town of Hino two years since our first visit.

Our start was not auspicious. Having booked our journey months earlier World Rugby on our minds, we found ourselves caught by the British Airways strike, flights cancelled at the last minute. We were issued with flights three days early but alas, no one to look after the farm until our house sitter was due to arrive the following week. A dear friend stepped into the gap.

So started a slightly stressful journey to Heathrow so different from our many previous Japanese adventures! But we made it and our flight took off on time. We landed at Narita airport instead of Haneda, made our way across the busyness which is Tokyo eventually climbing onto the Shinkansen to Odawara. A taxi took us up into the hills to a beautiful little Ryokan hotel in Hakone. We wonder how they are now. We learnt just last week that it was very badly hit by the recent terrible Typhoon. Three feet of rain fell in just twenty four hours. We so hope they are safe but have heard nothing from them.

The Merchant’s House

Restored, our jetlag subsiding, we travelled on to join the family in their beautiful old Japanese Merchant’s House in Hino just northwest of Kyoto. From here we visited one of the oldest potteries in Japan in Shagaraki. We went to temples, beer festivals, wonderful restaurants, art exhibitions, walks in the rice fields. We drove round Lake Biwa in the sun and so much more.

Kintsugi Studio in Hino

A highlight of the whole three weeks was a trip to Kyoto to the studio of our daughter-in-law’s Kintsugi Sensai.  Nolly is becoming a sensai herself now , opening her own studio in Hino. Kintsugi is the ancient art of restoration.  It is said to go back to the Shogun, Ashikaga Yoshimasa, in the C15th. Disappointed with the repair of a favourite tea bowl by Chinese craftsmen, he encouraged his own people to develop another more beautiful way to mend broken treasures.

It is a meticulous skill particularly fascinating to me, reminding me of my previous life as a jeweller. A special sap called urishi, gathered from lacquer trees, is mixed in various ways to bond the breaks and fill the chips in beautiful but damaged objects. Finally a layer of gold dust melts magically into the tiny seams restoring heartbreak and turning loss into incredible beauty: a truly Japanese art.

My grandmother’s Venetian Glass Restored!

And, of course, we ate amazing and delicious food! This time I had the opportunity to learn to cook all sorts of new and exciting dishes. Nolly is a marvellous cook, well known for her workshops at the Dartmouth Food Festival in Devon. Japanese food is becoming increasingly popular all over the West as we become more and more aware of what we are eating. The food is so light and healthy, fat and sugar free!


I watched Nolly make her own dashi, or Japanese stock.  Dashi is used as a base for so many dishes, including miso soup, a staple eaten at almost every meal with many variations: maybe shitake mushrooms, dried whiting, tofu, mixed vegetables. The possibilities are endless.

First a piece of konbo, a kind of kelp, is soaked in water over night. Next day it is heated gently until bubbles began to appear. Then it is taken off the heat, the kelp removed and handful of fine bonito flakes shaved from a piece of dried tuna, are added.The broth is heated again then strained and the bonito removed: the result a delicate fish stock which can be used in so many ways.

For miso soup a spoonful or two of miso paste is added. Miso is the fermented paste of soya beans, grain and kogi, the fungau asperquillus oryzae. It varies from region to region but turns up everywhere and is incredibly healthy and delicious. Earlier this year I was lucky enough to be invited to the house of Japanese friend here in Devon to make my own miso. How lucky am I to have my own jars of miso gently maturing in my kitchen!

Devon Miso!

One evening Nolly quickly fried some sardines. Once cool she marinated them in dashi, mirin, sweet rice vinegar, soy sauce, onion, carrot, celery, red pepper and a dash of chili. We ate the little fish with sticky Japanese rice, miso soup and a wonderful salad dressed with finely chopped leek, grated ginger, sesame oil, soy sauce, rice vinegar, ground sesame seeds and lemon juice.

Japanese Sardines

Another feast was a pork supper: very finely sliced pork cooked quickly with onion, ginger, sake, mirin and soy sauce, wonderful.

Next a quick meal which seemed to appear magically, as if from nowhere, was chicken and beansprouts. An hour or so before supper cubed chicken went into a bag with grated onion, garlic, root ginger, some sake and soy sauce and black pepper. The bag was sealed, the meat massaged a little then the left in the fridge. Then everything was tipped into a non-stick pan over a medium heat and cooked until the chicken pieces were brown. In went a big handful of bean sprouts, the pan covered and everything steamed for a few minutes. A sprinkling of fresh chopped coriander finished the dish which we ate with pickles, Japanese rice and miso soup.  


Finally of course, we had the greatest treats of all: sushi and sashimi! The freshest, incredibly finely sliced raw fish already prepared and ready to eat from the amazing fish counter in the local supermarket.

All Ready Prepared

It made me realise yet again how fortunate we are in Devon to have such wonderful fresh fish on our doorstep here too. And now, thanks to Nolly, I have another way to serve it!

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Aug 02 2019

It’s Summer!

It’s just a regular sunny summer morning as I head to the farmyard to clean out the stables, worm the donkeys, pick out their feet and check them all, once more, for lice. We’ve never had lice before but new boy, Christos, is very good at offering them a home!

I give all donkeys a brush, a cuddle and, of course, a treat, before letting them out to graze on the indifferent,  July-dry summer grass in Sunday Orchard .

Next the cockerel and chickens have to be caught before they go walkabout, easier said than done! We must check for scaly leg mites, another summer hazard. Poor old Claude finds the whole thing terrifying and shouts his head off. “Just a little Vaseline on your legs” I tell him as he squawks in protest, warning his ladies of the terrible danger ahead! Once done, off they go too, these feral birds, to take their chance in farmyard and field.
Then it’s up the hill to the top fields to check ewes and lambs. But just as Millie and I round the corner on the steep track up to the top barn I spot the twins. How have they got out? I recognise them at once. They are smaller than the rest having been partially bottle fed by me from birth. Their mother had very little milk so I topped them up for her until her milk came in. They are quite independent and stick together apart from the flock, frequently exploring pastures new, under a gate here, through a hedge there. They make me smile; so different from the rest. Quietly Millie and I walk up behind them and they scuttle back from whence they came. Time to move everyone to pastures new, I think.
It’s been a summer of extremes. May was so dry, the wind so cold, even a severe frost on May 5th, so rare in Devon. Beans and courgettes fell victim. The beech hedge was crowned with crisp brown leaves, wisteria ravaged, and the fig trees looked dead. More and more damage became visible as the weeks followed. Then suddenly June and flood warnings rang out all over Britain: helicopters rescues, trains halted, passengers stranded. Spectacular photos of a thousand lightning strikes illuminating the skies of South East England crowd the media. Homes without power, weather warnings nationwide and still it rained. How, then, were we so fortunate to have three dry afternoons to open our garden for the National Garden Scheme? We even had some sun and a stream of smiling visitors
In came July and it wasn’t long before we remembered the old saying “ be careful what you pray for” as the fields turned brown, the grass stopped growing and drought was the word on everybody’s lips. The rain simply stopped.
But it didn’t stop people flocking to visit the tiny hamlet of East Cornworthy. Five lovely gardens opened their gates for the National Garden Scheme Nursing Charities for the first time. After much hard work, organisation and no small amount of anxiety the weekend was upon us! Would anyone come? We were all overwhelmed at the response! Over two afternoons we greeted nearly three hundred delightful, interested, interesting people. The car park filled, queues formed. I dashed to the shop to buy more clotted cream, more strawberry jam. By Sunday afternoon we even ran out of the wonderful scones donated by Dan at Garden Time, our local garden centre. He has made far too many, I thought quietly to myself as I collected them, we’ll never get through all these. Thank you Dan, how wrong I was!
As the visitors drifted away on Sunday evening, garden owners walked quietly round each other’s gardens. Still slightly stunned we finally celebrated with a welcome glass of wine. We looked at each other in amazement. In just two short afternoons they had raised an extraordinary £ 2,500 for the charity: a record indeed!
A little rain has fallen since, tiny signs of green creep across the top fields, grass growing a little at last. The garden is beginning to have that battered late summer look. Buzzards are already beginning to wheel and play on the thermals; I feel a shadow of autumn approaching. I do so hope all our summer visitors will enjoy some sun; I hope the traditional August rain will not spoil their holiday!

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Jul 03 2019

BT june 2019 from Paul Vincent on Vimeo.

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May 31 2019

Bramble Torre, Then and Now

Bramble Torre then and now from Paul Vincent on Vimeo.

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Apr 23 2019

Lambing Days are Done……!

Lambing Days are Done……!


…..or are they! As I brought in a set of beautiful twins with their mother from the field yesterday afternoon, I pondered on the final lady; just one ewe still left to lamb but still no sign of milk. Will she, won’t she, we wonder, we’ll see, maybe we have indeed finished!

The last twins

Lambing began with a difference this year. “I’m away at the beginning of March” said Paul way back in October “So I’ll put our ram in later than usual so you won’t be lambing alone!” Good idea, I thought, as Millie and I walked up to the top fields, our daily routine, to check the ewes. Almost at once I found myself face to face with a beautiful Suffolk ram! “Hello. Who are you…..oh dear!”

Our neighbour came at once to retrieve his handsome boy but not before the fellow had given us some truly wonderful, strapping Whiteface/Suffolk lambs: an unusual addition to our pedigree flock!

Our beautiful Suffolk surprises!

Now at last, weeks later, tired and happy, we can dare to begin to relax. Strange though it seems, lambing routine doesn’t change, regardless of numbers. Even though we have reduced our flock considerably, we must still be as vigilant as ever. Be it with just thirty girls or a hundred and thirty or two hundred plus, the routine is the same. Up at dawn, down at midnight!  And, of course, the usual daily rota of chores continues.

Moving to pastures new
Out at Last

Each morning the alarm goes before dawn, Paul climbs out of bed, feeds yawning dogs and makes his way to the yard, wondering what will greet him:  a ewe in labour or newly born babies, maybe. Any ewes with new lambs will be penned up in the big barn for the first few days after birth. This gives us time to make sure the lambs are feeding well and mother and baby are thriving.  They must have ear tags attached in each ear according to MAFF regulations, navels sprayed with antiseptic spray and ewes feet trimmed.

Time for a manicure

The remaining Ladies in Waiting go out for the day into the big field near the yard we call Sunday Orchard. Whiteface Dartmoor’s’ are robust, strong ewes and excellent mothers. Rarely do we have a problem. This year we are feeding just one set of twins for a mother who suffered mastitis and had insufficient milk. A visit from the vet and several injections later and she is recovering, but the babies still need a twice daily top up from the bottle.

A little extra to help mother!

Once sheep and lambs are fed, donkeys let out into their paddock for the day and the chicken house opened, it is time for breakfast. Then it’s back to the yard for the daily routine of mucking out, scraping the yard and gradually moving lambs and ewes from the barn up the hill to the top fields onto fresh grass. Dogs and I walk up the hill and feed mothers and children every day. We feed the yearlings too, that is to say last year’s ewe lambs, grazing in an adjoining field. Some of them will join our flock in the autumn and lamb next year. Others will be sold at the big Whiteface Dartmoor sheep sale in August, joining other flocks to improve the blood line.

Yearlings coming for tea!

Then it’s back for a lunchtime snack and time to catch up on paperwork: birthing records, ear tag numbers etc. Late afternoon and back we go to bottle feed lambs and check the ewes in Sunday Orchard again. Any new mothers are brought into the barn with their babies as soon as possible. The corvids: crows, magpies and ravens, are our biggest threat. They will attack a new born lamb and even sometimes, the ewe too.

Next we feed all the ewes in the barn with sugar beet and oats, hay and fresh water. We check all lambs are feeding well and ear tag any new babies.

Nutmeg Christos and Tiny Freddie

In come the donkeys and while they eat their tea I fill their rack with hay and shut their barn door for the night. These desert animals are not waterproof like horses and too much rich, sugary grass will lead to laminitis. They are as greedy as our Labradors so caution is best!

By the time we have filled the sheep troughs in the yard, the Ladies in Waiting are queuing at the gate baaing loudly for tea! Once in they will stay in the yard and sheep barn for the night away from night time predators.

Time for bed

Time now to shut up chickens for the night, collect eggs, water the greenhouses and sit down at dusk with a glass of wine!

Supper and a little tele and then it’s back to the yard to check everyone, deal with any new births, bottle feed any lambs and come home to bed!

Time to Relax

So,  happy at last, with our beautiful new flock safely up on our top fields overlooking the river Dart and Dartmoor in the distance,  we can look forward to a long night’s sleep!

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Mar 10 2019

Goodbye February!

Gale force winds, torrential rain, mud and still more rain chased us through February taunting us, every now and then, with bursts of brilliant sunshine!  The north wind ripped across the hills driving south from distant Dartmoor. Sometimes I found it almost impossible to stay on my feet as I struggled to fill troughs for hungry sheep. I was so pleased with my old wonder-waterproofs to keep me warm and dry in the deluge!

And now suddenly everything has changed. The hills are turning green at last, as grass begins to grow. The valley is awash with flowers. Daffodils, primroses, hellebores, leucojum, celandine all carpet the hillside. Camellias just go from strength to strength, the best for years.

Birds are in full throttle, shouting above the wind, as they race skywards through the swelling branches going about their business. But rain, sunshine, strong winds and an erratic weather forecast keep us on our toes. As we are greeted with this milder weather, memories of last year’s March snow make us all more than a little wary.  Will this sun stay with us or will everything be knocked back again once more?

We put our ram in with our pedigree Whiteface ewes later than usual last autumn, intending to lamb at the end of March. But, alas, our neighbour’s big boy climbed a huge fence and a very thick hedge to admire our girls. And, although his stay was very brief, we wonder now what to expect as we wait anxiously for early lambs of uncertain parentage!

The wet winter has taken its toll on the donkey’s feet. These desert animals are not cut out for mud. Their feet are porous and old Nutmeg, in particular, has suffered badly. Keeping them all in their big barn has been the only option. But at last, as the ground begins to drain and firm up, they are thrilled to go out to stretch their legs even if this does mean a regular evening pedicure!

It was time for the equine dentist visit in February. Gemma comes once a year to do a dental check and clean and file down rough teeth where necessary, particularly important with older donkeys. Last summer she arrived as planned only to find me standing in the yard in shock having just found my dear old Luke dead in the barn with a bemused Nutmeg standing beside him. We cancelled all thoughts of dentistry and concentrated on caring for Nutmeg hoping she would not go into shock too, which in donkeys, can cause hyperlipaemia, a fatal condition. The vet’s verdict on cause of Luke’s death was old age. But it was so sudden we were all taken by surprise. He was such a gentle, stoical, funny old boy.

So six months on it was time to check Nutmeg’s teeth and give the new boys a once over too. Christof was good as gold but Tiny Freddie wasn’t so keen. He doesn’t like the farrier much either, or the vet or even wearing a head collar at all: a bit of a handful despite being a sweet gentle chap the rest of the time! But all was well and teeth are good for another year.

The equine ‘flu epidemic has brought a visit from the vet recently too. We don’t see many other equines here but the virus is air born so we must be vigilant and make sure they all have vaccine boosters for protection.

So it’s up to the yard again now to bring in the Ladies in Waiting for the night and give them tea. The donkeys will have their feet cleaned and eat their bowl of Mollychaff and I daresay I will have to search for a wayward chicken or two after our recent visit from a fox. We found two piles of feathers recently: food for early cubs maybe or just a hungry loner. Sad though it was, we must share the valley.

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