Here we go again, writing this column at 30 thousand feet, I
seem to be making a habit of it lately. This time I am leaving behind the
blazing sunshine in France, heading north for a few weeks work on my latest
building project in East Neuk of Fife. Having battled with the local council we
at last have the plans and permissions approved in triplicate to take it to the
next phase, that of knocking through a few walls and windows in my hard hat.
Leaving Wendy at home tending the flock - which I am happy to announce has
expanded by a dozen lambs over the last 3 weeks - I am travelling with a pal
who is lending me a hand in Scotland. Together with a couple of tradesmen, we
are hoping to have a good kick of the ball and get the new house into something
livable by Easter, including 3 bathrooms and a kitchen fitted and tiled. Of
course this will marginally rely on the appearance of our ever elusive plumber,
but I suspect he will turn up at some point to complete the job, if only so he
can collect his paycheque.
Don’t tell my shepherdess but hopefully it won’t be all
work, as we intend to get a visit to Edinburgh to take in a Six Nations rugby
match and show my Aussie pal a few sights. He is also a keen golfer so it would
be rude of me not to get a cheeky wee round on St Andrews Old Course, wouldn’t
it?
Anyway, I do feel that I have earned some rest since I have
been up with the larks every morning checking sheep, and then toiling by day in
the fields since I last wrote. After nearly 10 years at Chauffour I have finally
gotten around to erecting some proper fencing instead of the few dilapidated
strands of electric wire we have around the perimeter of the farm. This, along
with the odd piece of corrugated tin blocking up a sheep-sized hole in the
hedge, has now all been replaced with shiny new netting and 2 metre wooden
posts, topped off with deadly high-tensiled barbed wire. I could forgive my
neighbours for suspecting we may be loosing a herd of giraffes out on to our
grassy plains, such is the height of the wire, but in reality the extent of
this precautionary security is to keep out stray dogs on their nocturnal
visits. Although we have not lost any ewes to these predators recently, one of
our best ones is empty this term, having slipped her lambs early on after being
chased around by an Alsatian. The new fence is also handy for cordoning off
Skippy, Wendy’s past pet lamb who is now 4 years old and as fat as a whale,
while he gorges all the food from the needy ewes and lambs, shoulder barging
his way to the trough like an English rugby forward in a Calcutta cup match
(oops, sorry, could resist that analogy!). Now the redundant critter has to
watching in foaming salivation from behind his Colditz-like prison wire, saving
me a few quid in the process. As well as two weeks fencing, bramble-clearing
and tree felling, there have also been all the other springtime chores to tick
off before I depart, such as mowing, pruning and weed irradiation to tire my
aching bones.
On the subject of the latter, I popped into the local agricultural
store to pick up a litre of Round up yesterday, only to find it is now securely
locked up behind a bullet-proof glass door. On questioning this I find that this
is the latest round of bureaucracy to be conjured up out of Brussels with zero
regard for common sense: that crop-chemicals can no longer be left on open
display. I can only assume that this is an attempt to hinder Darwin’s theory
that stupid people be left to their own self destruction, by drinking the
stuff? But how, I have to ask, will this do anything other than instigate a
price increase? Surely if folks want to have a weed-killer aperitif or a binge
drinking weekend of insecticide, locking it behind glass at its point of sale
will not deter them, will it? But then it got me round to wondering if this
madness had yet permeated into UK, the country who has a track-record of
adhering more strictly to the EU rules more than any other? Because, since
Brexit, it no longer has a Lord and Master to administer such ridiculous laws on
its inhabitants. Does this mean that, over time, the death-rate by stupidity
will rise in Britain? Will Mister thicko from Wickham soon be allowed to
accidentally cut his own head-off with a Stanley knife because the blade didn’t
have a warning sticker? Or, heaven forbid, alcohol and cigarettes no longer
have lurid photos of half-dead people on the front, and bacon rolls carrying
the ‘lardy-bloater’ logo, leaving me in peace? If so, you Brexiteers, I salute
you – even if your moronic vote does mean my euro is now worth little more than
a chocolate button.
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