tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12685930273340327972024-03-28T02:46:21.888-07:00Rantings from a French farmhouseBy Andy Frazierandyfrazierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13700928610118865536noreply@blogger.comBlogger254125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1268593027334032797.post-52498771486302272342024-03-26T01:47:00.000-07:002024-03-26T01:49:24.067-07:00Windmills and horseradish <p style="text-align: justify;"> Mud, windmills, marshes, pubs to die for, Adnams beer. Yes,
we have now left Scotland after our 4 month stint and exchanged it for a couple
of days on the north Norfolk coast, visiting friends. Although only a few days
on the road so far, we have had a night near Edinburgh and then one in Settle
in North Yorkshire, both highly enjoyable, despite the fact it has barely
stopped raining. This morning a very long walk with not just Haggis, but Rufus
and Seth, our friend’s two border terrorists has left them all worn out and me
with stiffness in places I didn’t know I had. Tonight we dine. The very reason
we are in this neck of the woods was to visit Big Wee Eck, a Ryeland ram we sold
a couple of years ago who resides nearby, but unfortunately his new owner has
gone on holiday, which means we will have to come back another day and an
excuse for yet more Adnams beer. Meanwhile our own few Ryeland ewes are due to
drop any minute, back up there in Scotland under the watchful eye of Robert,
our good friend and professional shepherd. By this time next week we will be
back in our house in France, after more stopovers to see Louis, my grandson,
and a few other friends en route.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">On our international return home we usually stop in and buy
a few bits and pieces, generally things that we can’t get in France and this
time it included a trip to the Pro-cook shop in Gretna, as I wanted some more kitchen
knives. Except I am no longer allowed to hold a knife to check how it feels –
those of you that like to cook will know how important this is – because I
might endanger someone. Seriously, all the sharp knives were enclosed behind
Perspex. The scowling lady did pick one out for me which I could view from a
few paces away, but not touch. Is this the internet nation we have become,
where we buy things online without touch? Or is it yet more health and safety
bullsh*t to save us from ourselves. I politely told the lady where she could
put her knife but, seemingly, this was me now threatening her with violence.
Thankfully I scarpered before the rozzers arrived with the handcuffs. Having
spent thousands with that company over the last decade, I am now boycotting
them and hence the name and shame! Where will all this nonsense end. Je
despair.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I have to say I am not a fan of these outlet village places.
The one in Gretna has dozens of high end ‘label’ stores mainly selling clothes
at reduced high street prices and whenever we go there it is always totally mobbed.
What is it with folks and fashion? A shirt is a shirt, surely? Because it has a
Ralph Loren or Hugo Boss motif on it doesn’t make it any better. In fact I am
pretty sure all these clothes are made in the same sweat shops in Thailand by
people who earn sixpence an hour. And - this being my own opinion - many of the
oddly shaped folks shuffling around the shops in their ill-fitting jogging
bottoms at this place, don’t earn a lot more themselves. But, oh yes, stick
another 500 quid on the credit card and buy a t-shirt with a polo-player logo inked
onto it and, hey presto, they are in the millionaire set. Is it any wonder the
economy is in such a mess?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Moving on, our next shop was the highly recommended Aldi to
get some of their delightful beef. Admittedly the shop is full of similar
people to above, buying cheap chocolate chips for their overweight children
but, not a lot of people realise this, the steaks from this supermarket are
second to none, sensitively sourced and a fraction of the price of our local village
butcher. 21 days aged Scottish Angus ribeye for under a fiver each, I’ll take a
dozen, please. They are also a hundred times better that the chewy horrid stuff
on offer in France. Except here we also have a problem as, since Brexit, under
EEC law we are no longer allowed to take meat into France in case it
contaminates their own. This is despite the fact that UK has the highest
hygiene status in the world when it comes to food production. Well if Mister
Customs man pulls us over to confiscate it at the border, we will just hold a
great big BBQ and cook the stuff on the spot. Horseradish anyone?</p>andyfrazierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13700928610118865536noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1268593027334032797.post-78176658119916431182024-02-15T06:54:00.000-08:002024-02-15T06:54:16.244-08:00Tartan troos<p style="text-align: justify;"> Spring is
surely in the air, this time of year, even if it is not yet in my step. This
year will be the first spring I have not been lambing for many years. Well,
that isn’t strictly true as our seven Ryeland ewes will hopefully be going
through it but, as yet, we don’t get involved with those as they live at a
friend’s farm and hence get lumped in with another 500 or so ewes, all doing
the same thing. So, as we don’t have to rush back to France to manage the wooly
ones there, we have decided to take a little extra time here in Fife, enjoying
the seafront house while it is empty of holiday makers. To be honest, if we
weren’t here, it would probably be booked out full by now, as a lot of folks
like to come out of season to maybe catch some golf or a shorter queue at the
chip shop.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Anyway, I
too am enjoying a bit more golf, trying out a few more of the local ‘links’ courses
as well as the one in Crail that I am a member of. Generally, as a reciprocal
deal with my club, I get good rates on most of them, including Lundin Links,
Blairgowrie and even some overseas ones. I still mostly don’t win anything and
I don’t think my golf has improved in 30 years, but I get out and enjoy the blustery
wind and rain. My wife, however, is rapidly improving since I bought her a
course of lessons for Christmas and she is challenging me more and more, which
can’t be a bad thing. Even little Haggis has taken up the game, as we sometimes
take her round, tied to the trolley. Problem is, we have always encouraged her
to chase balls so now she heads off after every shot, taking the trolley with
her which usually crashes to the ground spilling clubs all around and scaring
her half to death. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Another
thing which confuses her is the placement of the beach. I mentioned a few
months ago that storm Babbet had rearranged the rocks on our beach to be
elsewhere, leaving us with lovely golden sand outside our window. Well since
then we have had a couple more storms with stupid names which have brought some
more rocks back to the door. Honestly, it’s like a scene-change in a sci-fi
movie, where nothing is as it should be. Poor Haggis heads to the sandy part
for a wee, only to find she is 3 feet into water and seaweed. For a dog with a
small brain, this must be hard to compute!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">We also
seem to get more invites to Scottish dinners these days. A few weeks ago we
were at the splendid Balathie House Hotel near Perth for a Burns Supper and all
the haggis that entails. Then this weekend we are at the Dunblane Hydro for a
charity do in aid of the Royal Highland Education Trust which will no doubt
involve us being encouraged to put our hand in our pockets. Only this one is
black tie, which in Scottish is a code word for ‘wear a kilt’. Now that is
something I have only done once before, some 20-plus years ago at a wedding in
Jamaica, believe it or not. But being an Englishman, etiquette suggests that I
shouldn’t wear the tartan skirt for fear of being an imposter, which leaves me
in a dilemma. Eventually I have settled for dark suit, with a Stewart tartan
bow-tie and waistcoat, and hope I don’t get the p*ss taken out of me too much!
The following week, we are at the England vs Scotland rugby match in
Murrayfield and I know damn well what I will be wearing to that! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The
remainder of my winter time is taken up with writing books and recording my
weekly Toplines and Tales podcast. Just recently I have started a quiz too,
specializing in cattle and sheep. It may even be the first of its kind although
I am not yet sure how successful it will prove to be. I don’t suppose it will
be of interest to anyone reading this unless, of course, you happen to know
which animal won the Burke trophy at the Royal Show in 1980!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Being a
writer, I am aware that I should read more books. Well thankfully I have found
a supplier of antiques who keeps furnishing me with some ancient printed works.
To start with it was in the name of research for the history book we are still
writing but I am finding myself drawn into some of these old narratives,
particularly when they involve old cattle drives and sheep husbandry. Is this a
sign of getting old? Asking for a friend. <o:p></o:p></span></p>andyfrazierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13700928610118865536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1268593027334032797.post-10988375577362435242024-01-22T05:05:00.000-08:002024-01-22T05:33:17.688-08:00Bring on the pampas<p style="text-align: justify;"><br /> Did you
miss me? I knew one day life would go by so fast that I missed a deadline, so
my apologies my post was absent last month.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS7T0Hfnk1zj3cjIK-PADjZlQ6RhudScw24_F-7JL71Kltt_-NEck6yT1rNTwGph_7mJ8drwZqAFhw3Zs7BvI935lnDNm_ouArIG7UaaDK-voZ7dx7dEb01y3j0vhCXdnmhGjBJWLNm_vntbcPSQwu7fG9xw6mHnmgqJrWhddcNIozguC6K99oib8PWtab/s4000/20240108_115627.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: justify;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="262" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS7T0Hfnk1zj3cjIK-PADjZlQ6RhudScw24_F-7JL71Kltt_-NEck6yT1rNTwGph_7mJ8drwZqAFhw3Zs7BvI935lnDNm_ouArIG7UaaDK-voZ7dx7dEb01y3j0vhCXdnmhGjBJWLNm_vntbcPSQwu7fG9xw6mHnmgqJrWhddcNIozguC6K99oib8PWtab/w196-h262/20240108_115627.jpg" width="196" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">You see, we
have been on our holidays. Now some might say our life is a complete holiday
but I would dispute that as holidays should be restful and my life is not. Nor
was our trip to Argentina, as it happens. It was magnificent, entertaining,
enthralling, sometimes breathtaking – but never restful! That’s what happens
when you tour with 20 other folks in a group, a few of whom require constant
entertainment, and are guided by local folks who love their country so much
they want to tell you about every square inch of it, in intimate detail. No, I
am not complaining, it is what we signed up for, and our group was made up of
some wonderful folks, many of them cattle breeders from Scotland and even one eccentric
pair who were wine growers from Kent. It made for an eclectic team where there
was rarely a dull moment and very few that didn’t include a laugh, drink in
hand. From the get go, after a tour of the beautiful and vibrant city of Buenos
Aires, we were soon out on farms looking at cows. The first one didn’t
disappoint, apart from being eaten by mozzies, which had 3000 pure bred Angus
cattle, all herded through the pampas by gauchos on horseback like something
out of the wild west. We thought this was just a show put on for us, until we
arrived at the Estanza to be met by more locals, and a flaming asado. For asado, read a big F-off fire with dead cows and sheep crucified next to it,
sizzling away for hours until tender. And we were hungry. In fact, I think that
is the last time I actually felt hungry on the whole trip as this process was
repeated day after day. Not only that but when we got back to the hotel, our
local guide had suggested we ate the local delicacies nearby, which also
consisted of more beef, preceded with empanadas (think Cornish pasty, only with
more meat). Also think Gaviscon. Never mind pampas, I think one or two of
us required Pampers!</div><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Now the
other reason we went to Argentina was to taste wine, which also started pretty
much as soon as we arrived, (before, for some of us) and the taste was good.
This vast country has many things, but rural roads are not one of them as our
bus journeyed us for hours down dirt tracks to find each venue, with yet more
cows. We did drop into an agricultural contractor who had complicated machines
the size of tower-blocks that munched up square miles of maize per day, for a
glimpse of how the arable farms worked, but it was mainly beef cattle we were
here to see. In fact that is the one thing I will take away from the country,
just how vast it really is – eg, you could fit Europe into Argentina and still
have change. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Then, for
some the highlight, a flight to Mendoza in the west and literally a change of
scenery from the huge vast pampas plains to the backdrop of the Andes
mountains. Some of the peaks still had snow on top, despite this being summer
although, as the climate had no winter, it was technically summer all year
round. The issue with all-round sunshine is that it tends to leave no rain, and
so this area was a desert, or at least it had been until 25 years ago. We were
in the Uco valley where some smart guys with brains and vision had recently realized
that when the snow melted on the mountains, they could possibly harness the
water and use it to grow stuff. And the stuff they grew were grapes. Millions
of them. I never quite found out the size of the whole valley but the vineyard
we stayed on, called Salentein, grew 2,500 acres of them to start with,
producing 20 million bottles of wine per year. Yes, twenty million. And they
were one of many producers. Now in France, where I partially live, our local biggest
vineyards might knock out 100-200,000 bottles in a good year. By the way, in
France, you are not allowed to irrigate vines, it’s the law.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most people would consider when you mass-produce
anything on that scale, the quality would have to suffer, right? Not so, here.
We tasted premium wines after premium wines, each magnificent. Anyone with a
half interest in the vino will tell you Argentina is famous for its Malbec
grape. Correct. That is the product they export world-wide and it is damn fine.
But what they also have is a huge array of other grape varieties, and a massive
amount of knowledge as to what to plant, where. And in this and their recent
adaptation of new technologies, for example how to fend off hailstorms at 4000
feet above sea-level, and this new-world really does have a penchant for top
quality. And this also showed in the showpiece wineries we stopped at, all
opulently and outrageously designed but a woman who had clearly been on the
acid pills. Admittedly, the best wine doesn’t leave the country, not without a
hefty price tag anyway, but boy are their whites out of this world. And this,
from an author who chooses to live in France and swears by his white burgundy. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">We are back
in Scotland now, drying out inside, although not outside, and readjusting to a
25 degree drop in temperature. This has left me with the flu, for the second
time this winter – hence my not penning this column last month – and I am
pretty fed up with it. The problem is quite simply, I believe, that for the
last 3 winters we have been so jabbed up with vaccine, letting our immunity
guard drop below the knee, until the cowardly little viruses have sneaked their
way back in. Give me the needle, any time. Hasta la vista, mis amigos.<o:p></o:p></span></p>andyfrazierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13700928610118865536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1268593027334032797.post-68353141763992803142023-12-12T07:59:00.000-08:002023-12-12T07:59:06.849-08:00Must get taller<p style="text-align: justify;"> Its that
time of year again, when the goose is getting fat. Oh no, that’s just me
getting fat, according to my medical check-up this morning! “I’m not obese,” I
proclaimed to the young nurse, “it’s just for my weight I should be 7 foot two
tall!”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I mentioned last month that we were heading to
Scotland, where I now sit, looking out to the waves in the Firth of Forth.
There is an added bonus that I can also see the beach today, as the weather
clears for an hour or two. Moreover, we now actually have a beach, right
outside our window, thanks to Storm Beret, or whatever the last one was called.
For the last few years we have had a lot of heavy rocks between us and the
water and the beach was 200 yards to the East. Well not any more. Somehow that
vast force of nature has shifted said stones, possibly 5,000 tons of them and
deposited them - yes, you guessed it – on the old beach. Instead, it has left
us with a vast stretch of soft sand for Haggis and I to run on without twisting
an ankle. They say its an ill wind that blows nobody any good, so better say thanks
to the big man upstairs for this natural rearrangement. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">One of our
reasons for arriving here in mid-November is that I was judging a cattle show
in Stirling last weekend, which went off without a hitch. I appointed a few
very happy exhibitors with their championship shields, whilst avoiding the
dagger-looks from those left without the prize. One of the winners was a rather
fine specimen of a young Highland bull, complete with shaggy coat and jagged
horns, which may have raised an eyebrow or two. It was great to see such a fabulous
beast - that breed don’t often get their turn in the multi-breed spotlight.
When furnished with such an honour of judging such prestige event – the
National Calf show for Scotland – one is at least expected to dress the part.
And so it was that I went through my entire collection of (3) best suits before
we left home, only to find that they had shrunk in the wardrobe, as clothes
tend to do? Thankfully my sons live in quite an affluent part of middle
England, where folks tend to discard their old rags to the charity stores. To
be fair, it wasn’t quite a charity shop, but a purveyor of ‘pre-loved’ garments
where I spotted a rather smart Harris Tweed 3-piece, complete with crimson
lining and moleskin collar. And, for once in my whole life, it had been made to
fit someone of my proportions! It still cost me an arm and a leg, but at least
said arm and leg fit me like a glove. According to the compere at the cattle
event, I was the best dressed judge on the day, were it that there was an award
for such. Not sure I have ever been that before. Somewhere online there is a TV
playback of the whole event, should I wish to admire myself. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I have also
been notified by one or two friends that I was seen on National TV this week,
although not quite so well dressed, in my rain mac. I’m not sure how many of
you have watched the excellent BBC series called ‘This Farming Life’ but in its
last episode I can be seen and heard interviewing one of its protagonists at
the Royal Highland Show in July. The royalty cheque hasn’t arrived yet, though.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Whilst in
Stirling, I took the opportunity to check out our growing pedigree Ryeland sheep
flock, which are based at Dunblane. This year we have a total of seven ewes
running with the ram and they did look rather impressive, if not also a little
overweight. We will have to wait until March to see what they produce this time
around, but hopefully a few female lambs at last, so my cunning breeding plans
can progress. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The other
thing that the recent storm did was take down our internet connection here at
Sharps Close, which is really rather crucial to my day-job as a writer with
deadlines. Obviously ‘all our engineers are busy’ was the reply we got when
reporting it to whatever quango supplies the service to us these days. We
could, they added, apply for a fibre-optic line, should we so wish,
installation in four-weeks time? So, that’s us pretty much out of action until
Christmas unless I go out onto the ‘new’ beach and stand on one leg with my
mobile phone in hand, trying to connect to a signal from 8 miles across the bay
in East Lothian. I will admit doing this, trousers rolled up to my knees, has
solicited a few giggles from behind the twitching net curtains of one or two of
our more hostile neighbours. Ed, I will mail this article to you by pigeon
post, and hopefully you get it in time before ‘speckled Jim’ gets shot down by
the Rock Cross 12-bore brigade!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>andyfrazierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13700928610118865536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1268593027334032797.post-10871170285786259452023-12-12T07:58:00.000-08:002023-12-12T08:00:26.492-08:00Green-shield bugs<p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">What’s that
noise I hear outside? Oh, yes, the unfamiliar sound of rain, at last, slow warm
steady rain. Indeed, once again we have seen a drought that lasted nearly into
November, which seems to have been a recursive issue these last few years here
in France.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">We are now
back home from our extensive rugby travels and my head is down into work to get
my latest writing project done by the end of the year. It was a trip to savour
and I am now officially Argentinian, adopting that nation as we are heading to
visit there in January to see a few cows, and possibly some wine. This time of
year we welcome the beasties into the house, normally in the form of rodents
who come inside for the winter, seemingly to live alongside our two cats who
have about as much hunting instinct as Chris Packam! However, this year they
are not the only ones seeking refuge inside as we have been subjected to a
plague of stinky insects called Green Shield Bugs, known as ‘punaise’ in French.
These freakish little creatures, that look not unlike a beetle, make a hell of
a noise when they fly, and seem to hide in every crevice, from curtains to
wardrobes to the car boot. It appears there is nowhere they won’t infiltrate
and woe-betide if you so much as touch one, let alone step on it, as they give
off a foul spray of scent that would turn your stomach. Hopefully now the
winter is approaching they will die off and give us some peace. Apparently,
they are partial to crops and vegetation although there is very little of that
around just now. I just thought: if you heavily step on one, is that called a
‘Green-shield stamp?’ Ha, you have to be a certain age to understand that one! <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Next month
we head north, with a stopover to see my new grandson - yes I am now grandfather
to little Louis, such a cute baby boy; congratulations to my son Sam and his
wife Izzy. I did pop over and see him a month ago, but flights seem to be so disorganized
these days, it’s just easier to drive. For example, Wendy went to Scotland for
a funeral yesterday and got stuck in Dublin as the plane was delayed by an
hour, then on her way home, missed the flight as it left 15 minutes early. I
guess she will get home sometime, somehow. In early November I am on duty judging
the Scottish National Calf show in Stirling, appointed to select the overall
champions from all breeds, which is quite an honour. After that it’s a few more
months writing, with two books due out next year. Although we are not showing
the sheep in 2024, I guess there will be some book-signing tours to follow and
marketing to do which will keep me busy.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Of course,
between now and then we have to endure another bonfire night and all the
disruption that causes. Well, this year I note that a certain supermarket is
selling no-noise fireworks. What a great idea, says I, my dog hates fireworks -
until I do a little more investigation and find that there is no such thing. In
order to set off a firecracker of any sort you need a little explosion and it
is pretty difficult to do that without making a noise of some sort. So, what
they are (illegally) advertising is low (not no)-noise fireworks. How do
companies get away with hoodwinking the public with such myth? That’s like
selling sunglasses with clear lenses or, heaven-forbid, silent rice-crispies!</span></p><p></p>andyfrazierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13700928610118865536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1268593027334032797.post-89552013020132714082023-10-23T04:58:00.002-07:002023-10-23T04:59:08.396-07:00Lazy beasties<p style="text-align: justify;"> What’s that
noise I hear outside? Oh, yes, the unfamiliar sound of rain, at last, slow warm
steady rain. Indeed, once again we have seen a drought that lasted nearly into
November, which seems to have been a recursive issue these last few years here
in France.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">We are now
back home from our extensive rugby travels and my head is down into work to get
my latest writing project done by the end of the year. It was a trip to savour
and I am now officially Argentinian, adopting that nation as we are heading to
visit there in January to see a few cows, and possibly some wine. This time of
year we welcome the beasties into the house, normally in the form of rodents
who come inside for the winter, seemingly to live alongside our two cats who
have about as much hunting instinct as Chris Packam! However, this year they
are not the only ones seeking refuge inside as we have been subjected to a
plague of stinky insects called Green Shield Bugs, known as ‘punaise’ in French.
These freakish little creatures, that look not unlike a beetle, make a hell of
a noise when they fly, and seem to hide in every crevice, from curtains to
wardrobes to the car boot. It appears there is nowhere they won’t infiltrate
and woe-betide if you so much as touch one, let alone step on it, as they give
off a foul spray of scent that would turn your stomach. Hopefully now the
winter is approaching they will die off and give us some peace. Apparently,
they are partial to crops and vegetation although there is very little of that
around just now. I just thought: if you heavily step on one, is that called a
‘Green-shield stamp?’ Ha, you have to be a certain age to understand that one! <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Next month
we head north, with a stopover to see my new grandson - yes I am now grandfather
to little Louis, such a cute baby boy; congratulations to my son Sam and his
wife Izzy. I did pop over and see him a month ago, but flights seem to be so disorganized
these days, it’s just easier to drive. For example, Wendy went to Scotland for
a funeral yesterday and got stuck in Dublin as the plane was delayed by an
hour, then on her way home, missed the flight as it left 15 minutes early. I
guess she will get home sometime, somehow. In early November I am on duty judging
the Scottish National Calf show in Stirling, appointed to select the overall
champions from all breeds, which is quite an honour. After that it’s a few more
months writing, with two books due out next year. Although we are not showing
the sheep in 2024, I guess there will be some book-signing tours to follow and
marketing to do which will keep me busy.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Of course,
between now and then we have to endure another bonfire night and all the
disruption that causes. Well, this year I note that a certain supermarket is
selling no-noise fireworks. What a great idea, says I, my dog hates fireworks -
until I do a little more investigation and find that there is no such thing. In
order to set off a firecracker of any sort you need a little explosion and it
is pretty difficult to do that without making a noise of some sort. So, what
they are (illegally) advertising is low (not no)-noise fireworks. How do
companies get away with hoodwinking the public with such myth? That’s like
selling sunglasses with clear lenses or, heaven-forbid, silent rice-crispies! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>andyfrazierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13700928610118865536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1268593027334032797.post-50097961149445814022023-10-23T04:57:00.003-07:002023-10-23T04:58:44.228-07:00Nice to be Nice<p style="text-align: justify;"> They say life is a journey, not a destination, and wow what
a journey we are on right now. And.. I have just fallen in love. Just 2 weeks in to our Rugby World Cup tour and
we already have enough memories to fill a large scrap book. After a false start
we headed down to the Mediterranean coast, taking a stopover at Cap de Adge
which we have since found out is Europe’s largest naturist area. Although I am happy enough to get my kit off
in the confines of our own swimming pool, I don’t really find wandering around
in public in a dangling fashion as an attraction so we avoided that place and
found a nice spot further up the beach to get the barbie on. Next day we headed
for Marseille, the crime capital of France, only to drive around for a few
hours trying to anchor up but to no avail as the security guards branded us as
football fans and therefore unsavoury. Anyone in the know will confirm that the
behavioural difference between the fans of those two sports is a gulf so wide
you could drive a super-tanker through, but it appears that previous English
round ball fans had already muddied the waters before us. Eventually we settled
for a small seaside town half an hour away, surrounded by like-minded rugby
fans, all sporting our respective nation’s flags, and took in a local lunch by
the harbour. Journeys into the city were quite effortless by train with the
fancy-dress outfits and camaraderie adding to the excitement of England’s first
game. Down in Marseilles old town, we found a Scottish bar and promptly bumped
into a few of my mates from the Northern livestock scene, many of whom were
avid listeners to my Toplines and Tales podcast, before we made our way to the
ground to witness a pretty mediocre match, narrowly sneaking a win in boring
old style. The fun of seeing thousands of folks in Argentina shirts, and kilts,
most of whom had never been south of Edinburgh, let alone the equator, is what
makes our sport so special. A rather eccentric taxi driver fixed us up with a
ride back to base at 1.30am for hefty sum as all trains had long stopped or
were on strike. Similar situation the next day, this time to see Scotland sadly
outclassed by South Africa who are making a habit of playing their best games
every four years, as many will remember from the drubbings England have taken
from them in previous events. For some reason we were adopted by a jackdaw at
our camper-park, whom we named Gregory as he continually pecked at my ear. One
night, after slurping half a tin of Stella and most of a glass of wine, he was
too drunk to fly and spent the night on one of our foldy-chairs, quietly
snoring. We offered him breakfast but the hangover was too great and he toddled
off to annoy some Aussies.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMbGfinPlMW3-rh1aaklM953lBYd7dEfHdP_zz6xDQ9vTqsG1Z97sY3rukvejHFd9fnq5WGKzbBLNa2v7MDtbkCP-PY2kka9kXn2zGM6AMr0xntMRQgGmNWFgjzkXri6OAPZC4mdx_fMQMlcy8OHObHDoRmyE8iGMQCNZdGeBrQiUinHI1RzdTcPnDjF3S/s4000/20230914_124620.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMbGfinPlMW3-rh1aaklM953lBYd7dEfHdP_zz6xDQ9vTqsG1Z97sY3rukvejHFd9fnq5WGKzbBLNa2v7MDtbkCP-PY2kka9kXn2zGM6AMr0xntMRQgGmNWFgjzkXri6OAPZC4mdx_fMQMlcy8OHObHDoRmyE8iGMQCNZdGeBrQiUinHI1RzdTcPnDjF3S/s320/20230914_124620.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />From there we took a detour into St Tropez by boat to see
how the other half lived and enjoyed a beer at 13 quid a pint, declining to
even look at the menus, let alone order anything more than bag of crisps.
Thankfully our camper is tooled up when it comes to cooking so our friends
joined us for a feast of duck supper and chips, with bottles of wine we had
brought from Bordeaux which cost less than a sip of the local restaurant prices.
A stay up in the hills above Nice proved fruitful when we met a nice chap who
gave me a phone number for the head of parking at Nice harbour. With a quick
bit of negotiation in my best French I somehow secured us 2 spaces right in
amongst some of the world’s most expensive super-yachts, for four nights! Not
only were we parked next to the water’s edge but also 200 yards from the tram-stop
that took us all over town with ease. I mentioned I have fallen in love, and
that is with the town of Nice itself, such a wonderful place it is. Clean,
safe, friendly, beautiful, all the things that Marseille wasn’t. A chorus for
my next song: “Nice, so good they named it nice!” As well as revelling in the colourful
bars and culture, our pitch in town resulted in us making many friends, mainly
with folks passing by and us inviting them in for a beef and a chat; sound folk
of all nationalities. As both Wales and England were playing that weekend,
there was much friendly ribbing as each nation supported each other’s opposing
team. I am now officially both Fijian and Portuguese as a result! <o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Today we have run for the hills, settling into to a quiet
spot near a lake where the smothering heat of the last few weeks has been
replaced by some rather welcome rain. Tomorrow we reach or the sky, as we put
the camper through its paces heading for an Alpine ski resort at over 2000
metres up, just south of Grenoble. Unfortunately watching four international
rugby matches in eight days, and<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the
travel that involves, has taken its toll on my knee which is letting me down
more frequently these days, so we won’t be trekking the hard yards up
there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By the weekend we will be back in
my new favourite town again, for more of the same, before heading up to Paris
following our thirst for the oval ball.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Shortly both mine and Wendy’s nations will be despatched from the competition,
nothing surer, and it will be time to don my beret once more and back the team
of our adopted country. Allez le Bleu.<o:p></o:p></p>andyfrazierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13700928610118865536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1268593027334032797.post-27782065996585499242023-10-23T04:53:00.001-07:002023-10-23T04:53:14.721-07:00Harvey, Hoggy and Haggis<p style="text-align: justify;"> Hot, Hot. Hot, that’s all I am saying about the weather at
present.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Yes we are back in France and thankful for a handy swimming
pool, as well as a bit of space after 7 weeks cooped up in the camper. The
sheep show tour continued on into Wales with yet more rosettes and shenanigans,
all in all a very enjoyable but tiring time. The house was in reasonable shape
when we returned to Chauffour, as are the cats, all well looked after by our
house sitters. Unfortunately the thistles were 5 feet high as they slowly take
over our fields but after a prolonged wet spring at least we do have 15 large
bales of rather spiky hay to sell, and now we can once again see the sheep
through the grass. However, they too have a dilemma as we no longer have a vet,
should we require one, since ours has stopped treating large animals for
reasons better known to himself. We then had a visit from a rather official
looking man saying it is obligatory that we are registered with a vet, by law,
or else suffer a hefty fine. Since then the hunt has been on but none of the
ones within a 40 mile radius want the job, so we are in a sort of catch-22. The
fact that we can prove that we haven’t used the service of our vet for the
sheep in the 15 years we have been here, save for buying a bit of worming
drench, cuts no ice with Monsieur Government man and his bureaucratic team.
What a load of nonsense.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">This week we have family staying which has involved yet more
late nights, as well as long stints with the stove and the corkscrew. My
niece’s fiancé is quite handy on the guitar so one evening we decided we should
write a song about our pets, as you do after a few sherbets. Me, being the
designated wordsmith, rapidly penned a few lyrics while Kris worked on the
chords and next thing you know, something quite catchy appeared about Haggis,
Harvey and Hoggy, (it all begins with H). We even previewed it to a selected
audience at the dinner table a few nights later to rather rapturous applause!
Needless to say, we are now working on an album in my new found venture, as if
I don’t have enough to do already. So who knows, watch this space...but perhaps
not to closely! Meanwhile the large cattle history project that I have been
working on is starting to reach a conclusion, still aiming to get his 400 page
tome out in time for Christmas, so plenty of overtime to get in the next few
months.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">And there in hangs yet another problem, that of the Rugby
World cup, just around the corner, both metaphorically and geographically.
Early September will see us once again load up the camper as we head for the
French Riviera to follow the oval ball. I will admit I hold out as much hope of
England winning the competition as I do of ‘Haggis, Harvey and Hoggy’ making it
into the charts, based on their recent atrocious performances. Thankfully I
have dual allegiance, now being the owner of a Scotland AND France shirt and
flag, qualifying through marriage and residency respectively! I might even go
so far as to dig up a long lost Irish ancestor too, well not literally,
obviously. My mother’s maiden name was McCormack so there must be a link there
somewhere, to be sure. I think it’s what you would call a spread-bet supporting
this time round.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Allez les Bleu, Blanc, Bleu and Vert</i>; has a kind of ring to it,
maybe we can include it on our new album. By the way, after an interesting
incident the other evening, our band is now named Don't Lick The Toad!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">See you all in Paris for an aperitif.<o:p></o:p></p>andyfrazierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13700928610118865536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1268593027334032797.post-9961032360573212282023-10-23T04:52:00.003-07:002023-10-23T04:54:18.267-07:00Harris and Lewis<p style="text-align: justify;"> Still in Scotland, rushing around, in Edinburgh today. I
think it is around 5 weeks since we left home, but I stopped counting some time
ago. The weather is quite nice as we head for the beach in East Lothian today,
the place where we used to live and indeed where we got married. Its Mrs F’s birthday
this week so I have bought her some DIY. No, not power-tools but half an acre
of brightly coloured Harris Tweed which she will make into some kind of shawl,
via a pattern given to us by ‘Granny Annie,’ a little old lady in a shed in the
middle of nowhere on the Isle of Harris. To be fair, just about everywhere was
in the middle of nowhere on Harris, such a wonderfully quaint place mainly
populated by sheep or the odd mad person. Lewis was a little more densely
populated but still wonderful, especially the beaches to the west of Stornaway
where the mobile phone had yet to be invented and the only means of
communication, other than shouting above the wind, was the odd red phone box! I
sat and read a novel for a few blissful days, a murder mystery based on the
Island. Whoever wrote it certainly had met some of the colourfully eccentric
locals, that’s for sure. From there we crossed by ferry to Ullapool and then up
around the top corner of Scotland, now known as the North Coast 500. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEQYoKu-7jy4GkGF34HoIOeBHTQqsHXsCxN8qhGDH4o7IUOLb_njsYb2z_HRGr181bM2jrZaSICvd1WG4l7bLttMz23b5ixZ1tsc8MXrLa9n81U06odjf-CGNe6RmERo1sydTIX77D3RTIWRIKbi8Y4Zux-tNZosaYFq0aufjUbEID0Zry5dsIj5R-RbOk/s4000/20230628_161617.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEQYoKu-7jy4GkGF34HoIOeBHTQqsHXsCxN8qhGDH4o7IUOLb_njsYb2z_HRGr181bM2jrZaSICvd1WG4l7bLttMz23b5ixZ1tsc8MXrLa9n81U06odjf-CGNe6RmERo1sydTIX77D3RTIWRIKbi8Y4Zux-tNZosaYFq0aufjUbEID0Zry5dsIj5R-RbOk/s320/20230628_161617.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />Last time
I was up there is was just the A9, peaceful and forgotten, but now it is
polluted by foreigners in campervans cluttering up the roads with no idea how
to operate reverse gear. To be fair, it wasn’t as bad as I thought it might be,
and we had nice stop-overs in Tongue and Dunnet Head and even took a burl
around Castle of Mey, once home to my favourite Royal, The QM herself. The
gardens were fabulous and I took a wander around their Angus cow herd, as well
as their prize winning flock of Cheviot sheep, nodding my head in a
knowledgeable fashion with my judges cap on.<p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">And, of course, sheep it is that are the focus of this tour.
A few weeks ago we visited the Royal Highland show, only taking one sheep,
Crackerjack, who came a commendable fourth in his class. I know this didn’t
repeat the glory we had last year but it was good to show face. During the week
I was not only assigned to my TV commentary duties but this time also had to
compere something called the ‘young handlers’ competition which involved kids
as young as 8 bringing out their animals and parading them in front of a judge
who gave them points for tidiness, cleanliness and their ability to control the
beast as well as hold a reasonably eloquent conversation. One wee girl brought
out a Clydesdale horse which was at least 9 feet tall and scary as hell but she
definitely had the measure of it, although it didn’t like me coming anywhere
near it. Another lass had a Shetland pony which was nothing short of a savage.
Poor wee thing was in floods of tears as I interviewed her, asking perhaps, “does
it bite?” At that it took a chunk out of my microphone, kicking out at the judge
at the same time. Bloody thing had a screw loose and I kept well away from the
both of them after that, instead staying up the other end of the show field
with the cattle, sheep and goats. One 12 year old lad, Finlay Barclay, was not
only winning the sheep section and has his own YouTube channel, but is starring
in a programme called This Farming Life due out in September, so you may even
see me on BBC TV. In the end it was a pretty girl in pigtails that one the
competition, parading her goat, Nellie, who liked Smarties, apparently. The
show was tiring and afterwards my Fitbit assured me that I had walked 92 kms
(over 50 miles) during the duration, in boots a little too tight for me. Couple
that with just over 3,000 miles on the camper so far, I surely am due today’s
rest on the beach.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">With more sheep travel, we went to the Great Yorkshire show
in Harrogate last week, another full seven days of show-time, and picked up 2
thirds and a fourth, so things are looking up. Next week, it’s down to Wales
for the finale. Chances of winning anything at the world’s biggest sheep show? Dim
byd o gwbl! But we can but try.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Until next time, hwyl fawr, or, as they say in English, see
you next Tuesday!<o:p></o:p></p>andyfrazierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13700928610118865536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1268593027334032797.post-41943634603543217952023-10-23T04:44:00.004-07:002023-10-23T04:48:09.070-07:00A sheep on holiday<p style="text-align: justify;"> ‘One sheep Willie’, that’s me this week, as we just arrived
at the Royal Highland show to find one of our two entries is poorly and unable
to be exhibited. I have to admit that it does seem like a lot of effort, to
trawl round three major shows with just one beast, but I do have to be at the
Highland as I am once again due in the commentary box for a couple of days TV
work. This year I have been moved mainly to the cattle section since the last
guy got sacked for saying inappropriate things to a lady whilst live on air, so
I will need to brush up on recent bovine knowledge as well as my pees and
queues! I also have a few hours to chat about the Beltex sheep, my father’s
breed. Now the biggest section in the livestock lines, I will be quite proud to
drop into commentary that my old man was the first person to bring this breed
into UK from Belgium, 25 years ago, and was at the top of the tree for many
years. I actually now use his old show box (known as a Kist in Scotland) which
still bears the name of HS Frazier and Son on the front.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDWXt1T0Q2TCVeqMP-wopGO66rdLtEIO0xZrsZ8tnfGxkTb9DDlGACXQSx16SZPRw01TAdGisIB5EHuaEOgA3ERJv8S6iAmeJADwySyAKmWCQ7fSKh1C4Sg_iYA3ELTHkxJ8dkKENzsxYvWJNOfMEFXe_ObnrQ7SRl8DUCs_ImosvTuLJt1DfMXVNBY7gN/s4000/20230712_085950.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDWXt1T0Q2TCVeqMP-wopGO66rdLtEIO0xZrsZ8tnfGxkTb9DDlGACXQSx16SZPRw01TAdGisIB5EHuaEOgA3ERJv8S6iAmeJADwySyAKmWCQ7fSKh1C4Sg_iYA3ELTHkxJ8dkKENzsxYvWJNOfMEFXe_ObnrQ7SRl8DUCs_ImosvTuLJt1DfMXVNBY7gN/s320/20230712_085950.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />We have had a good trip so far, completing week one of our
six week tour of UK. Our first stop was at a lovely farm in Wiltshire where the
millionaire owners had a very nice herd of Red Devon cows, although why they
needed four Range-Rovers is beyond me. Then a couple of days with my sons in
Bedfordshire, one of whom shamelessly put me to work on arrival, DIYing his
house together in time for a new baby due in October. Yes, this author is to
become a granddad which I am delighted about, as I will have so much to teach
the young one, particularly about sheep!<o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Then a trip to Carlisle when I spent an hour trying to
persuade a well known Ryeland breeder to part with one of his best ewes. He
said he would think about it, but then this morning has declined my best offer.
Oh well. Our little flock seems to be decreasing rather than increasing in size
and quality. Hopefully things will turn around next year. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">A quick visit to another farm, the one where our Scottish flock
is kept, and then we hotfooted it down to Edinburgh where we will be all week.
Unfortunately our allocated parking space is right next to the airport runway,
so it is a tad noisy after 6.30am, as hoards of pasty tourists head off to sunnier
climes for lager and sunburn via Ryanair. Still, it saves me setting the alarm
I suppose.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">This year we have taken Haggis (the wee hag) on the road
with us and she is coping quite well so far. Now 14 months old she still has
the attraction of cuteness, especially to a Fox Terrier from Liverpool called
Jinxy, complete with one ear up, the other down. Well that wasn’t the only
thing that was up as, unknown to us, Haggis was on heat and things happened
that shouldn’t have. Thankfully the vet administered a ‘morning after’
injection, so everything is still in-tact, except her virginity. She really is
a tart though, throwing herself to the mercy of anything canine with testicles.
Not sure what a Fox/Border would look like but, knowing the father, it would
probably be out stealing things after the hours of darkness!<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">By the time this goes to print we hope to be on the western
isles of Scotland, particularly the isle of Harris, where I might perhaps buy
myself a winter tweed suit. Ah, if I only I had four Range-Rovers! <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Slange. <o:p></o:p></p>andyfrazierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13700928610118865536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1268593027334032797.post-37882114989628839402023-10-23T04:43:00.001-07:002023-10-23T04:43:24.379-07:00A sock or a hat?<p style="text-align: justify;"> And the whirlwind continues, not least
through our front door, coupled with hailstones. Although we didn’t bear the main brunt of these, my
friend a few miles away had some the size of cricket balls which smashed up his
3 cars, his pool liner and a good part of the roof of his house. Not a good day
to be outside! And we also now have an
abundance of grass as, since I sold all the sheep, it has rained continuously,
so much in fact that is hard to spot the creatures hiding beneath it. Hopefully
the price of hay is good this year. And the lawnmower holds out.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Last weekend I completed my very first
after-dinner speaking engagement in Carlisle, something which I have been
wanting to do for some time. I think it went well, and there was much laughter,
but maybe not from the suspected hecklers whom I nipped in the bud with a few
cutting remarks from the get-go. Not sure I need to appoint an agent just yet
but it cant have done me any harm, unless I get a visit from the heavies at the
Flat-earth society from whom I did get a few cheap gags at their expense. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">I am writing this from a mile high,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>or whatever elevation Ryanair fly above the
clouds these days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We are heading for a
four day break in Dublin as it is once again time for the European rugby
finals, and some Guinness obviously.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We
are surrounded by burly rugby fans but,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>strangely, the woman sitting behind me is knitting what looks like a
sock. Since when was it permissible to take a pair of razor sharp needles on to
an aircraft, but not a corkscrew? And should I have worn my stab vest?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This weekend is an annual excursion for us as
the finals move around Europe every year, next year being announced at
Arsenal’s football ground in London, where-ever that is. With the world cup in
France this year and British Lions next year in Oz, the old ‘oval’ ball is
never too far from the agenda in our lives at present. The problem with all
this is I am struggling to fit in my day job of being an author with a huge
backlog and looming deadlines. Couple all this with a few months on the road
with the sheep for half the summer and something will have to give. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">It might be a hat. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">Meanwhile,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>in a bid to promote my most recent work I foolishly signed up to TicToc
and immediately wished I hadn't; but now I can't run from it as it bombards my
phone with videos of drunk people dancing or cats falling out of trees.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I swear I have uninstalled the app three
times,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>only to find it reinstalls itself
overnight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So what a breath of fresh air
it must be to live in Montana where it has been banned completely so people can
once again talk to each other using their mouths. If Only they were able to
delete it? Which brings me round to the machine I am writing on,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>something called a Yoga, which is equally as
complicated as all my wife's other gadgets. But sadly,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>unlike most folks that do yoga,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>this thing has a mind of its own and only
works properly if you shout at it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And that,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>so I'm told,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>is unacceptable behavior on a Boeing to get 737. So that's all
folks,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>frustration ends here with
screaming. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US">No, definitely a sock… .<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>andyfrazierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13700928610118865536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1268593027334032797.post-12779881426171693892023-10-23T04:41:00.002-07:002023-10-23T04:41:23.387-07:00Heebie-geebie pigeons <p style="text-align: justify;"> Pigeons
have never really caused us a problem here in France but, evidently, they are
doing their stuff nearby as our neighbouring farmers on both sides and trying
to put the heebie-geebies on them to protect their emerging sunflowers. Each
has his different approach to this, the one to the South reverting to the old
proven method of a gas-powered cannon which starts at daylight and continues
all day. Thankfully, unlike our last 2 dogs, Haggis is undisturbed by this,
although my sleep certainly is. However, another neighbour’s dogs kick up a din
every time they hear it, barking and howling their frenzied little heads off.
The other guy has gone more hi-tec, with some kind of gadget that makes noises
that sound like a cross between R2D2 and those sliding doors on Star Trek. Just
why any bird would take flight at such sound I am not sure but it really is
off-putting when I am at my desk, expecting Captain Kirk to walk in at any
moment!</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Meanwhile
my own robot has taken to periods of indecision as it sometimes cleans and
hoovers the pool while at other times it sits there, possibly pondering the
universe. Science is never a subject I fully understood but it does seem to
respond to some percussion maintenance when I wallop it with a broom. I did try
and dismantle it but the sight of its innards looked gorier that an X-rated
episode of Casualty. Next, I reverted to YouTube, listening to sad men droning
on in their garden shed, explaining about AI and how all robots eventually take
on their own feelings. Well, this one will soon find out about my feelings if
it doesn’t buck its ideas up, as I march it to the nearest rubbish tip. Except
we not allowed to call then rubbish tips anymore, having to use its new fancy
name ‘the recycling centre’? Perhaps Dexter, (short for Dextron Robotic) might
come back as a dishwasher? I suspect a garden ornament is more likely.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I am
cleaning the pool early this year as we are shortly due a visit from my number
two son and his wife who are anticipating some decent weather and may fancy a
dip. To aid the improvement in water temperature I have inherited a new pool
cover which supposedly retains the heat through the colder nights. Except that
the cold spring nights seem to be regularly accompanied by a hoolie from the South
West which has a habit of lifting the 50 square metre piece of bubble-wrap and
depositing in my vegetable patch. It too may find itself recycled into carrier
bags if this keeps on.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Meanwhile,
my own workload continues to undermine my free-time at an alarming rate as I
plough through writing two history books simultaneously, both with looming deadlines.
As a support to my research, I managed to buy half-a-dozen early copies of the
Scottish Farmer’s yearbook, dating back to 1951, which are absolutely
fascinating. So much so that I now lose even more work time, scrolling through
articles about ‘Transformation in the Poultry Industry’ and photos of old
machinery that I vaguely recall rusty away in the nettles when I was a
child.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This got me round to thinking
about my grandfather and how he was so super-successful in the chicken business
in the 1930s. I now have set on a new mission to see if anyone remembers his
extensive dominance in the White Wyandottes breed, where he won dozens of cups
and medals at the UK’s major fairs. So far, I am still striking a blank apart
from finding out that the breed originated in USA and therefore nowhere else
exists. Some rather extensive digging awaits, I fear.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Having been
fearful of another drought this year, I mentioned last month that I had sold
the majority of the sheep. So now, of course, it is peeing down and ‘le gazon’
is a foot high, growing daily. Rather than mow it, I have now got to consider
whether we have to buy some more sheep. A pedigree or two, perhaps. I hope they
would do better than our Scottish Ryeland flock which has produced all boys again
this time when we were trying to expand it with females. For some reason,
nature seems to be kicking my backside at present. As always in these matters, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I blame the Americans!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>andyfrazierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13700928610118865536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1268593027334032797.post-77794194099493403622023-02-28T05:33:00.004-08:002023-02-28T05:33:58.817-08:00JC 4 PM<p style="text-align: justify;"> And here we
are, heading home again. Quick as a flash our winter months in Scotland are
coming to an end as we gear up for lambing and springtime. With that comes a
smattering of hard work as we dust, clean, paint and repair our house in Fife
ready for the influx of holiday-makers who ‘staycate’ here from now until
November. Paint will be the order of the day back at Chauffour too, as we just
picked up 25 litres in B&Q at a third of the price it is over there. Sounds
like there will be some fence repairs to do as well, as we just received a
message from our local Mairie saying our sheep have spent more time on the road
than in their designated confinement. We do have a house-sitter looking after
them, a Kiwi at that, but seemingly he cannot count!</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">This time of
year is also rugby season and I have recently been mentally slapped around by
the locals since Scotland once again ‘defeated England in a fast and furious
game’. The following week we headed to Murrayfield, not only to watch them
defeat Wales but to cheer on a Herculean effort from a few friends of mine who
had cycled up from Cardiff to Edinburgh in just 52 hours, raising over £50k for
the Doddie Weir Foundation in the process. By the time this goes to print the
next couple of rounds of the 6 nations will also be behind us, and I am not too
hopeful for an English team who shed their manager less than one year before a
world cup. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">It seems we
won’t be the only ones to be leaving Scotland this week, as our First Minister
has found the exit door, maybe just moments before it was shown to her. Who
will replace her is as yet unknown but they surely cannot continue with her
absurd opinions on issues of ‘trans indie ref’ of whatever terms the media are
using. After a salmon and a sturgeon, one would expect someone equally fishy,
if only to hold the front page? I will admit her reign has done us no favours
when it comes to business and I for one will be glad to see her departing the
coop, brutal politics or otherwise. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">When it
comes to leaders, I would like to put forward Jeremy Clarkson for Prime
Minister – of the world, possibly! I know there are a few out there who dislike
his bombastic straight-talking attitude but I bet he would have more votes than
Boris, let alone the more recent two, and he certainly would redress the
balance of a society that is spiraling its way into woke-land. Once or twice I
have been likened to the great man in the way I try to sort the sensible from
the absurd in some of my publications but I categorically deny that I am any
match for his talents. Those of you who have watched Clarkson’s Farm would have
to concur that he has done more for farming in 2 series than any minister or
other TV programme, exposing the industry warts and all. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I may have
mentioned my latest crime novel a few times recently, although I am not sure it
had any effect on sales. However, last month I was invited to do a book signing
in a distillery which went swimmingly well. From that a few other similar
establishments have started stocking copies and I have had an ingenious idea
that maybe Wendy, I and Haggis should take it on tour. There are a 143 whisky
distilleries in Scotland, let alone those few in England and Wales, so we may
be some time but if we can have a dram in each, and they take a few copies
each, well that has to be a win-win doesn’t it? More promotion is now underway
including an article in the Courier Newspaper next week and a promo video just
live on social media. I can’t say it has been easy writing and promoting in a
new genre where I am an unknown quantity, so my next one will track back more
into my comfort zones around livestock. Now well underway, possibly the world
first ‘sheep murder mystery’ is destined for publication in time for Christmas
- which at this rate, will be here before we can say ‘Sam Smith, what the F are
you wearing!’ <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>andyfrazierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13700928610118865536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1268593027334032797.post-68444809500250514792023-01-18T02:35:00.008-08:002023-01-18T02:35:56.237-08:00Call the Midwife Crisis<p style="text-align: justify;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG_GHRPvilgdZdiUtTNXzSzpYfhLKLmO9vMyKYe5Qfv5t_Q7YKpfHvTnC8Bb-srMUDiS8wPBmq-bsE12OwcitAA1cxCQAWUgskmSHLp2jWKTlQi421SQ4aaX33G4tHoSCBUxRMrCf0ua9HiqPxPBDOBl1w_L4_Jni1wvI86cuema_I0murHf6tu15I7w/s4000/20230113_181249.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG_GHRPvilgdZdiUtTNXzSzpYfhLKLmO9vMyKYe5Qfv5t_Q7YKpfHvTnC8Bb-srMUDiS8wPBmq-bsE12OwcitAA1cxCQAWUgskmSHLp2jWKTlQi421SQ4aaX33G4tHoSCBUxRMrCf0ua9HiqPxPBDOBl1w_L4_Jni1wvI86cuema_I0murHf6tu15I7w/w150-h200/20230113_181249.jpg" title="Rio Velez has run dry for over 2 years" width="150" /></a></div><br />They say diversity is the salt and pepper of life. Well, I am sure someone said it, once, somewhere. So, I am not sure whether we in the pepper just now, but we arrived back last night from Spain, where it has been 23 degrees and very sunny, to Scotland where it has been minus 3 degrees and a little snowy. A few sneezes are surely acceptable? In fact, no, hold on the sneezes as I have only just shifted the cold which I caught on Hogmanay by kissing too many strangers. It seemed like a good idea at the time, especially some film actress whom I didn’t recognize until afterwards.<p></p><p style="text-align: justify;">Anyway, the trip to Spain was fantastic and
just what the doctor prescribed, a sortie to Andalusia, high up in the Alpujarra
mountains staying with friends in a very nice villa. Although still a bit
chilly at nights the daytime could have been June, it was so warm. Except that
June in those places is like a furnace and therein hangs a problem - water.
Numerous rivers empty into the sea around Malaga, or at least they should do,
if there was anything in them. Bear in mind this is January, and what should be
the rainy season and you may start to see my concern. To compound the issue,
all the hills around there are have been planted for crops, but not olives and
almonds that have been indigenous to this area for millennia, but mangos and avocados,
two plants that rely heavily on moisture. Don’t get me wrong, it was nice to be
able to pick a few fresh ones for our table but where is the H20 required to
fuel such a crop. More to the point, where are the brain cells that allowed
this to happen? It has been funded by EEC money, apparently and, believe me, it
would have taken a hell of a lot of it to peck out those rocky mountains with
some massive machinery to create those terraces and water reservoirs on such a
scale. And we all know the EEC is mad, right, which is why you folk decided to
leave it? But, and here is the very problem, the same folk that wanted to
become an independent island are often the very ones that rely on your
smoothies every morning, despite everything being shipped half-way across the
world to quench your desires? Well, mark my warning, you are about to see a
massive shortage in said fruits unless some rain happens pretty soon. And that,
it seems is highly unlikely in summer if it hasn’t rained in winter for a year
or two. One local farmer already confided in me that his crops would fail this
year. Never fear, you can always get fruit shipped from South America, as long
as you sanctimoniously recycle your Vegemite jars in a quit-pro-quo to help you
sleep at night?</p><div><div style="text-align: justify;">On that note, on the way over, we had a lovely G&T in the airport – well you do, don’t you, when you’re on holiday – in the new Fever-Tree bar. Lovely until I read the words ‘Carbon Neutral’ on the front of the menu only to be confronted on its last page with a map of the parts of the world where all its ingredients come from, which extended to every corner. But - and here is the maddest thing of all and perhaps one that not everyone is aware of – that wee company can offset its carbon damage by buying carbon credits off the good old farmers. Really? Yes, really. You see, despite contrary belief, most UK farms are actually well below carbon neutral so the country’s balance can be made up by someone else who is pumping it out. One farm I visited in Scotland recently had an audit done to find his place actually absorbs the entire carbon output of 400 family homes! Not only that but if Fever-Tree (in our example here) buys up a few hundred acres of perfectly good farmland and plants some trees on it, it too can offset its ridiculously high footprint and claim carbon neutrality, according to law. That’s like shooting someone and then giving money to an orphanage to get excused of your crime? Completely and utterly absurd! Meanwhile, the UK, and particularly Scottish, farmer has to compete with these extortionate prices for land taken out of production to continue to feed a nation at rock-bottom prices.</div><span style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd-TJ20crN_Ispn4HqdIy4NHffbC6dP_xLwAbYSIqH0m7CiJjzLUe6omWVKHaBPio1QLxq2L6nwR8ft3WyKO_T_P-hhZ69cOjRhJffKqlJ-cLVtfaUbySIVHc9U6VWBJhB-FGR6E5fqCtsPPxAnBnG3WhbmqSVsqt5QsztcvaPDDTg3MpkFLsD10UqSg/s4000/20230113_121646.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd-TJ20crN_Ispn4HqdIy4NHffbC6dP_xLwAbYSIqH0m7CiJjzLUe6omWVKHaBPio1QLxq2L6nwR8ft3WyKO_T_P-hhZ69cOjRhJffKqlJ-cLVtfaUbySIVHc9U6VWBJhB-FGR6E5fqCtsPPxAnBnG3WhbmqSVsqt5QsztcvaPDDTg3MpkFLsD10UqSg/w150-h200/20230113_121646.jpg" width="150" /></a></div></span><div style="text-align: justify;">Anyway, as you can see, the trip made my blood boil in more ways than one. The Spanish love their fiesta and we were privileged to visit one in a tiny hilltop town up where the clouds should be, which was buzzing like a faulty lightbulb. Equally a beach restaurant full of tapas was squeezed into our long weekend, although the local nudists near the latter did put me off my patatas bravas a wee bit. Meanwhile, back in Cellardyke, it was a different kind of body on the beach when sadly a male one washed up a few weeks ago, which was rather macabre. We still haven’t heard who it was, but nobody local we hope.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">On the work front, my most recent novel is starting to gain some traction and climb the Amazon charts, thanks to some promotion through a pal in the whisky industry who sent it to a few newspapers. I even had a contact from the editor of the Big Issue who was interested in doing a review, which doesn’t quite seem the right place to be advocating whisky-related crime, but I suppose there’s no such thing as bad press. BTW, the book is called The Master’s Spirit if you fancy picking up a copy?</div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">So now its back to short days and evening telly
until the Scottish weather picks up and we head home for lambing. Things I try
to avoid, The Apprentice, Unhappy Valley and anything to do with baby’s being
born! Bloody hell, the latter seems to have gripped the entire nation for its
weekly doling out of solutions to all middle-aged female problems?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Call the Midwife Crisis, I call it! </span></p>
</div>andyfrazierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13700928610118865536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1268593027334032797.post-42917388119733492102023-01-12T00:34:00.004-08:002023-01-18T02:41:19.735-08:00Gone but not forgotten<div style="text-align: justify;">And here we are, into another year again. Happy festivities everyone and here’s to a cheery, if not prosperous, annee. If the media is anything to go by then it may be a troublesome time with much doom and despondency but we don’t really believe their rubbish anymore, do we? We may or may not even concur with all those global eco-mentalists either when, here in Scotland anyway, its cold enough to freeze a monkey’s bum right now. In our 8 years in East Fife, today is only the second time I have seen snow on the beach and the sea giving off steam, with the distant Isle of May white-over also. The last time some beast from the east had brought it. This time we still blame Greta Thunburg, or the train drivers strike? Gotta be someone’s fault, surely? In France too, some 1000+ miles away, the ground is frozen and poses a threat to the pipes of our swimming pool although thankfully we have a handy young chap living in and monitoring things for us with his gloves on.
December was a manic month for me, with 3 new books out in time for Christmas and podcasts being recorded left right and centre before we closed down for a few days’ hibernation. It was a tough time this year since we lost the last of our original animal family together, namely Pooper, who had been a fantastic companion for the last fifteen years. Her time had come but it was still hard to say goodbye. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix0yo76kSk0hrmcY4azlmTwyzgZ_GXWiREhNNnE38RG0H45GjbfLUn3r9FnalZpSy1-3xj_-wPBmaSxh4dWyBdMHzn289wk-22upwr6Jc3hXlS_ejrNcGnHxT0C25YdrDUHtdUgKjBStaqGK4ZYsVmFXOGXUI1GMCXDjU8TZJcmtKjGPqNCucsqKDwsw/s580/IMG_2077.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="462" data-original-width="580" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix0yo76kSk0hrmcY4azlmTwyzgZ_GXWiREhNNnE38RG0H45GjbfLUn3r9FnalZpSy1-3xj_-wPBmaSxh4dWyBdMHzn289wk-22upwr6Jc3hXlS_ejrNcGnHxT0C25YdrDUHtdUgKjBStaqGK4ZYsVmFXOGXUI1GMCXDjU8TZJcmtKjGPqNCucsqKDwsw/s320/IMG_2077.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />Now we just have the Haggis or, to quote Terry Pratchett, ‘the big wee Hag!’ who keeps us entertained but is a big scaredy cat when it comes to some cold weather. Considering she is a Border Terrier from the actual Scottish Borders, you really would expect something a bit more hardy. Our few winter months here in Fife go by all too quick but it is good to catch up with old friendships and getting folks round while I ‘get-the-pan-on.’ The crowd of Scotts that came in to watch England bow out of the football world cup were particularly enjoyable although their berets and French outfits were a little unnecessary! It is absurd to realise we have been in this house by the sea for four years already and that the high-speed train of life has passed through so rapidly. I have recently been helping my son move house and the realization that a sixty-something overweight man can no longer lift the heavy goods with ease, let alone keep up with the younger bodies on the job, has caught up with me quite suddenly. My super-recall of names and places is certainly slowing down too. Thankfully I can still out-drink most of them although I am not sure that is a real blessing. In January we are heading to Spain for a few days to stay with friends and get a break from the weather and maybe get some more writing done, as per last year. Downtime is getting more and more necessary but also well enough deserved.
Today I am quite pleased as we have had in a craftsman joiner to build us a trophy cabinet. Well, an oak cupboard and shelves where we can display the two silver cups we won last year in pride of place. The jury is still out whether we revisit the battlefield’s next year for another go at the prizes. My heart says no but my wife says yes. We will wait for the sheep to have the final vote on that score. We also have a rugby World Cup to consider, in our back yard in France later in the year. How much more disappointment could we take!</div>andyfrazierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13700928610118865536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1268593027334032797.post-73193308611144921902022-11-17T07:39:00.002-08:002022-11-17T07:48:55.773-08:00Padstow and potholes<p style="text-align: justify;"> <span style="text-align: justify;">At last, in one place again, after
three hard weeks on the road, most of which was enjoyable if not a tad tiring,
with close to a couple of thousand miles of driving behind us. And tiring was
certainly the order of the day at AgriExpo livestock show in Carlisle when
myself and a colleague were set the task to speak about cows continually on TV
for over 8 hours. Yes, that is a big challenge even for me. I think we coped OK
and have already been asked back for next year’s event. Our few quiet days in
the Lake District were cosy and mainly confined to indoors due to the weather,
but one doesn’t go there for that really. We were highly fortunate to have a
great pub, the Tower Arms in Sawrey, only 100 yards away, during which time we
definitely became their ‘customer of the week’. We never did get to see Beatrix
Potter’s house, although I was made to sit through the film, which was a little
too Disney for my tastes.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">What followed was the highlight
of our time here, a couple of nights in the Feathers Hotel at Ludlow followed
by a magnificent wedding of Sam (my eldest son) and Izzy at the ancient and
luxurious Brynsop Court near Hereford. This place really did pull out all the
stops, from its 13<sup>th</sup> century banquet rooms to a purpose built barn
which its owners had purchased from the BBC and then re-erected it in all its
glory in the grounds. Much drinking and dancing was to be had until the early
hours when most of the guests were shipped back to Hereford on a bus. I say
most, as somehow two of my nieces managed to miss their lift, but got there
eventually. With games rooms, music rooms and lit fireplaces everywhere back in
the grand building it would have been rude not to sample yet more hospitality
as waiters appeared from the shadows with yet more grog until our palatial
bedroom eventually called us in around 3am.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It was great to catch up with some of the boys’ old mates, all of whom I
remember as bairns; so nice to see them all doing so well and many with bairns
of their own. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">From there we headed south again
although soon realised that the roads in UK are so atrocious, what should have
been a four hour trip to Cornwall quite a while longer as I zigzagged around
endless potholes that would rattle the fillings out of your teeth, let alone
plates out of our cupboards. Having done little or no work in the previous two
weeks I had to sacrifice some of my downtime in our next wee cottage to the
dreaded computer and microphone. However, we did get to see most of the hostelries
in Padstow including a meal in Rick Stein’s seafood restaurant which was
splendid. We also took the foot ferry to Rock (the other one) and sampled some
of Paul Ainsworth’s food which, I have to say, was a tad ordinary and
over-priced, particularly when the waiter persuaded me to have some ‘new
Cornish’ potatoes as a side dish – In November? Three tiny ones duly arrived at
the cost of seven quid! Even Shell would blush at making that much profit!</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Next up was a trip back to
Herefordshire, this time to an old school reunion at Lucton. I was hoping to
see a classroom full of my old mates that joined me there 50 years ago but
sadly only a handful turned up. We were treated to a roast beef dinner not
dissimilar to the ones we endured half a century ago and then a speech from an
‘Old Boy’ which purveyed his life in minute detail from his post-war school
days to date. I definitely heard snoring from the back benches, particularly
during the bit about varying sizes of rivets in 1961. Afterwards I couldn’t
resist having a smoke on the prefect’s lawn despite that fact that I am neither
a prefect nor a smoker. Some things just have to be done! </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Now, as I sit looking out at the
North sea, wind and rain are still very much on the agenda, lashing against my
window and throwing the waves up with it. Poor Haggis has been nearly swept
away a few times although she did manage to catch a rather poorly pigeon which
was as much a surprise to her as it was to it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I believe it may even by raining back home in France this week – sacré
bleu!</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Tomorrow I have to interview the
Minister of Agriculture for Scotland, in Edinburgh, who hasn’t been in the job
very long. As my initial list of questions has since been sent back with a red
line through most of them, particularly the ones about exports to France, maybe
the weather is all we will have to talk about! I doubt she will accept the
blame for all of it, though.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><o:p> </o:p></p>andyfrazierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13700928610118865536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1268593027334032797.post-53637404246685461782022-11-17T07:37:00.003-08:002022-11-17T07:49:40.612-08:00One hundred, not out!<p style="text-align: justify;"> <span style="text-align: justify;">OK, so it’s off down the rabbit
hole we go, as winter beckons with twisted claw and the media preaches more
doom. I will admit that I do see a recession heading our way with its
headlights on and have acted accordingly by down-sizing our property business.
The irony of just how the UK managed to replace ‘Boris the Party-Animal’ with
someone called Miss Trus(t) appears to have been lost on most people until next
thing they know mortgage rates are in double figure and the banks are repossessing
their new conservatories.</span><span style="text-align: justify;"> </span><span style="text-align: justify;">Just how Kwasi
(wouldn’t ‘Spitting Image’ have had so much fun with these names?) thinks he
can cut everyone’s taxes, give them money for winter fuel and still have some
coffers in his already depleted piggy bank is way beyond my comprehension, let
alone that of the world ‘s financial business. But, hey, I am not in power so
I’ll just take the hand-outs alongside my fellow man and be grateful, my lord.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Strangely, the word Lord is very
much on my agenda this month, as I once again trawl through the Scottish record
books researching some of the Lairds of yesteryear. Recently I have agreed to
collaborate on yet another giant tome of a history book about yet more cows and
this time, to quote my American co-author, ‘we really are getting down into the
weeds!’ I have no idea how many pages we will end up with but it certainly
won’t fit in a Christmas stocking, that’s for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">darn</i> sure! To be fair, there will be a lot of pictures, thousands
in fact. Every time I so much as mention someone regal in my text, my pal
provides us with at least a dozen ancient photos to back it up, many of them
borrowed from national galleries around the world. For example, I am just
discussing James Carnegie, the 9<sup>th</sup> Earl of Southesk from Kinnaird Castle
who, as well as being a top cattle breeder happened to have spent some years tracking
big cats in the Rocky Mountains and next thing, here is a photo of him looking
like Wild Bill Hickok, draped in furs. I really have no idea where he gets this
stuff from as when I Google the words ‘Hunting Cougars’ my inbox soon fills up
with requests that would make a beetroot blush! Incidentally, I note you can
actually stay at the beautiful Kinnaird Castle, so Mrs F and I have booked in
for a couple of nights in spring. You can even, says their website, book out
the entire place, all 20 bedrooms, if you so wish, complete with hot and cold
running servants. Now there’s an idea for a non-party birthday party, Boris?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">On the subject of books, I am
about to unleash my first crime novel to the market. Based around a distillery
on Scotland’s west coast, ‘The Master’s Spirit’ tells a tale of murder and
mystery and unveils a trail of corruption within the whisky industry which may
possibly get me into hot water with its authorities. With a couple of pals in
that business, I am hoping that I can utilise their contacts to promote it
through the amber nectar channels and, who knows, a few samples may even come
my way. The novel will be available on Amazon soon (plug, plug!). With that and
the above mentioned history book, coupled with another novel, a sheep history
book and my biannual nonsense publication, that makes five books I have my
hands into at this moment in time. I would also like to mention that this week
see my 100<sup>th</sup> podcast hit the airwaves. Who could believe one tiny
idea would have gathered such momentum, as well as a happy band of followers
that keep it motivated and me busy a couple of days per week.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">So, it is just as well I cannot
walk at present. Yes, once again I am incapacitated, this time with my right
foot swollen up like a boxer’s jockstrap, while I hobble about the house on a
pair of crutches painfully muttering to myself and avoiding the puppy who has become
number one trip hazard. The doctor says I should not spend my time sitting on
my arse, a view reflected by Mrs F, as I will succumb to blood clots which may
cause said leg to fall off. I’ll take my chance on that one, while I fill the
void with yet more words and edits rather than working in the garden or fixing
the roof.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">In a couple of weeks we will once
again be crossing the channel for our winter in the North, potentially with Mrs
F at the wheel. En route I have picked up another commentators job, this time at
a large Ag show in Carlisle where I will be discussing the rear ends of cattle
in intimate detail on live TV broadcast across the world. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I even had to do a video-trailer for this one,
saying how exited I am to be involved in such a monumental bovine occasion! While
we are in that neck of the woods, my wife has booked us in to a quaint little
cottage for a week in the village where Beatrix Potter was lived, perhaps to
inspire me to write yet more novels.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From there it is back to Herefordshire for my
eldest son’s wedding at a rather lavish rural venue where I will be squeezed
back into a morning suit which I may well have outgrown during my time of
seatedness. Hopefully I will have discarded the crutches by that point, so I
can hit the dance floor running, or wobbling at the very least. Finally, a trip
to my old school for a celebration of 50 years since I first set foot in its
draughty dormitory. Fifty bloody years? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh
my, where on earth did that go? I wonder if my old English teacher will still
be there with his red marker pen, shaking his head in horror at my appalling
grammar? I bet he never knew there was such a word as seatedness! <o:p></o:p></p>andyfrazierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13700928610118865536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1268593027334032797.post-53217839726813616292022-10-04T03:27:00.001-07:002022-10-04T03:27:12.577-07:00Whistlebiscuit<p><span style="text-align: justify;">Were I a dog I am not sure what
form I may take. There are times when I act like a Rottweiler, attacking and
biting just about everyone in range, usually out of temper rather than malice to
be fair. Other times I am just one of those shaggy Retriever things, soft as a
ripe fig and about as intelligent, only with better hair. Then I have my Pointer
moments when I want to run away, free as the wind with nothing more on my mind other
than the maximum distance from everything around me. </span><span style="text-align: justify;"> </span><span style="text-align: justify;">Pointers do this, trust me, we had one for 14
years. Some days I can be cynical, like a Dachshund, sitting around summing
everybody up, applying my own snippets of wisdom about them and generally
taking the piss. Then there is the mongrel in me; unkempt, haphazard, lazy in a
really busy kind of way, so much to do there's no time to fit it all in, so I
chase my tail in hope I catch up with it all. Sometimes I do.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I proffer these scenarios as I am
at present in the process of training Haggis, our wee Border Terrier pup. I
have to say she is a sweetie, calm as a moonlit lake, both loving and kind, a
model dog almost. I am not one who believes in re-incarnation or any other sort
of supernatural mumbo-jumbo but if I were, I would find it incredibly hard to
digest the fact that when I looked for a dog to replace Louis, our pointless
pointer, I wished for one that would be all of the above, as he was, only with
a little more obedience. And that pretty much, sums up wee Haggis. She is happy
off her lead, unlike Louis was admittedly, and will generally follow to heel. She
doesn’t want to attack every other dog she meets, unlike Pooper who has just
about grown out of that phase at 15 years old. To the contrary, when she meets
another dog she wants to play and kiss it, something that may backfire one day
perhaps.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">As has been mentioned many times
before, neither of our last two dogs were well behaved, not when it came to
being in public anyway. Much of this was down to the fact that we never made
the effort to discipline them when they were young. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">So, I bought a whistle. Not just
any whistle but one so high pitched it would fetch the tiles off the roof, let
alone shatter your molars. Never being one to read a 'how-to' manual in my life,
I reckoned that if the dog heard the sound and then received a biscuit, it
would surely eventually work out a sense of recall, whistle=come here? Placebo
at its best. Hmm. What I hadn’t also banked on was that this wee dog really is
in the image of her predecessor Louis in the fact that she is a total foodie.
Yes, the whistle/biscuit thing does work ok, but generally for the wrong
reason. This is because she has worked out that during this training exercise,
which carries on every day, I have pockets full of these munchy morsels. Hence,
what is the point in being far away from me, when they are literally on tap. So
now, instead of a wee dog, I just have a shadow following me round 24/7. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Well. At least it's better than
running across ploughed fields chasing the damn thing, that's for sure. One
thing I was advised before getting a Border was that they have a stubborn
streak and that I can testify to. At present the stubbornness is to not bugger
off from under my feet when she is told to, especially when I am carrying a
tray of drinks, near the swimming pool. What could possibly go wrong?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>andyfrazierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13700928610118865536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1268593027334032797.post-42134486130105464062022-09-15T04:09:00.004-07:002022-09-15T04:09:24.944-07:00Scratched bottoms<p> <span style="text-align: justify;">Sadly my announcement of a
successful rain dance last month came to nothing more than a passing shower. As
we pass mid September here in Aquitaine we have still had no more than a few
mills of rain since May and the place really is a dessert now. With 23 sheep in
the field, they have now reverted to eating the thistles such is their hunger.
This morning we pulled them into the yard to hopefully select few lambs for the
abattoir but still they remain as skinny as a cheesy-thin, and still with zero
chance of rain on the 10 day radar. At this rate they will be heading for
Christmas dinner rather than summer BBQ. On the subject of sheep I can gladly
report that Daisy Death-Wish is still with us, if only in a tripod fashion.
Yes, the seeming indefatigable creature is now wobbling about the field and
being fed on biscuits while the others live on very warm fresh air. Who would
have thought it?</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"> At last we have some piece here
at the French house after 6 weeks solid with guests. It was lovely to see
everyone, particularly individually this year, but the sigh of relief we let
out when the last ones left could have swept up the leaves! One thing I do miss
though; when we have guests they act as a human shield for the mozzies, who
love the sight and smell of pale English flesh. Since folks left the buggeratic
little beasts only have us to chew on now and, even if we don’t taste very
nice, everyone has to eat. Of course we have now run out of repellent, all used
up by the twenty or so folks sleeping in our spare rooms, so are sitting ducks
to their preying fangs. Meanwhile I have now got my own teeth back into some
proper work, with an inexhaustible ToDo list that both tires me at the thought
and keeps me awake at night. I think it was Gerry Adams who said 'I love deadlines,
I quite like the whooshing sound as they going flying past!' Na, can't have
been Gerry Adams, can it? That would read 'I love the sound of bullets flying
past?' Somebody Adams anyway. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"> As this column is entitled
'rantings' I do feel the need to vent some venomous words to the company,
Microsoft. Having used their email software for a few decades I now get a
message saying 'we no longer support your application..' I didn’t ask them for
support, it works fine, thank you. Or it did do, until they have cut off my
connection in an effort to force me to buy new stuff. I don’t want your new
stuff, I shouldn’t need your new stuff. If I drive around in an old Mercedes
with 4 million miles on the clock, that is my choice. The Germans won't come
round and slash my tyres and force me to buy an electric go-kart? So how dare Bill
Gates tell me how to run my life in cyberworld? Well Mr Gates, I no longer
support your football team, so there. Bring back pigeon post, I say!</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"> A few weekends ago, Sam and I
took the camper down to the coast for a boys weekend, which was great fun, if
not a little hot. Thankfully not as hot as it had been a few weeks earlier when
much of the Lande forest went up in smoke. The devastation around Cazaux, our
favoured spot, was heart-wrenching with thousands of acres of tress charred to
death. I had wondered why we got no answer when trying to book my favourite
beach restaurant, only to arrive and find it raised to the ground, its scorched
innards exposed to all and sundry. Oh well, life goes on and at least there
will be a plentiful supply of charcoal for Barbie this autumn. If only we dared
light it! </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"> On a more joyous trip we joined
some friends and took half a dozen canoes down the river Dordogne last week,
accompanied by 6 dogs including wee Haggis, who was none too keen staying
onboard to start with. While I sat in the front nursing her and my poorly
shoulder Mrs F sat in the back seat and rowed. Only she, by her own admission,
hadn’t a faintest clue what she was doing and hence we went sideways or
backwards down most of the rapids in a screaming frenzy. Eventually we swapped
places and all was well in the water, particularly as we stopped at 4 different
bars en-route for rehydration and pain killers! At present I think Haggis is
coming into heat so we spent much of the time trying fend off a randy Fox
Terrier from Liverpool called Jinxy, who was hell bent on jumping into our boat
for some extracurricular sport. At least the oars came in handy! At 5 hours for
a 12kms downstream trip, I'm sure the boat owners thought we had all perished,
especially after they had seen us set off sideways. Fortunately, the water was
only a few feet deep for most of the way, such is the drought in these parts,
so we eventually arrived with nothing worse than a few scratched bottoms!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Finally I should mention the loss of our dear Queen Elisabeth. What a magnificent
servant she has been to the country and I have seen her on numerous occasions
when she visited and supported the agricultural shows over the years. It is a
huge loss to our nation and I for one doff my cap to you, Ma'am. Having met
Prince Charles a couple of times, I was never convinced he was up to the job of
monarch but who am I to judge. I am sure he will make a good fist of it. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Long live the King!</p>andyfrazierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13700928610118865536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1268593027334032797.post-6147327506438820892022-08-30T01:56:00.002-07:002022-08-30T01:56:52.101-07:00Sunshine Hotel<p style="text-align: justify;"> Well, that was an exceptional spell. With nearly 12 weeks
without rain, the whole place was a tinderbox where we were feared to even
light the bbq. Thankfully myself and my numerous house guests Googled how to do
a rain-dance, which involved much hilarity and alcohol, but guess what, it seems
to have worked, as the skies opened for the first time yesterday! Having put
our own personal spin on it, the ‘toe-heel-stomp boogie’ will shortly be for
sale, should anyone wish to purchase such a technically successful product! As
some will have seen, fires have been raging across France with our valley
filled with smoke, despite the fact the flames are 50 miles away. Hopefully
these recent showers will quell their anger for a while anyway but a lot of the
Lande forest has been destroyed.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Our long and arduous road trip finally came to an end, when
got back home safely some weeks ago now, to find the grass 3 feet high and the
whole place overgrown. Unfortunately we just missed winning the Triple Crown
with our Ryeland sheep, narrowly missing out at the Royal Welsh Show, ending
with just Reserve Female Champion which, on any other year, I would have been
quite pleased with. On reflection, we didn’t do too badly, coming home with 2
cups and 17 rosettes in total. By time this goes to print, our prized ram
should have been sold at Worcester, hopefully for a reasonable price to a good
home. Fingers crossed. We also managed to purchase a new ram as well as another
female, taking our flock numbers up to a manageable four ewes. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I mentioned our house-guests, whom we have today dispatched
back to Bewdley/Kidderminster, probably for a quiet rest. Meanwhile the next
ones arrive tomorrow and so it continues as we restock the fridges once more.
It has been a hard two weeks trying to stay hydrated in 40 degree heat but
potentially my two sons and partners may have a cooler time here. I know one
thing, by time we empty the house in mid September, I think we will be due a
holiday ourselves. On that note, I had arranged to take a bunch of farmers on
tour to Montana in mid Sept but a few technical difficulties have forced us to
cancel that one. I’m not too sad, to be honest, as it may give me time to catch
up with some work/sleep. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">A character often mentioned in this column is our sheep
Daisy Death-wish, now in her 11<sup>th</sup> year. Sadly a few days ago she
jumped the fence to get at the neighbours crops and got her leg caught in the
wire, where she then spent the night. We are doing our best to save her and
bring her back to health but unfortunately with age against her the prospect
doesn’t look great. Again, fingers crossed.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Meanwhile, Haggis, the new terrier puppy in the house is
settling in, being spoiled by all the guests and perhaps not getting the
discipline she requires. I have to say, so far, she is far more placid than one
would expect of a Border Terrier although she has taken command of most of the
cats. She does have a stubborn streak in her though, choosing to ignore most of
my instructions, but then, just about everyone in this house does that already.
She is a bit of a foodie too, although attempting to steal Pooper’s food comes
with it perils. The cats are none too keen sharing theirs either and the poor
wee sole has had her ears boxed more than once. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">In other news my weekly podcast Toplines and Tales is still
going strong heading for our 100<sup>th</sup> episode. We were entered in the
British Farming Awards but didn’t quite make it on to the shortlist this year. With
at least four books in the ‘work in progress’ drawer, life doesn’t seem to have
slowed down after 60 like they told me it would!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anyway, onwards and upwards.</p>andyfrazierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13700928610118865536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1268593027334032797.post-855295227447989032022-08-30T01:52:00.002-07:002022-08-30T01:52:40.924-07:00Flying Welshmen<p style="text-align: justify;"> <span style="text-align: justify;">Having gone full circle we find
ourselves back in Wales this morning, setting up camp at the Royal Welsh Show.
It had been a number of years since I was last here but this place holds a lot
of fond memories from past victories with livestock, for both myself and my
father. I particularly remember 1992 when we won the interbreed competition in
the sheep section and still have the rosettes to prove it. I can happily
announce that our first venture into the Ryeland sheep breed, and my first time
showing sheep for 18 years, has been highly successful thus far. We started out
at the Royal Highland show in Edinburgh, picking off the female champion,
reserve male champion and then overall breed champion with Beatrice, our
gimmer, and a nice chunk of silverware for Mrs F to clean for a year. I am not
sure the locals took it too well, but we eventually made our peace by
proffering free alcohol to them all.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Unfortunately, from that event we
both contracted Covid and were quarantined in isolation in the camper for a
week. Our chosen destination a beach front in Arisaig on Scotland’s beautiful
west coast, although sadly the weather was as miserable as we both felt.
Eventually we rallied and even caught a view of the Flying Scotsman delivering
hundreds of daily tourists into Malaig, who proceeded to empty the shelves in
the local Co-op like a swarm of locusts. Shortbread, porridge oats, haggis and
Jimmy-hats, in fact anything with a resemblance of tartan on the label all got
piled into bulging carrier bags and got whisked off on the steamer at
over-inflated prices to wherever all these badly dressed people shuffled home
to. We also encountered hundreds of campervans driven by people who had about
as much driving skills as my granny without her glasses. Bear in mind that the
roads are rarely much wider than a garden path, swathes of the west coast
became instant gridlock as numpies in their McMotorhome rentals had no idea
where reverse gear was, let alone their mirrors. One does wonder whether the
hire companies might at least instruct the drivers to do some basic manoeuvres
before letting them lose on public roads.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Anyway, we made it back to the
central belt in time to take a couple of sheep to Dunblane show, where we
managed a reserve champion with Basinger (I didn’t name her) in the ‘any other
breed’ class. This saw us pitched against a number of other types of sheep
including Shetlands and Cheviots, along with Spotted Dutch Texels, so we were
reasonably pleased that our Ryelands can at least hold their own in stranger company.
</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">From there we headed to the Great
Yorkshire Show in Harrogate, and what a Great event it was, brilliantly
organised with everything from the toilets to the weather. Once again Beatrice
came up trumps, picking up more silverware and, along with our ram, Big Wee
Eck, seven more rosettes to decorate the camper with. The week was quite
arduous and the nigh-time shenanigans intense before we were released from the
county to make the trip to our current spot. An overnight drive now finds us at
the Welsh with the dream of the Triple Crown still intact. However, on
unloading the sheep this morning, my heart sank when I saw the strength of the
competition as we take on the big guns on their home turf. It is highly
doubtful we will pull this one off but, as my old man used to say, ‘win or
lose, we’ll have some booze.’</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">So here I sit, in the blazing
sunshine, marginally concerned that the poor animals will fry in the heat-wave forecast
over the next few days, before it’s their turn to perform in the ring one last
time and possibly get their comeuppance. At least we have the shorts back on
again and wheelbarrow load of beer on ice, as the whole of Wales arrives, one
caravan at a time, speaking in tongues. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">A couple more weeks are still to
pass before we arrive back in France, via Scotland again, complete with wee
Haggis, our new Border Terrier puppy whom we have yet to meet. I believe it has
been quite hot there, although the French don’t make quite such a drama out of
constant 40 degree heat as the British press do about an afternoon’s hazy
sunshine. Factor 50, anyone?</p>andyfrazierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13700928610118865536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1268593027334032797.post-20322654635373766102022-06-17T07:01:00.000-07:002022-06-17T07:01:04.222-07:00Hoggy vs Haggis<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Greetings from the road,
somewhere overlooking the sea. This, I think, is day 22 of a 68 day journey
around UK. Our first stop, which seems like an age ago now, was at a
wonderfully orchestrated wedding, on a small farm near Lincoln. There is
probably no prouder moment in a father’s life than seeing his son marry a
beautiful woman, and that he did. There was a slight wobble on our route over
from France since I had surreptitiously stashed away quite a lot more that my
allocated allowance of wine in the camper. Thankfully, a seductive smile from
my wife dissuaded the genderless customs officer from pulling us over for a
strip search, or the wedding could have been a much drier affair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As we are essentially on the road to a sheep
show we are also carrying a box of suspicious looking instruments required to
pretty the animals up, when the time comes. These too thankfully remained
undetected by Les Gendarmes. I mention the word ‘box’, better known as a Kist
in Scotland, as I have proudly resurrected my father’s old one, complete with
padded seat, aside which has been the location of many parties over his reign
in the show-rings of old. As a further gesture, the box took pride of place in
the wedding marquee displaying the words HS Frazier and Son, topped with beautiful
flowers. A fitting tribute to the old bugger, I thought. Hopefully some more
parties can be enjoyed on it soon. I would like to take this space to publicly
congratulate Jack and Emma Frazier on their marriage.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">We then moved on south and
included a couple of nights in the New Forest where I caught up with my old pal
Mark Turner, who used to live next door to the Rock Cross Inn. I say caught up,
there was a lot of ground to cover through the forty years since we last spoke.
We filled this in with a game of golf and then managed to get parked in the
middle of a National Park in the village of Burley, where we were surrounded by
deer, so friendly they would just about poke their head in through the camper
door. I am not sure they were too impressed with the venison burgers we had for
dinner, though.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">A short hop saw us to the Isle of
Wight in time to celebrate the Queen’s Jubilee and celebrate we did. Four days
of partying included a whole day on a large motor boat, along with eight other
even larger ones parked in a circle, where we could precariously step from one
to another, drink in hand. Miraculously, none of us went in the drink, with our
drink! Craig and Emma, our wonderful hosts, plied us with so much lobster and
fizz that I am sure Her Majesty would have been suitably impressed.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">From there our journey has taken
us to South Wales, initially on to the fabulous Gower peninsula at Oxwich bay
and then on to Amroth, a sleepy little village that I last visited when I was
four years old. Somewhere there is a photo of a fat little me sitting on a
beach eating an ice-cream in the rain. Nothing has changed apart from me being
five feet taller now! Continuing along the coast we happened on an even more
picturesque village called Little Haven and what a haven it was. Parked on a
vantage point overlooking the St Bride’s Bay, we spent a pair of glorious days
admiring the view from our window until one evening we were joined by a couple of
strangers named Fred and Sheila, her hailing from Kidderminster and coincidentally
being at school with my sister. It was an entertaining night to be sure, each
of us regaling stories about our nomadic lives. As a competent badminton
player, and Wendy and I both keen on table tennis, he introduced me to a new
game called ‘Pickle Ball’. No, not something on a canapé menu but a cross
between the two above sports, sort of table tennis without the table, which sounds
so much fun I think we might indulge when we get home. I had for the previous
few months been ploughing through a crime novel by Peter May, a writer I
usually enjoy. However this, one of his more recent ones, had got more and more
bogged down with fine detail on just about every situation until it became unnecessarily
tedious as he described each flower, bush, hill, car and person in more flowery
detail that Rembrandt could have added. I can only guess that in his older age
he has discovered the sauce. Couple that with a plot about as thin as Naomi
Campbell and it ended up consuming a month of my life I will never get back.
Having dragged myself to the end of it, thankfully I palmed it off on Fred who,
after I had admitted I was an author, and despite me giving him my real name,
was convinced I had written the thing under a pen name! I can just about hear
him snoring still! Somehow or other, during the escapade we have managed to
snap the door handle off on the inside of the camper, only to wake up and be
unable to get out of the thing! I have fashioned a work-around for now but the
new part has to be flown in from somewhere in Europe at great expense, which we
might see by Autumn. Staff shortages, apparently!</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the next day or so we will depart for the
North, the apprehension rising as we approach our first sheep event with our
three beasts. Although I have spent more time on my knees in the ring than
Frank Bruno, it will be at least twenty years ago since I showed a sheep in
anger. I will report on our progress in due course. Also, in due course, when
we return south we will have gained an extra passenger in the shape of a small
puppy. Yes, after talking about it for nearly two years we have finally gone
and bought a Border Terrorist. Look out Pooper, your life is about to change
when wee Haggis arrives! And you too, Hoggy!</p>andyfrazierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13700928610118865536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1268593027334032797.post-72656480421956921852022-05-18T03:44:00.002-07:002022-05-18T03:45:00.664-07:00Tractor Domination<p> <span style="text-align: justify;">At last we have some guests here
at Chauffour, after what seems like an eternity. Yes, it does add more cooking
and cleaning but the company of three of Wendy's best pals far outweighs that.
And it seems they brought the sunshine with them all the way from Scotland and
with temperatures now up to 30 degrees, we won’t be long before we start
praying for rain again!</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">As often happens when the house
is full of women, I am saddled with the inevitable punishment of being forced
to watch Eurovision. I have to say, a bigger pile of pretentious trash I have
rarely witnessed but thankfully I fell asleep before the announcement of the
predicable Ukrainian winners. Small recompense for having your country invaded,
I suppose, but every cloud, etc. Apologies for the spoiler if you haven’t
watched it yet and were saving the recording for a quiet evening but look on
the bright side, I have saved you a few hours of humiliation. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">On that subject, I am slightly
concerned about my passion for tractors which I occasionally look at on the
internet with complete innocence. Seemingly that is no longer allowed in the
governmental circles in case MPs get sidetracked into obscene pornography, so
it won’t be long before it is banned altogether. Who would a thought a Class
Dominator was anything other than a combine harvester? Preposterous! Oh well,
if I stop liking tractors, does that make me an Extractor Fan? Groan!</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I mentioned last month that we
now have a ride-on lawnmower. Well, in a bid to squeeze into a father-of-the-groom
wedding suit later this month, I have made a massive effort to lose some weight
by cutting out the wine and cheese which, up until this weekend, has been
working fine. A couple of games of golf per week is contributing to the
exercise but I do miss walking behind the mower for hours at a time to get my
steps in. But here’s the interesting thing, my Fitbit watch has been fooled
into thinking that sitting on the mowing machine constitutes exercise. Result!
I kid you not, after I finish an hour’s worth of laziness in the seat I get
rewarded with the information that I have just walked to Bordeaux and back. Who
makes these things?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Anyone who has been here to
Chauffour will tell you that we have a great view from our back terrace of a
dilapidated ancient barn and windmill on the near horizon. Well, we did do
until a few months ago when someone came along and knocked the barn down. For
the next weeks our peace was shattered by heavy machinery digging and moving
earth, then followed by a constant trail of concrete lorries. Lord knows what
they are building up there but by the size of it methinks a large family will
be moving in by the end of the summer to overlook the privacy of our swimming
pool. Maybe they will fill the spare rooms with Ukrainian refugees. Ha, we
could all have a sing-along to Go-SHUM! </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Countdown is now on until we head
off on our UK travels, with the first stop on British soil to get a new MOT on
the camper. So, in true mechanical fashion, the damn thing has broken down.
Well, not exactly broken but it is sending me a warning that something isn’t
right and that in turn will fail its test. A light on the dashboard suggests my
Air Bag isn’t working properly. She was fine last time I looked, washing the
dishes in the kitchen! </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">And run...</p>andyfrazierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13700928610118865536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1268593027334032797.post-17008217230910424482022-04-20T08:15:00.000-07:002022-04-20T08:15:08.252-07:00Carlsberg Cauldron <p> <span style="text-align: justify;">Whoosh, there it goes again, that
deadline rushing by at great speed. Had I written this a few days ago, when I
should have done, I would be once again berating the French weather with its
cold rain and wind, but thankfully this weekend it has at last furnished us
with a few rays of summer which will hopefully last more than a couple of days.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">This, of course, is silly season
in the garden but with too many other work commitments at present I leave a lot
of that to my lovely wife. However, unfortunately she failed to see the tree
stump that I have spent the last 15 years avoiding with the lawnmower, the
consequence of which was a loud bang, lots of smoke, a big pool of oil and its
instant death. So, after many years, we have now invested in a new shiny toy with
a comfy seat on it along with some red and white tape around the no-go areas. Thankfully,
the new machine has some headlights on it, in case I need to shoehorn in a
midnight cut! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I mean, really? That’s
about as useful putting climbing shoes on a cat!</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">This time of year is also rugby
season and last weekend we took off south in the camper to see a few European
games. Doing her research, Wendy spotted on the internet a parking place
ideally situated within a few minutes’ walk from the stadium in Toulouse.
Nearby were a few bars and restaurants, perfect. What we hadn’t bargained for
was it was also the local drug-dealing spot, where cars came and went all
through the night, fulfilling their procurement. We have since found out it was
also a local ‘dogging’ site, whatever one of those might be!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anyway, the rugby was great although the Toulouse
fans were less than enamoured with the ref after he sent off one of their
players for being reckless and hence them losing the match to the Northern
Irish. To say they were a little hostile is like calling Putin a naughty boy.
Poor man had to be escorted off the pitch after the final whistle by a couple
of burley security guards.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Next day we
made it to Montpellier, a city bathed in sunshine, and an atmosphere far
removed from the cauldron of the previous match, including a win for Wendy’s
beloved Harlequins. A few beers in Molly Malones and then parked up by the
beach, where there wasn’t a dog in sight! If Carlsberg did rugby weekends, then
the Heineken cup would one of them! </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">We are now on a countdown to our
two months trip away in the camper, touring UK for a number of reasons
including a family wedding, a jubilee party, some sheep-shopping, a couple of
major ag shows and another stint on TV. Yes, it may be an exhausting time but we
might as well shoehorn in as much as we can in the shortest time. Our three
Ryeland sheep are gaining condition nicely and we have reasonably confident
hopes that they won’t let the side down at the Royal Highland show in mid June.
Unfortunately, as I am again on the commentary team for the event, my
inexperienced wife has been tasked with the duty of exhibiting said beasts,
whilst I ridicule her from the comfort of the commentators box. As if I would?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Looking after Chauffour for the
duration we have appointed a rather nice couple to house-sit, as it happens a Jamaican/Danish
pairing. To get to know them better we invited them round for lunch, only to
find out that he is/was a top chef and they were both vegetarian. Naturally I
rose to the challenge by providing a top meal consisting of a plate of
spaghetti with a few bits of fish in it but they didn’t seem to mind and the
deal was sealed over a glass of chardonnay. Not only don’t they eat meat but
they are also very conscious of where the food comes from, sourcing everything
organic. I have offered them the use of our vegetable patch only to be declined
because I admitted I occasionally use Round-Up to keep the weeds at bay. Oh
well, all the more for us then. At least the lambs will be saved from the bbq
until we return.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">On that subject, we enjoyed a
fine shoulder of lamb just yesterday, shared with friends that included my old
pal, an ex-rockite who once lived on the greenway. Much reminiscing was done
over a few glasses of red and probably most of this readership were talked
about in one way or another, in case your ears were burning, Ed? </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">And with that, I must dash, due
on the golf course in an hour, complete with large hat to stop my own ears
burning. Four! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>andyfrazierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13700928610118865536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1268593027334032797.post-79263032604146136222022-03-23T01:56:00.004-07:002022-03-31T04:10:26.934-07:00High speed draft<p> <span style="text-align: justify;">As a farmer I am conditioned to
moan about something, so the fact we have far too many lambs this year is
unsurprisingly a headache. Six ewes had sixteen lambs, how ridiculous? And to
cap it all, the final set of triplets only has enough milk to feed one of the
little blighters! I am getting too old to be feeding pet lambs so we have
hopefully found someone to do that duty for us.</span><span style="text-align: justify;">
</span><span style="text-align: justify;">At least Daisy is managing her twins quite well, although she is never
too far from the over-priced feed bag.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Thankfully the weather was fairly
kind through lambing but the wind has since turned into the east and that
always catches us here at Chauffour, with a harsh cold blow catching the field,
shed, lambs and draughty side of the house. My grandfather always said
"when the wind is in the east, it's neither good for man nor beast!"
He wasn’t wrong there. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">The same wind also took our
satellite dish but, in a simple twist of fate, this happily coincided with the
installation of our new Fibre-optic internet cabling. Yes, after over a year
since we chopped down a row of huge pine trees to make way for its entrance, we
finally have download speeds I could only ever have dreamt of. So it's goodbye
sketchy Sky, hello internet TV, all 300 channels of you. Admittedly, 295 of
them are complete rubbish, unless you count the red-hot Dutch ones, but at
least we can watch Pointless of an evening without Zander Armstrong sounding
like a Dalek! Of course, with it comes a whole direct-line to depression. War,
fuel prices, bombs and dying babies don’t make for uplifting viewing, as they
tug my frayed heart-strings in a dozen directions, while the world watches the
horror with helpless indignation. One can't help but wonder where this
post-apocalyptic apocalypse will end but, as sure as eggs is eggs, the supply
and demand rule will certainly apply to the price of food. In a year when we
will be away for a couple of months of the growing season, I had decided not to
grow any vegetables this time around but it may be time to rethink that
process, even if I have to give them away in our absence. At least we may have
extra lamb on the barbie, come summer! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">The beginning of our travels will
see us rock up in Lincolnshire to my number two son's wedding. As a gift, I
promised to provide French wine for the event but, since the B word, this poses
less of a hurdle and more of a five-bar-gate as we are no longer allowed to
bring in more than a dinner-party's worth of alcohol without facing tax, duty
and a host of other invisible charges. Our other option is to 'ship' it in, but
with all the above charges, a three quid bottle of claret lands in UK at around
a tenner. Coupled with all the other taxes we are now forced to pay when buying
UK goods back into France, has Brexit really been a worthwhile decision? Asking
for a friend! </p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Continuing on the above theme, I
had hoped to import our small flock of Ryeland sheep from Scotland back here to
Chauffour this year but again it seems that what were, just a couple of years
ago, perfectly healthy animals now have to undergo so many unrealistic tests
you would think I have bought them from a leprosy enclosure. In a period where
restrictions of travel have been lifted so people can come, and go and refugees
and immigrants are welcome, isn’t it time someone took a look at these
ridiculous livestock rules with their sensible-specs on? I can of course import
stock from Ireland to France without so much as a veterinary inspection, where
obviously their animals are apparently free of everything from Scrapie to Spud
disease. Yeah, right! Pull the other one, it rattles!</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I mentioned a few months ago that
we had applied for, and received, residency in France which means we are
allowed to stay here more than three months per year without being deported.
Seemingly that too is not without its Brexit implications, and we now are duty-bound
to fill in an annual fifty-page tax form here declaring everything we have
bought, sold, visited or seen in UK over the previous twelve months, down to
the last half-pint of warm beer. Maybe I should mention that while in Scotland
we have to pay upwards of eight quid for a bottle of New World wine to get
anything better than stuff not fit to pour on our French fries. Would that get
me a rebate? Non, Monsieur, just pay your double-tax, or bugger off back to
your land of Rosbif. What a fiasco!</p>andyfrazierhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13700928610118865536noreply@blogger.com0