Whistlebiscuit

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.  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.

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.

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.  

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.

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?

    

Scratched bottoms

   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?

   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.

   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!

   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!

   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!       

   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.

Long live the King!

Sunshine Hotel

 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.

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.

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.

A character often mentioned in this column is our sheep Daisy Death-wish, now in her 11^th 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.

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.

In other news my weekly podcast Toplines and Tales is still going strong heading for our 100^th 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!  Anyway, onwards and upwards.

Flying Welshmen

 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.

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.

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.

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.’

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.

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?

Hoggy vs Haggis

 

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.  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.

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.

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.

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!

      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!

Tractor Domination

 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!

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.

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!

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?

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!

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!

And run...

Carlsberg Cauldron

 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.

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!  I mean, really? That’s about as useful putting climbing shoes on a cat!

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!  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.  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!

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?   

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.

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?

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!