Category Archives: self sufficiency

The September veg garden

01 Tuesday Sep 2020

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Harvesting this month: French beans, courgettes, patty pan summer squash, sweetcorn, potatoes (the last of the second earlies to eat, plus maincrops to store), apples and raspberries, plus cucumbers and tomatoes from the greenhouse, and baby-leaf salads from pots outside the back door.

Sowing this month: Autumn-sown (Japanese) onions and lots of salads, for outside (under cloches) and in pots to refill the greenhouse borders once the toms are out, including winter lettuce, mizuna, mibuna, American land cress, corn salad, chard, beetroot (for leaves), turnips (for leaves), spring onions, and round-rooted carrots.

This month I will be:

  • Clearing summer brassicas
  • Planting autumn-sown onion sets
  • Mulching empty beds
  • Saving seeds
  • Taking cuttings of herbs and borderline-tender plants like salvias and pelargoniums
  • Planting herbs and perennial vegetables
  • Cooking apples (and tomatoes) to freeze for winter

New perennial crops for this year

Perennial vegetables are so much more sustainable than annual as you don’t have to continually disturb the soil (so no carbon release) and they require much less input in the way of resources compared to raising seeds and using lots of water, warmth, feed and compost.

There aren’t many of them, though, and some are very unfamiliar. So one of my projects this season has been to start a perennial vegetable garden. No soil disturbance, a fraction of the inputs (feed, water, fertiliser, compost) of annual vegetables, and you lock up more carbon with permanent planting too. And a fraction of the effort of regular vegetable gardening. But the trick is to find perennial vegetables you actually want to eat: here’s what I’ve started with.

Daubenton’s (perennial) kale is growing well: it’s under a little tent of mesh to keep the butterflies off but I’ll remove that once they go away at the end of the season.

The skirret was a total failure: sowed direct in May as instructed, absolutely no seedlings. No idea if the slugs got them or if it was too dry or if they just didn’t fancy it this year. It may have been the seeds themselves so will order from a different supplier next year just in case. And I will be sowing them into pots where I can keep an eye on them.

Salsify were more successful: several good leafy rosettes now from direct sowing in May. I am leaving them to establish for a year or two before I try to pull a few roots.

American ground nut (Apios americana): I planted these odd little tubers (they are actually beans but are more like small, floury potatoes to eat) at the foot of canes by the low wall. Not all survived, but enough did for me to think this will be an interesting taste test next year!

Chinese artichokes: Easy as anything to grow – they’re related to deadnettle. I’ve got them in an old sink in the back garden: I will wait until they die back before harvesting some of the knobbly roots to try (probably next month: watch this space).

And a new addition: Turkish rocket (Bunias orientalis). It’s not the most spectacular plant, being a clump of fuzzy-felt leaves and not much else. But it is bone hardy and a useful spicy salad ingredient. And when I say spicy, I mean spicy: I had a little taste and like most things Turkish it’s ten times stronger than anything you’ve ever tasted before. I am not sure if I like it yet, but I will persevere.

New mentoring service

Well actually it’s not entirely new: I’ve been mentoring several students recently and have found it works so well I am offering it more widely.

The idea is that you have me “on tap” for advice and help about organic and sustainable methods of food growing, over email (no complicated technology to master!) and when you need it. Arrange an hour whenever it suits you and I can answer questions, give you loads of ideas and inspiration, guide you in starting up a new veg garden or help you develop an existing one. It’s entirely up to you what we talk about and it’s completely tailored to you and your garden. Book a one-off session, or a regular time each week. It’s up to you!

A lovely comment from one regular student recently: “I’m SO glad you’re there!”

For more details contact me at sally(dot)nex(at)btinternet(dot)com.

This year’s tomatoes: the verdict

I haven’t a lot of room in the garden to grow dozens of different types of tomatoes but I do like to try one or two new ones each year (there are about 7,500 varieties to choose from so there’s always one you haven’t grown before)

It has not been a vintage year. I’ve had lots of tomatoes: but only one of the three I grew came up to scratch.

Ailsa Craig Good old Ailsa. What would we do without her? There are relatively few straightforward medium-sized salad toms around nowadays – we all seem to be growing fancy cherries, black tomatoes and beefsteaks instead. But sometimes all you need is a straightforward slicing tom and this one is fantastic: reliable, prolific and great flavour too.

Coeur de Bue To be honest this is my own fault as I was being a cheapskate. I grew Coeur de Boeuf a year or two ago and loved it: all the flavour and size of a beefsteak without the difficulty (or low yields). This one came as a freebie and I thought, Bue? Boeuf? Not much in it… how wrong can you be. Insipid taste, pinkish red (so hard to tell when it’s ripe) and a sort of dry texture: a pale shadow of the original. Won’t be growing again.

Reisentomate Another freebie I should have turned down. It’s an interesting idea: a tomato that grows in segments, so you can pick off a segment at a time to eat rather than having the whole tomato. But beyond the novelty value, you’ve got to ask yourself….. why? Flavour insipid, texture dry, fruits small. Just no.

Mouse attack!

Mice got into the greenhouse and ate my low-hanging tomatoes…
… and then they nobbled my newly-emerged beetroot seedlings. The giveaway that this is not slug damage is that nipped-off leaf: a slug would have eaten them down to the ground.

I have been battling the mice. You may think this would be something of an unequal fight, being as I’m several gazillion times their size but they are obviously far cleverer than me.

It started with them taking munchies out of my low-hanging tomatoes: I have never had this happen before in all my 25+ years of growing veg but it was definitely mice as they climbed on top of one fruit and left a lot of poo as a calling card. Yum #not.

Now they’re after my beetroot seedlings. I sowed them direct and they came up within days. Yet along came my whiskery friends and… no more beetroot seedlings.

I do have a feral cat but she is getting old nowadays and spends most of her time on the boiler. I am also starting to think a cat brings too much in the way of collateral damage: don’t mind the baby rabbits so much, but the robins are heartbreaking. So Sooty is to be my last cat and I will have to think of other ways to keep the little blighters off my food in future.

I could trap them, but I always prefer a live and let live policy so for now I am trying an alternative approach. Come back next month for news of its success (or not).

Between the lines

10 Sunday Sep 2017

Posted by in book review, kitchen garden, self sufficiency

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bookpicBy far the most exciting thing to happen to me in the middle of a rainy and slightly frustrating week was the publication of my new book.

This is all a novel experience for me (sorry, dreadful pun) and I am finding it a little disconcerting: I have to draw attention to myself, for one thing, blow my own trumpet and generally go on about what I do instead of hiding in a corner of my living room bashing away at my keyboard behind the comforting anonymity of a computer screen.

However, now I find myself with book launches, author signings, talks and podcasts to do: publicity a go-go, and nowhere for a slightly reclusive gardener to hide. I can’t even go down to the far end of the veg garden where nobody can find me, as it’s (still) raining.

The book began as a simple idea: what if everyone could be just a little bit self-sufficient? Even if they lived a normal 21st century life in an ordinary house, without a smallholding, or much time, just like me?

And – as these things do – it mushroomed into an examination of what exactly it means to be self-sufficient, and from there became a gallop through the last 20 years of my life distilled into all the stuff I’ve learned about growing things and providing for myself and my family, on a journey of my own to look after myself as much as I possibly could through my own efforts.

As I’ve learned to supply more and more of my own food from my back garden, plus various borrowed fields, allotments and strips of land, I have realised lots of things.

First: there’s no such thing as self-sufficiency. Even the most dedicated off-gridder has to hew their house from the surrounding woodland with an axe someone else has smelted and forged. So once you’ve taken that on board, it becomes a question of how self-sufficient you can be.

And then you realise that everyone can supply at least some of their food by their own efforts. Even if all you’ve got is a doorstep, you can plant a rosemary bush in a pot in the sun and never have to buy herbs wrapped in plastic from the supermarket again.

Add a middle-sized garden and you can become self-sufficient in half-a-dozen vegetables really easily, and another dozen or so with a little extra effort. Start to get really hooked (and you will) and you can knock more things off your weekly shopping list, including fruit, drinks, cough and cold remedies, tea, eggs, lamb…

There will always be some things I will have to rely on others for. Flour, for one thing, and bread, pasta and rice. Butter, milk and cheese (I could keep goats, but I value my sanity: I have chased far too many of my mum’s goats across various villages in the South of France to want to ever do that again. Long story). Clothes (I can’t wear wool. Besides – woolly knickers. ‘Nuff said); cars and transport, other than walking.

So actually, in the grand scheme of things, I’m probably not that self-sufficient at all. But the point is, it is hugely important to me that I produce as much as is within my power from my own efforts.

Why? Because that way, I can eat absolutely fresh, organic food that I know for sure has never been sprayed with any chemicals at all, or injected with antibiotics unless it needs to be – and there’s lots of it, and it tastes great.

Because there is something deeply satisfying about sitting down to a plate of food and knowing that you have provided everything on it, through your own efforts. It taps into some atavistic caveman instinct and there’s something profoundly reassuring in the knowledge that, come the apocalpyse, we’ll be all right. We certainly won’t go short of home-made chutney, that’s for sure.

And because when I’m providing for myself it means I’m not sitting like a baby bird, mouth open, waiting helplessly for someone else to feed me. It’s a matter of self-respect. Plus growing what I eat, even if it’s just a part of my overall consumption, makes me really think about where my food comes from, and appreciate the effort that goes into growing it: and that makes me waste less, and pollute less, and treat the animals that produce my food better. It makes me responsible, as far as I can be, for the weight of my foot upon the world. And besides, it’s a lot of fun. Care to join me?

Grab your own copy of Growing Self-Sufficiency at a hefty introductory discount from Wordery – here’s the link!

Garden words: Purely for medicinal purposes

11 Saturday Mar 2017

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The Gardener’s Companion to Medicinal Plants
Royal Botanic Gardens, Kew

Confession time: I do like to self-medicate.

Not, I must hastily add, in the alcoholic sense (well, not very often and only in extremis). But in the reach out into the garden and grab your remedy of choice sort of sense.

Herbal medicines can be as simple as a sprig of peppermint dunked in a mug of boiling water to ease your indigestion after an overindulgent meal: tastier than a Rennies, and at least you know exactly what’s gone into it.

Or you can go the whole hog and start boiling up comfrey roots into a sticky paste to smear over gauze in a poultice: wrap it around a sprain and it’ll ease pain and reduce swelling. Not for nothing is comfrey commonly known as knitbone.

I use sage tea to soothe a sore throat; I try to drink a rosemary tisane at about elevenish to aid my failing memory (the redoubtable Jekka McVicar swears by this one). There’s an aloe vera plant on my kitchen windowsill in case anyone should burn themselves; and I’ll pick a leaf of feverfew in the herb garden to slip into a cheese sandwich (just a little as it’s quite bitter) to ease the pain of headaches, including migraines, which my youngest occasionally suffers from. There are loads more: in fact there’s a whole chapter on the subject, including recipes, in my new book (in all good bookshops from September 7th!)

But I wish I’d had this book on my shelf to refer to while I was writing it. My knowledge on herbal medicine tends to be a bit piecemeal, handed down from friends and relatives or snippets picked up from books and magazines. So I’m not all that adventurous, really: I stick to my known remedies and go to the doctor for the rest.

This book, though, gathers all those scraps of herbal lore into one beautiful tome, along with a whole load of other remedies I never even knew existed. Who knew you could brew hawthorn berries into a spicy wine to help with poor circulation? Or that squash leaves are anti-inflammatories – you can rub the sap on burns, apparently. Elderberries prevent colds from taking hold – take a teaspoon of elderberry-infused vinegar three times a day at the first signs of a cold and you’ll head off the worst. And chickweed, of all things, can help soothe eczema.

I particularly like the considered, measured approach to the subject. This is no flag-waving sales pitch for the benefits of herbal medicine: it’s an impartial assessment of the potential uses for each plant and – best of all – the scientific basis (if any) for its effectiveness.

So let’s take hops, for example: I’m familiar with them as a sedative, usually the dried flowers slipped into a pillowcase to help you sleep. That use is listed here (along with others including mixing it with poppy seeds to treat bruises and boils); but there’s also an analysis of the evidence. There are few clinical trials (yet) which support its usefulness for treating restlessness and anxiety; but solid evidence confirming that the essential oils are antibacterial.

A balanced view is a rare thing in the field of herbal medicine, so this alone would have earned this book a place on my “essential reading” shelf. But it’s also packed with recipes and instructions – everything from rosehip syrup to calendula lip balm and passionflower tea (it helps you sleep). And all in a book which is a useful size – a tad larger than A5, so you can hold it in one hand quite comfortably while stirring the chickweed cream with the other. And I haven’t even mentioned yet the exquisite illustrations lifted mainly from Kew’s archives of botanical art. My one and only criticism of this otherwise thoughtfully compiled book is that there is no detailed list of who painted these beautiful works of art; credit where credit is due, after all.

But overall this is one of the best books to land on my desk in ages, and one which I can already see I shall be thumbing through again and again. In short – an essential reference work for anyone who has even a passing interest in picking their medicines from the garden. I will treasure my copy for years to come.

We interrupt this tour of Guernsey with an announcement…

03 Sunday Apr 2016

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A little interlude from my tour around the Garden Isle, as I have a little news I wanted to share…

lamb1

Our first arrival came along on Friday afternoon. Slightly took me by surprise, if I’m honest, as we weren’t due any lambs till Tuesday, and I hadn’t even seriously started checking the ewes regularly yet. But I turned up for the usual afternoon feed to find my oldest and most experienced ewe, Apple, on her side and in the middle of giving birth.

They look very pathetic when they first emerge: I try to stop myself interfering too much if I can possibly help it though as the ewe knows best what to do. In this case all I did was to make sure the mucus was cleared away from the lamb’s nostrils and it was breathing OK, then lifted a leg to find out what we had – a ewe lamb, as it turns out. How lovely: that means we can keep her. The kids have already named her Sugar….

This particular ewe normally has twins, so it was a surprise to have her with a single for the first time: I had been worrying that she was smaller than usual this close to lambing, and now I know why.

We waited with them till the lamb was up on her feet and had taken her first feed: it took a while, about half an hour, but she figured it out in the end. I towelled her down a little as it was chilly and they do come out sopping wet: then I sprayed her navel thoroughly with iodine. This is a key point of entry for infection so you have to be diligent: I sprayed it twice more over the next 12 hours or so just to make sure. You can tell when it’s healed well because it dries up and shrivels with no swelling by the belly.

lamb2

What a difference a day makes. By Saturday morning she was up and about and though a little wobbly still, very healthy, taking an interest in her surroundings (and her mum’s milk supply!) and even trying a little skip, though she did fall over mostly. Her eyes are clear too – very important as we have a little inturned eyelashes in our flock, easy to fix but you have to be quick as it’s a very painful condition.

lamb3

And this is what you want to see. Mum healthy, eating and feeding well: later today, after two days inside where I can keep an eye on them, they’ll be going out in the field with a companion for company, and we’ll be waiting for the remaining two to arrive.

It’s a boy!

01 Tuesday Mar 2016

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IMG_3383

Big ol’ wattles… check. Handsome tail feathers… check. It’s taken him a while, but he’s definitely decided he’s a boy. Oh dear…

Oh dear.

One of my girls has turned into a boy.

I’m talking hens: or rather, in this case, cockerels. This spring I had a slightly chaotic little spate of broody hens and just sort of left two of them on a couple of clutches of eggs. This turned out to be a very bad idea, as hens, it seems, get very jealous of each other when they’re sitting on eggs. It was when I turned up at the henhouse to find one broody sitting plumb on top of the other one in an attempt to hatch out her eggs as well that I realised  I probably should have shut them both into separate broody cages.

Well, you live and you learn: unsurprisingly hardly any of the eggs hatched as the moment the hens got a chick they wandered off and abandoned the rest of the clutch. But I did get two precious little chicks, one for each broody, from my haphazard and rather traumatic experiment.

I did think that both were female and was quietly congratulating myself: chickens are notorious for producing clutches which are 99% male therefore forcing you to have to dispose of a lot of unwanted cockerels.

However now, coming up for a year later, it is rather obvious that one of my ‘she’s’ is in fact a ‘he’.

This is a bit of a blow. And it brings me up short against my stated desire to be self-sufficient in as many kinds of meat as I can manage (save beef: I just don’t have the access to enough land, or the right body clock, to keep cows).

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I have so far managed pork, lamb and pheasant without once killing anything with my bare hands. But chickens are a different matter: unless you raise a lot, enough to justify taking them to the local slaughterhouse, it’s definitely DIY.

I hold the opinion that if you aren’t prepared to face up to the realities of killing animals, you should be vegetarian. So this is my test. If I can’t kill my chicken myself, it’s lentils all the way.

One of the things that’s holding me back is simple fear of doing the animal harm and killing it inhumanely through my own ignorance. So since I know a friend who is an old hand at wringing chickens’ necks I think I’m going to co-opt her and get her to oversee my efforts, and advise the least painful way to do it (preferably without the chicken knowing a thing about it, which is what I always strive for).

I’ve got to get on with it soon as Clive (Big Kahuna cockerel and baby-cockerel’s dad) is starting to notice there’s a young pretender in the flock and there is more squabbling than I’m happy with. And that can only get worse.

At least there will be roast chicken for tea at the end of all this. Wish me luck…

A gardening gift for Christmas

22 Sunday Nov 2015

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MGS-Ad-300x250-xmasStuck for something to buy a green-fingered loved one this Christmas?

Well – My Garden School are now offering gift vouchers.

I hear the Advanced Veg Growing & Self-Sufficiency course is good….. 😀

(we’re currently having lots of lively discussion about the mystery ailment afflicting one student’s leeks, plus gardening in Idaho and Florida… my students do get about a bit!)

Gift Vouchers cost £145 and are available to buy here (you could always treat yourself if you can’t persuade anyone else to!)

Happy Christmas!

Life in the greenhouse: November

20 Friday Nov 2015

Posted by in greenhouse, herbs, kitchen garden, my garden, self sufficiency

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greenhouse1

There is a distinct air of panic hanging around my greenhouses this weekend.

This is because I have been caught on the hop. Two weeks of double-digit temperatures in November lulled me into a false sense of security: it may have been raining, but global warming and all that – I expected another winter like the last one, when the first (half-hearted) frost didn’t arrive till February.

So I’ve been eyeing the deepening blues on the weather forecast with increasing alarm: and this Sunday there is an undeniable minus figure on the chart.

This has become highly unusual here in Somerset, and it’s sent me into a bit of a tailspin. I had already cleared out the tattered remains of the old crops, at least, although that was mainly so that I could plant the salads in place of this year’s tomatoes.

This morning saw me start the process of covering the borders with weed-suppressing membrane and lining the inside of the frost-free greenhouse with bubblewrap. A heater will go in here on Sunday, set to a couple of degrees above freezing. I’m kind of hoping I won’t need it for more than a few nights. And I’ll be spending my Sunday afternoon moving in the entire collection of scented-leaved geraniums, a couple of lemon verbenas, several Mexican sages, the prickly pear that’s been holidaying outside for the summer and a purple banana (I live in hope).

(In case you’re wondering why I’m not mentioning the monster tree chilli in the corner, by the way – that’s because there’s more on that tomorrow.)

greenhouse2

There are potatoes in here – second-cropping ones, timed to be ready for Christmas. But I’m a bit worried about them: they’ve been growing like topsy lately but are showing definite signs of blight. No wonder: it’s been so damp lately I think I’m getting blight. I’ve trimmed off the worst and am now keeping my fingers crossed the disease will be slowed by cold.

greenhouse3

The other greenhouse, meanwhile, is looking much more shipshape: I have planted out the lettuces and moved in my three-pot salad and coriander plots (read all about it in the bookywook next Easter folks!). I just cleared the latest pot so once the cold snap is over I’ll sow this with a winter mix.

All set for winter then: and looking like a good supply of leafy salads for us till spring. In here there are several kinds of lettuces, mibuna and chard; I have some mizuna in a container I’m wanting to move in here too as it’ll keep growing much longer under glass. And I’m expecting the coriander to keep leafy till it gets seriously cold: it’s miles easier to grow at this time of year as it’s not so inclined to bolt.

So we’re almost shipshape and ready to go: just got to figure out where that last sheet of bubblewrap has got to…

 

Guard turkeys

17 Tuesday Nov 2015

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guineafowl1One of the gardens I work in I refer to – possibly slightly rudely – as the chicken garden, mainly because whenever I go there I am surrounded by a bevy of under-gardeners in the form of a dozen or so hens.

They are the most free-range, happy hens I have ever met, despite being apparently totally unprotected from foxes: they live at the edge of a very rural village, fields all around, a few neighbours but nothing that would stop any self-respecting fox in search of his tea.

But – and I have all fingers and toes crossed and touching wood as I type – they are all still very much alive. And that’s because of the four little oddities which bustle around with them.

guineafowl2

These are the first guineafowl I have ever been at close quarters with, and they’re quite captivating. They look awful: they are possibly, in fact, the ugliest birds in existence from the neck up, where they bear more than a passing resemblance to a small and scruffy turkey.

From the neck down they are absolutely gorgeous: fluffy and puffy like great balls of beautifully patterned eiderdown. It’s as if whoever put them together got distracted halfway through and picked up the wrong pattern when they came back to the job.

They are also enormous characters. They are given to doing very odd things: yellow builder’s bags bring them out in mild hysteria and they will stand there for hours attacking it determinedly and ferociously. Cars suffer the same fate.

guineafowl3

But best of all (except for the neighbours) they make a huge racket whenever anything at all alarming comes near. It’s hard to describe the noise: a bit like a cross between an old fashioned car horn and a chronically creaky door. If that means nothing to you, just have a listen to this.

But it’s really, really loud. If you were a fox and you came within a snifter of this lot everyone for about fifty square miles would know all about it.

Keeping guineafowl is a little different from chickens. They’re very flighty, and not particularly tame (though they will follow you around the garden like a phalanx of little guard turkeys). They are extremely free range, wandering much further than a chicken would – these ones regularly go walkabout around the village. And they won’t roost in a house, preferring to fly up into trees, and lay their eggs all over the place. If you can find them, they’re small but worth having – a bit like a bantam’s.

And of course to include them in your self-sufficiency repertoire to the full you really ought to eat them. Guineafowl are among the most prized of poultry delicacies: I’m told the meat is rather like pheasant.

I couldn’t quite bring myself to do that – haven’t even screwed up the courage to despatch a chicken yet – and the eggs are too small to make me want to give them the field room. But the guard-turkey thing: that’s worth having. You could save yourself an awful lot of chicken wire with a few of these. Not to mention the cost of a TV licence too: guineafowl are much more fun to watch.

You can visit these particular ones yourself if you happen to be down these parts: they live at The Beeches B&B, and a very fine and beautiful place it is too.

 

Feeling sheepish

09 Monday Nov 2015

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sheep

Left to right: Cream, Pie and Apple, my breeding ewes

It’s been a busy month on the sheep front.

My little flock of Dorset Downs is generally pretty low-maintenance: a quick daily check plus a longer session every six weeks or so to do feet and bums and that’s about it.

But twice a year I have to pay them a lot more attention.

The first, unsurprisingly, is spring, when it’s lambing time. I become ever so slightly obsessed by my sheep through April and May – to the point where I actually turn down work so I don’t have to leave them.

Considering how much they give me in return – three lambs in the freezer this year, that’s our year’s supply of meat plus one to sell, give away or have parties with – I don’t really complain.

The second time of year they need my undivided time is now, in late autumn, when the cycle starts all over again.

First I take the year’s ram lambs over to the abattoir: by then they’ve been separated from the rest of the flock for a month or two in a little field over the road, eating their heads off and turning into teenagers. At this point they start being really annoying (getting their heads stuck in fences, escaping from time to time, pulling down wire and generally making a nuisance of themselves) so I’m usually quite pleased to see them go.

At about the same time I separate off this year’s ewe lambs: this year, in fact, just one, which means the spare sheep (known as Ewok for her fetching fringe) goes with her. And since I’ve got them in, I give the breeding ewes a once-over to make sure feet are trimmed and all is well: this is the last time I’ll look at them till the ram goes home after Christmas.

It’s not been the best of years for the breeding ewes: I lost one of my best, Blackberry, to a twisted gut this summer (Custard, the ewe lamb, is her orphan). Just one of those things: all sheep farmers will tell you that where you’ve got livestock, you’ve got deadstock (and that sheep die for a living – I’ve found that one less true, though maybe I’ve just been lucky).

So the result is that I’ve got three to lamb again this year: suits me fine, as one is my other oldest breeding ewe and Blackberry’s half-sister, Apple, who always produces twins (she’s the one on the right in the picture above). Then there’s her daughter Pie – front left – and Cream, back left, who’s lambing for the first time this season. So that’s at least four lambs if all goes well – and all I really need is two, to keep us fed. Anything else is a bonus: one of the nicest things about aiming for self-sufficiency rather than profit is that there’s no pressure to produce any more than you need.

ram

Who’s a handsome boy then?

And that’s my next task: off to fetch the ram, which I rent from a proper Dorset Down farmer about an hour’s drive from here in Dorset. It’s always a bit of a heart-in-mouth journey. Last year I could hear the ram hurling himself at the sides of the small aluminium trailer every time I stopped at a traffic light: this year, thank goodness, I’ve ended up with a less suicidal chap who also happens to be quite pretty. Still didn’t hang around long at traffic lights though.

All that done, it’s calmed down a bit round here. I scratch the noses of Ewok and Custard each morning on my way up to let out the chickens, then spend five minutes hanging over the fence to check the three breeding ewes plus ram; and that’s pretty much it, set fair for the next few months.

You count five months forward to estimate the first new arrival – so that’s lambs from 7 April, I hope!