Although my partner William is a Scotsman who has lived ‘nearly’ in the country his whole life and is far more practical than myself, he has never attempted total immersion before! Naturally, being a London girl (much as I hate to admit it), I find myself also without a clue as to when one should plant vegetables or how to sand floors. As I walk through the meadows, I think of Thomas Hardy’s rural England and expect to see Tess of the d’Urbervilles coming round the corner. The state of the house means that the rent is within our budget and having put so much effort into making it a home, we actually arrived into the space long before the furniture did. I sit writing at William’s grandfather’s bureau by the window and although I am typing rather than scratching with a feather, history surrounds me. Our home sits on a river and is leased by an old lady who lives in Australia (the perfect landlady – no surprise home visits likely!) The name Ladyholm dates back to the Knights Templars of the 14th Century; a religious military order which protected pilgrims. The ladies, presumably nuns, who attended to the Knights would sleep at our house whilst on pilgrimages around the sacred wells in the area.
William’s dog Caine, a nine-year-old-chocolate coloured Doberman was enjoying life in the wilderness as much as we were at first, he could at last stretch his legs in the back garden. Yet, as time went on, we felt that he may desire a companion. Each night we closed the kitchen door on a lonely looking Caine. He had been walked for his nine years round a busy loch each day where he could socialise with friends, but out here, there was only us and rabbits. And so began the quest for Caine’s girlfriend. We found what we thought would be a suitable match in age and truth be told, colour, on the internet. The bitch was of the rare ‘Isabella’ colour, which is a sandy grey, so named after Isabella Archduchess of Austria who vowed not to change her underwear until her father Phillip II of Spain had taken Ostend in 1601. As the story goes, the Siege lasted some three years and Isabella emerged with sandy coloured petticoats and under-garments, not to mention a rancid perfume!
We packed Caine into the car and set off on the long drive south into England. Something of a collector’s item in the dog world, ‘Pepper’ was definitely for the connoisseur, as she did not look like a Doberman, lacking the characteristic markings. The brief courtship seemed to go well – no teeth were shown as mutual sniffing took place. Caine seemed satisfied and William was pleased with this rarity.
The drive was long and the day hot, so we decided to let the dogs out of the car at a service stop along the motorway. Before we could grab her, the bitch shot out of the boot and along the motorway out of sight. Caine stood looking in bemusement between his fleeing future and us. What could we do? Poor Caine, she would rather run the gauntlet, criss-crossing a five lane motorway than be with him. I thought of the legendary Wanda, daughter of King Krakus who chose death over marrying a German, (Caine’s illustrious pedigree traces back into European bloodlines), perhaps Pepper preferred to sacrifice herself rather than join with Caine? I remember being sat down by my Ciocia20 when I was dating a German man, as she recounted the legend in a distinctly serious manner, reminding me that Wanda would not have thrown herself into the Wisła21 for nothing and that we should learn from history. (It turned out that my romance was indeed short-lived, but thankfully with less dramatic consequences!) Disheartened with the loss of the dog, we continued into Scotland. Things did not look good for Caine.
We pondered on why she chose such a drastic measure – had he not been to her liking? We had not thought to wash him before the date, maybe that was the problem – but so much so that she felt the need to bolt up the motorway?! Perhaps she just did not see herself as a Scottish ‘lass’, knowing what a long history of bloodshed existed between the English and the Scots and fearing a frosty reception of blue-painted dogs screaming “Freedom!”?! Thankfully the dog was found by her previous owner a week later. (Needless to say he did not want to deliver her into our care again.)
Much of the joy seems to have left Caine’s walks. He is inconsolable, as are we. The full impact of the incident has settled on the occupants of Ladyholm and the house no longer rings out with laughter and barking. Walks are carried out perfunctorily and dinners eaten for subsistence rather than pleasure. We need a ‘lonely hearts’ column for pets: mature male with gentle nature seeks companion who must share pastimes which include long woodland walks, hunting game and relaxing by the fire.
Caine remains a bachelor as yet and in the meantime we are distracting ourselves with jobs in the garden. We are aiming for as much self-sufficiency as we can manage with the resources we have. A section of the garden was designated for vegetables and rotavated with a prehistoric looking machine which ran William round the garden! When one is new at something, life sometimes throws in some luck as encouragement in the new undertaking. I decided to visit my father, who lives two hours away from us. William was in garden when I left. I later received a phone call to say that the entire vegetable patch was sown with potatoes, or ‘tatties’ as he calls them. The patch is approximately ten square metres – I am not an expert, but I was worried by this news – by my calculations this would be a serious amount of potatoes and I know of no way to preserve them… I estimated it would be about five potatoes to a plant, but I have since been told that it could be more like ten. In a patch that size, there could be anything up to twenty-four plants, yielding a crop of 240 – what were we going to do with all those potatoes?! It turns out that this was the best thing William could have done.
Potatoes clean the soil and should always be planted during the first year on new land. They are of course fine to eat as well. If you want to grow other things there is the option of grow bags which could not be simpler, just lay the bag on a flat surface, cut a hole in the plastic and plant seeds of your choice. Oh yes, and then the waiting with dirt-stained stained nails, (always the way to tell a true green-fingered compatriot as it is impossible to clean it all out!).
Caine waits for love, we wait for something, anything to rise out of the soil and the grow bags. Our life here resembles the ‘Good Life’ (the television programme), about a couple who are trying to be self-sufficient much to the amusement of their ridiculing friends. Many friends have been surprised by our sudden commitment to Ladyholm, wondering if we will feel isolated or bored – some even fear they have lost us to lunacy or hippy-dom. Not yet anyway. A depressed Caine Ladyholm
A depressed Caine
Ladyholm
19 http://www.chebucto.ns.ca/Philosophy/Sui-Generis/Emerson/quotes.htm>
20 Aunty
21 Vistula River, the largest in Poland
The Goat Chronicles
Ears
The goathouse
For several months now I have been inhabiting a new reality. I went from party-loving city girl – to rosy-cheeked country bumpkin in a couple of months. Sometimes I wake up in the morning and I cannot believe that this is my life, it feels simultaneously so grounded and yet, so surreal. It’s not that I don’t still enjoy a party or dressing up, but there is something far more fulfilling in the simple tasks of country life. By far the most disconcerting phenomena is the way time seems to pass more slowly, and yet in a day it does not seem possible to accomplish much more than walking the dog and cooking the day’s repasts. All of a sudden, I become tired with the fading sun and able to rise with the dawn of a new day – this is all very new to me. In the past I have preferred a rather more nocturnal mode of existence (my room at university was referred to as ‘the den’), but apparently all that can change. William, Caine, and I have all settled into the rhythms of life at Ladyholm.
I had always entertained the idea of living in the country. In my somewhat romanticised version of ‘Old Macdonald’s Farm’, I was certain that I wanted to have goats. I had visions of walking through yellow, sun-ripened wheat fields leading beautiful goats through the long grass. I cannot be entirely sure what this random affinity was based on – I certainly admire the powers of endurance required to exist in their chosen habitats whi
ch consist of the most mountainous and rugged regions. I was able to observe them in their natural environment in Greece, where I was lucky enough to have slept under the stars whilst exploring the islands. On one island in particular, Ikaria, which has a lenient relationship with free-campers, we climbed up into the hills and slept in the open by cascading waterfalls, only emerging for tiropita (cheese pastry), batteries (for music) and ouzo (aniseed flavoured Greek spirit).
The island of Ikaria and the Ikarian Sea are named after the legendary Ikarus, whose father Daedalus fashioned wings of feather and wax in order to escape from King Minos. Deadalus and Ikarus were imprisoned because Deadalus had given Ariadne, the daughter of King Minos, some string, which saved Theseus from the Minotaur in the labyrinth. Daedalus warned his son not to fly too close to the sea or the sun, but, intoxicated by the freedom of flying and the beautiful views over the island (I would imagine), Ikarus became distracted and melted his wings. According to legend, Ikarus fell to his death in the sea. We slept in hammocks and were only woken by the bells of mountain goats on their way up through the ravines – that was when I understood that there are places on this earth where only goats can go. They won my respect and curiosity – I am also a Capricorn, but that may have less to do with it. As much as I may like to imagine myself as a graceful and athletic gazelle-goat mix, I am not sure that this would be my totem in the animal world. Embarrassingly, I am known as the ‘sloth’ between friends!
I recently discovered a quality which my partner and his son both share, in a valuable lesson. In the most reductionist view of human nature, we can divide people between those who are ‘doers’ and those who are ‘talkers’ (they only pontificate aloud, often in abundance but with little physical effect). I happened to mention over dinner that I adored goats, in a relevant conversation about animals. Two days later we received a phone-call. William’s son had found two lady goats, called ‘nannies’, as a present. It was then I realised that I had better be careful what I say around the two of them, because they possess the uncommon ability to simply manifest. The saying ‘Be careful what you wish for’ has never been truer, because you just might get it and you may have no idea what it really means!
The goats have a rather interesting story. If we had not agreed to take them in, they were going to be killed. There was about a week in between us hearing of the goats and them physically appearing. They arrived out of a trailer, one white and brown with beautiful markings and perfectly formed horns, the other was black with a little white, but she was not able to stand and walk out of the trailer. She looked strange, her head had two big lumps where her ears should have been and huge wounds all over her little body. We could not believe that anyone would transport or give away animals in that state. For farmers she was just an animal. I cried. She had been savaged by a dog a few days prior to her arrival. The dog must have been the size of a wolf: she was in the worst state I have seen a creature in. She could not stand, her head was bloody and sore, her eyes were clouded over, there was a piece of hard, black flesh, which I diagnosed as gangrene, still hanging on to her head and her coat was falling out. We were convinced that she was going to die, that the universe had sent her to us, to make her a soft straw bed, give her water and let her pass on.
Initially, on account of our inexperience, the goats colonised their own Garden of Eden. They roamed free in our large garden which runs all the way around the house and had our company which they demanded much of the time. These early days, like every novelty, were magical. We watched them with wonderment eating, climbing trees and drinking with their funny little tongues, often spying on them from the kitchen window. Caine was banished to a tiny portion of the garden for his unclear motives. He was constantly trying to get close to the goats in displays of running and barking, which made them nervous and Caine slightly unpredictable, on the one hand his wagging three-vertebrae-long tail indicated friendliness, yet on the other, his snapping teeth spelled dinner.
We were especially hard on Caine because we could see the amount of stress his presence caused both goats. Sometimes however, when he did get close, he thankfully he left the wounded one alone. I wonder if nature told him that she was not a fair fight. It is definite, that a goat with horns against a large dog is a fair match, either could win with different merits. Whenever Caine got too frisky, he received a few short, sharp blows from the horns. This was particularly effective when she cornered him against a wall or fence (which he could easily have jumped!) For a while this was a game which the goat enjoyed a little too much and she would chase Caine around the garden. There were no naming ceremonies as yet because we thought we would lose the little goat.
The goats were able to seek shelter in an old wood shed with a roof, but we had no idea what we ought to feed them, if we could milk them or if they needed a proper house. Goats, like all grazing animals, are able to completely decimate an area before moving, because nature drives them relentlessly on to younger shoots and leaves. The more I think about it, we as a species completely destroy our surroundings by cutting down trees, dirtying water and pumping pesticides all over the land, full-well knowing that we will stay where we are. Goats are driven by instinct, they always move on – their droppings fertilise future plants and the foliage grows again – what is our excuse?
Soon, there were tiny pellets, like those rabbits produce, all over the garden. We began to feel like the goats ruled the outside space. In a final display of power the goat with horns jumped onto the outside table and looked straight into the window when she knew we were watching, as though to say – “I claim this table.”
In the mean-time, I have been studying nutritional healing, which looks at using food, spirituality and emotional stability to create a well-balanced picture of health. One of the best things you can do for your body is actually to jump on a ‘rebounder’ (sounds expensive, but it is just a trampoline), for thirty minutes a day if you can manage it. The reason being that the jumping moves the lymph and stimulates the circulation in a more dynamic way than for example step-aerobics does. It is not as easy as you may think – we bought a ten foot trampoline which lives in the garden and we have been trying to jump on it every day to earn our meals. You can take my word for it – it’s exhausting! The goats also seemed to like the idea of jumping and nibbling what tiny green shoots we were lovingly watering in our vegetable garden, half of which is planted in grow bags. Goats will eat anything, whether it be flowers, weeds or clothes! As I sat surrounded by empty bags of earth where our future broccolis should have been, I sought refuge in a glass of wine and a cigarette as I waited in trepidation to tell William the news. As I sat, looking at the bottle, I noticed that it had a picture of a goat on it – as if they had not done enough damage already! The man at the wine shop in our nearest town recommended it to me, as I usually choose wine on whether I like the label, but this has become increasingly difficult with new world wines, as the labels are often uninteresting and very shiny. This was the end of that era for the goats and the end of my wine ignorance!
The wounded goat was eating, drinking and producing a strange sound which we thought maybe due to the fact that she cannot hear and her ‘maaa’ is distorted making her sound like something out of ‘Star Wars’. She came back to life, slowly, tentatively standing, walking a little, becoming a goat again. At nutritional school, they teach us that when we are sick the best thing we can do is observe a dog – when he is sick, he only drinks water, fasts and sleeps. Whenever I am sick, my Mamusia22 in true Polish character feeds me rosoł23, black tea and kaszki24. If you need to eat when you are unwell, then all kaszki are fantastic; millet, buckwheat, pearl barley. Apparently though, food does not give us energy – in a healthy person 70% of energy should be made from light alone. Food nourishes us with vitamins and minerals, but when was the last time you ate a meal and felt like going to the gym? Digestion diverts blood and water from other duties and our organism can only do one of two things at one time – restore and repair or defend against bacte
ria/illness. With the goat eating, she was going to survive and she needed a name. A friend of ours came round for dinner and being a film maker, he suggested that we call the wounded goat ‘Ears’, like in an Italian mafia film, where the character called ‘Fingers’ has none. We liked the idea, so we now have ‘Horns’ and an ironically named ‘Ears’ – the gangster!
Whilst walking Caine I often think back to ‘running the gauntlet’ of Hyde Park’s big dogs which my terrier much loved to attack – to the anger and dismay of other dog owners. I think we never really get to know a breed of dog until we have grown to love one of its kind. In my mind, Dobermans always had a ‘tough-guy’ image. When my parents and I decided on our first dog, it was because I had always wanted one and happened to talk to a friend of the family who bred border terriers. I was convinced from that moment on that this was what we needed to get, they are small dogs, which we thought would be more manageable in a London flat. It seems that the bigger the dog the less aggressive, the better it is disciplined and the less unpredictability. I would have gladly traded in some of my terrier’s quirks for a quieter life! A terrier is what you call a value for money dog – it has enough stamina, guts and machismo for several big dogs. Yes, there’s no doubt that in every terrier’s mind lives the self-image of a lion, whereas, in the Doberman, it seems there lives a much more gentle creature who is just as loving but not a victim of ‘little man’ syndrome!
Scotland and Aye Page 2
