The blog has moved . . .

If you have arrived here, then you will be surprised not to see any exciting new entries in the real life story of llama folk.

That's because we have moved the blog to a new site, that we can control and develop in lots of exciting ways!

Click on this link to see the new blog site. The web address will be www.longley.fr (just as it was for this site), but for now this may not work - so the link takes you to the same place using the alternative address: www.llamadharma.com/blog.

If you have any problems, please send us an email at lamas@longley.fr . . .

See you on the new site!

Wind turbines

You'll perhaps (I hope!) have noticed some changes to the appearance of this blog.

We thought that it was time to update the original, and liked the idea of a photo in the header. This meant I was hunting for a picture that would work well in the very elongated format necessary. What better than a view of the nearly completed expanded 'parc des éoliennes' which dominates the hilltop on the opposite side of the valley from our house.

The first 8 éoliennes were erected in 2001, the year before we bought the house. They are on a 600 metre high ridge known as the 'Pic de Brau' about a kilometre away from the house. We've spent many an hour sitting on our terrace contemplating their ever-changing appearance: their colour varies from grey to white to orange/pink/scarlet depending on the sun and the clouds.

In November 2006, we were astonished to hear in England that some 'eco-terrorists' had attacked the éoliennes. On the internet, we saw our neighbour, the mayor of the commune, talking to French national TV about this bizarre event. Apparently, in protest against the environmental impact of increasing wind generation in France, someone used tyres, gas bottles and petrol to light fires in two of the éolienne columns. Since then, no-one seems to have claimed responsibility, though the police claim to be still active in investigating it. During August 2007, the remains of the two fatally damaged turbines were removed.

We then heard that there was a plan to greatly enlarge the 'parc des éoliennes' - as well as replacing the two that had been burnt, another 20 were to be built along the ridge. I can imagine the reaction that this might provoke if it were announced for an English beauty spot. The ridge is certainly a magnificent viewpoint - you can see the Pyrenees in the South/West, the Corbieres in the East and the Black Mountain in the North. There's also loads of interesting bird life - including a range of eagles.

So, did we feel a sense of NIMBY outrage? Well, no. In fact, we were quite excited by the whole project. We'd always enjoyed the original eight, so surely 28 would be even better? You hear stories about noise, birds being killed, landscapes disfigured, etc. And yet in our experience, none of the scare stories actually turn out to have any basis in reality.

And for the village, there's an economic dimension. The original eight produced a revenue of around 25% of the total commune income. It seems that the expanded 'parc' will generate about a quarter of a million euros a year for the local coffers. When locals want to maintain and develop facilities, including a village school, this seems pretty compelling.

It's not about trading off destruction of the environment for monetary gain, though. I think the 'parc' is becoming a thing of beauty, a magnificent sculpture. And it's making about 22 megawatts of energy from a renewable source . . . . Would anyone prefer a nuclear/gas/coal power station?

So, along with most of the villagers it seems, we are fans of this development. And it seems appropriate for it to feature at the top of our blog. Have you seen a prettier power station building site . . . . ?

Language note: éolien is an adjective meaning 'to do with the wind' or 'driven by the wind'. éolienne is a modern noun meaning 'wind turbine'. Aeolus (in French 'Éole') was the Greek God of the wind.

(Click here for local paper article, which is interesting if you can manage the French)

Baby fits in

The new baby is becoming a member of the group. The others show a careful interest, and Elif is watchfully protective.

Elif may be a new mother, but that doesn't mean that she changes in every respect. As always, she eagerly awaits the arrival of the day's food treat. Babies are tolerated but not the centre of attention when there is food to be eaten - sensible priorities when you live with a greedy group like this!

Capucine is still not eating any concentrate - and probably won't until she is weaned. This means that both she and the new baby are free to wander around when the grown-ups are eating. And of course, that means that they can explore the humans who come to see (and film) them.

Click here for the video taken on Wednesday - when the baby was two days old.

Wet Wet Wet

Well, Elif certainly chose a good day for the birth. It was very possibly the last warm day of the year!

Towards the end of the lovely sunny Monday that was baby's birthday, the clouds began to gather, and Simon broke the news that the forecast was for lots of rain, followed by cold weather. Great.

Sure enough, about four in the morning on Tuesday the heavens opened. I lay in bed listening to the rain gurgling into the gutters, and whilst this rare sound would recently have filled me with nothing but glee at the prospect of a well-watered garden, on this occasion it filled me with a heart-sinking anxiety. I debated getting out of bed and driving up to he field to check that the newest addition to the herd wasn't lying sodden and drowned in a muddy puddle, or shaking uncontrollably with hypothermia. But rationally I knew that, without an easily accessible closed barn into which mother and baby could be safely cajoled, there was nothing much we could do. We certainly couldn't take the baby away from Elif as she needed to suckle, and in any case, there was nowhere to take her to. So I lay there worrying pointlessly, waiting for the dawn, and hoping that Elif was a sensible-enough llama to keep her young one at her side in the shelter out of the rain.

At first light it was reassuring to see that the baby was clearly still alive and bouncing. It was also immensely frustrating to see that she and Elif were the only llamas not huddled in the shelter to keep out of the driving rain. For some reason Elif seemed to prefer the rain to the close sociability of the shelter, and she and the baby were kushed at the top of the field well away from the road and the rest of the group.

The rain continued relentlessly throughout the day, and the baby continued relentlessly to get wet. When I went up to put fresh hay in the shelter, Elif came down to eat some, but the baby insisted on slip-sliding about on the slippery slopes, and kushing in muddy puddles. I couldn't believe that this skinny little bundle of soggy wool and bones would survive in the ever-cooling wind-chill of the first wintery day of the year.

But she has. And even though the temperature has continued to drop (with a forecast of zero degrees for tonight), she seems to be doing fine. Still, I guess the mountains in Chile must get pretty chilly sometimes.....

First Steps . . . . . The Video

Click here to view the video




It could take a while for the video to load, so be patient. It's just a rough cut - no commentary or fancy editing!

First Steps

Just like pots that don't boil, watched llamas don't give birth. You can spend hours at a time studying the moment to moment activities of a pregnant llama, searching vainly for any signs of an impending delivery, and then just within the few moments it takes to grab a quick breakfast of coffee and a croissant, out pops a baby.

Having been expecting Elif to give birth any time since August, we have watched and studied and considered her physical appearance and behaviour. We have read all the relevant books and internet articles we could find about llama births. We knew what we were looking for - we'd even had the experience of Fatma and Capucine only 6 months ago. Were Elif's teats 'bagging up'? Was her fat belly changing shape as the baby 'dropped' prior to birth? Was Elif behaving differently? Taking herself away from the herd? Not eating? Showing signs of discomfort?

Was she hell. Nothing. All we could do was keep checking and watching, and hope we didn't totally miss the Big Moment.

At least we managed to get there quicker this time. In retrospect, we realise that by the time we noticed that Fatma had given birth, her baby must already have been at least an hour old. This time, the sight of Elif adopting the pooing pose to expel the placenta was the first clue we had that anything was happening/had happened. We wasted no time. We grabbed a bag of llama food, the cameras, some carrier bags (for the placenta) and a kitchen roll (clean towels anyone?) and jumped into the car.

As we arrived at the gate, all the other llamas headed down to greet us as normal. Elif was clearly in two minds about joining them - nothing comes between her and food these days. But we quickly occupied the others with their daily rations in the catch-pen, and headed up towards the field shelter where Elif was standing by the fence with a very bedraggled bundle of fluff and slime at her feet, and a shiny bag of placenta hanging between her back legs.

The bedraggled bundle was wriggling around, all a-tremble, all legs and feet and long neck, struggling pathetically to stand up on its ridiculously concertina-d limbs. Elif had considerately dropped her load on the ever-growing bed of uneaten hay that has collected in front of the field shelter over recent weeks. A nice soft landing for the baby indeed. But also perilously close to the wire netting of the fence, at the sloping bottom of the hill. The wriggling baby thrashed around in a tumult of dry hay, dusty mud and twigs, endlessly defeated in its gallant attempts to stand up on elastic legs by the cruel combination of gravity and the incline of the land.

It was painful to watch. We held our breath each time it managed to get one corner of its tiny body perched in the air atop a strangely bent leg, willing it on in its mammoth endeavour, only to let out exasperated sighs as it toppled over again into a crumpled heap. We watched helplesslessly as its wrigglings pulled it further downhill, closer and closer to the bottom of the wire fence. It was only a matter of time before its tiny head, sliding back and forth on the end of its snaking neck, would find itself on the wrong side of the fence.

Sure enough it did. And although we had been keeping a repectful distance so as not to interfere with mother nature, things were getting nasty. Elif did not take kindly to my approach, as I moved in ready to lift the wire and pull the baby's head back inside. She stuck her face very close to mine and I could hear the gurgling sounds of semi-digested food making its angry way back up her long throat in readiness for the almighty spit that was sure to come my way if I did not back off. I hastily reconsidered my approach.

Wishing the road-side boundary wasn't so long, I headed off back down through the two gates and out on to the other side of the fence, making my way carefully (but speedily) back up the fence line, balancing precariously on the thin thorny, stumpy ledge above the road, to where the baby's head was sticking through. Although aware that the fence would not protect me from a good spitting, I did at least feel safe from a possible trampling-to-death by an over-protective mother.

Aware of our responsibilities to our audience, Simon remained inside the field with the video-camera. Unfortunately however, my life-saving act of heroism was not recorded for posterity. Possibly Simon was overcome with the drama of the moment and allowed his battle-zone camera skills to lapse. Possibly he was busy deleting stuff from the camera's memory to make space for new footage. Either way, he didn't capture this bit of excitement for the blog, so you will just have to take my word for it. He did however, have the sensible idea of piling up hay against the fence to prevent a repeat occurrence.

The baby had a little inert rest. Elif eyed us suspiciously. We waited.

The wriggling began again, and eventually, after much lifting of the back end on two legs, followed by headlong flat-on-the-face falls when the front legs wouldn't stay rigid, the baby managed to get up into a precarious pose with its front feet facing the wrong way. It seemed an impossible position, and for a few moments I was convinced the baby had either broken both ankles, or was seriously deformed.

After a few more face-in-the-mud tumbles, and another head-through-the-wire escapade (this time remedied by a hasty, adrenalin-induced grab-and-pull approach, oblivious to the ominous gurglings of the anxious mother), the baby was up. All four legs out straight. All joints correctly aligned. Swaying....staggering.......and flomp! Down and flat, with it all to do again.

And so passed many happy minutes in the lovely October sunshine. Up....yes?...Yes?......No! The village clock struck eleven. My God! This had been going on for more than an hour already.

Eventually, the length of the Up moments began to exceed the time spent floundering at ground level, and we watched in awe as the baby quickly learnt to adjust its balance to the vagaries of the uneven surface and the precarious slope. A few of the funnier cartoon moments (when the baby's downhill velocity exceeded its ability to stay in directional control, resulting in full-on collisions with small tree trunks) were missed by the camera-man, who had very responsibly remembered that our poor, long-suffering dog, Max, had been waiting patiently for his morning walk attached to a tree by his lead outside the gate.

By the time Simon returned from walking the dog, the baby had got the whole business of staying upright pretty much cracked, so now we just had to wait for the next important development - suckling.

I recalled Capucine's early hours on this planet, and remembered that it had taken her a surprisingly long time to get the hang of this apparently instinctive behaviour. We had waitied for at least an hour, while she stumbled around under various non-mother llamas, looking for the milk bar, until she eventually decided to stick with Fatma, and limit her searching to a smaller area. Due to Elif's highly developed mothering skills, there was little chance of this baby looking in completely the wrong place. Elif was making damn sure that her baby didn't stray more than a couple of yards from her side, and she wasn't being exactly welcoming of the attention coming the baby's way from the rest of the herd. So all this baby had to do was find the right end, the right position and the right sucking action.

How could it take SO LONG? Time ticked by. We watched and waited and watched and waited. The baby stumbled around trying here, then there, then almost there, then somewhere else completely. Elif tried to help. She stood still. She nudged the baby in the right direction. She encouraged the baby back to its feet for another try, whenever it gave up and flopped down. She repositioned herself. Again and again. So close.....but no. Nearly....but no. And then, after about another hour, the unmistakeable sounds of sucking combined with the sign of the baby's tail in the up-and-connected position, brought to us all the long-awaited sense of relief.

Everything was going to be alright. The weather was good. The baby was healthy and suckling. Elif took a break to wolf down some hay, while keeping a very close eye on the little one, who kushed down exhausted behind the field shelter, to dry off in the sunshine. And we went home for a bit of lunch.

By the afternoon, the baby was cavorting around the field like a crazy thing, finding out just what those strange long legs were capable of, and Elif was bad-temperedly following her around, clearly wishing it was baby bed-time.

Some baby pictures

A few more cria pictures on our Picasa site

Enjoy!

A baby at last!

After weeks and weeks of wondering where Elif's baby had got to . . . . Is she really pregnant or just getting amazingly fat? . . . . . This morning, without fuss, she gave birth to a female cria

Within a couple of hours, the baby (as yet un-named) was staggering round and working out how to suckle from her mother. More pictures later, and video of the baby's antics.

Normal

Oh dear. Another three weeks have passed without a blog entry. Shame on us! Excuses this time? A week's visit from Simon's Mum and Dad, followed by a stint of time helping my sister and bro-in-law to renovate their village house in time for a tenancy arrangement starting on 15 October.

Simon's parents got the usual Welcome to the Roquetaillade Llama-and-Chicken Experience, albeit without the llama walking activity.

Valentine overcame his misgivings about approaching big metal things containing strangers to eat a little snack from Simon's Mum's hand out of the landrover...

...and Capucine astounded us by taking her first ever piece of hand-fed carrot from his Dad, despite the ominous presence of an unusual big stick.


As is often the case when we have visitors, we found ourselves looking at our surroundings with holiday eyes, taking some time just to sit and enjoy the sunshine and the views, and to really appreciate the loveliness of October in this climate. However, the family visits are over for the time being (more planned for November), and for the moment things are back to normal.

Normal? Now there's an interesting concept.

According to Ellen Goodman, (no, I don't know who she is either...)

"Normal is getting dressed in clothes that you buy for work and driving through traffic in a car that you are still paying for - in order to get to the job you need to pay for the clothes and the car, and the house you leave vacant all day so you can afford to live in it."

I guess, not so long ago, that was sort of Normal for us too. And, to friends and colleagues still fully enagaged in the life we left behind, our current Normal wouldn't seem normal at all. Our days now consist of a limited range of repetitive activities involving the care, feeding and cleaning of our animals (and of ourselves). We rarely use the car, we wear the same old stuff day in, day out (not much change there, come to think of it...), and we are at home pretty much all the time, when we're not out with the animals.

Life is simple and, well, ordinary. It seems hard to think of anything to write about when every day is so similar to the one before.

The most notable event of the last week was the discovery last Sunday morning of a gaping, two-metre-wide hole in the fence of the Breeders' field, just in front of the field shelter. Simon had gone over to the Rough Land to visit the Walkers, and I had done my usual morning stuff with the Breeders. I noticed Fatma's halter was missing, and assumed she had managed to pull it off whilst foraging through the fence for a delicious bit of ash tree on the other side - it was quite loose after all. I thought little more of it, until I carried a fresh bale of hay up to the shelter, turned round to admire the view back to the village, and saw a big space where the fence should have been.

Someone had cut the wire grill in a big L shape and bent back the fencing, leaving the field open straight on to the road. It took me a while to actually believe what I was seeing. After all - the llamas were all present and correct, and behaving quite normally. Putting the fact of the hole together with the fact of the missing halter, I constructed in my imagination a scenario of attempted animal theft, in which Fatma had managed to evade capture by wriggling out of her halter - and for once I was thankful that llamas can be so hard to catch. But why (or indeed how) anyone would try to steal llamas by cutting the fence, and pulling them down a steep bank on to the road, instead of just opening the gate, baffled me.

Needless to say, I effected a hasty repair, tying the fencing together with the baler twine I'd just removed from the hay, and called Simon on his mobile with the interesting news. Cunningly hiding his disappointment that I wasn't ringing to inform him of an impending llama birth behind his normal, run-of-the-mill crisis-response tone, Simon formulated a well-considered plan of action. "Stay there, I'm coming."

Luckily we still had a bit of a roll of fencing left in the garage, so we collected all the neccessary bits and bobs and returned to replace the damaged panel. Of course it took longer than we expected - all our careful tensioning of the whole length of the road-side fence had depended on the integrity of the fencing wire - but we managed an adequate fix that looked almost as good as new. Clearly the llamas were in no hurry to go walkabout (not even Capucine, who regularly pokes her head through the fence to eat, just like Ana used to do), so I was not really concerned that they would escape. I just didn't want any sharp bits where their foraging necks might be leaning.

A later conversation with our neighbour resulted in the dogmatic verdict that it wasn't attempted theft, but was a personal attack by a crazy, jealous person who wanted to cause us difficulty and the expense of the repair. Apparently, the same thing had happened to them when they used to keep horses on the land, although they had suffered more, because the horses had actually got out, and had to be rounded up from the road. They advised us to take photos of the damage and to report it to the gendarmarie.

Too late for the photos, and, we decided, not much point in reporting it. Best to just ignore it and try not to get paranoid. I figured that causing a fuss would probably give the perpetrator something to watch and enjoy, and that the zen thing to do would be to forgive and forget, and carry on as normal with a friendly smile for everyone we come across. Of course the paranoia sneeks in now and then, followed by a cascade of negative thinking in which everyone in the village hates and resents us, and will not cease to hound and harrass us until we give up and leave, with our sad and sorry outsiders' tails hanging dejectedly between our immigrant legs.

But a week has gone by. All is Quiet on the Western Front, and the paranoia is fading away in the mid-October sunshine. Our training activities with the Walkers continue with gradually increasing levels of challenge. We now often take Valentine and Ana out together, as Duc seems quite happy to spend a little bit of time on his own. He is very much the leader of their little herd, and as such has developed a bit of a Man-Alone demeanour, often to be found grazing apart from the other two, and a bit higher up the hill.

And in attempting to close the gap toward the goal of bringing the llamas right into the village, Simon has begun walking Duc and Valentine along a track that circles just outside the boundary of habitation, in full view of the children cavorting noisily on the tiny play area next to the village hall, and of the variously stationed platoon of barking dogs that inhabit our end of the village. This route also brings them into full view of the Breeders, who watch with curiousity and wariness from their splendid vantage point higher up the road. Pedro, in particular, watches the progress of these upstart threats to his herd dominance with a rigid posture and unwavering gaze, following the direction of their walking long after they have actually disappeared from sight.

The mysterious cause of Elif's increase in size remains to be determined. Still no offspring. Still no diminishing of her appetite.

Always at the front of the queue to get into the shelter with the fresh hay....









...and always the one with her nose in the bag looking for any remaining morsels of breakfast, when the others have accepted that it really is "All Gone".

I'm still uncertain as to whether I should be feeding her up in preparation for an impending birth, or putting her on a diet to lose the flab. Either way, it's so hard to resist those big brown eyes when she gets up close with her warm breath on my face, and looks hopefully toward the food bag when I'm zipping it up, as if to say, " Just one more mouthful....go on....pleeeease."

Things That Have(n't) Happened.

I am currently in the process of writing a review of our first six months in the Land of the Free Fruit and Vegetables. However, as I launched into the third wordy paragraph (of the introduction!), I realised it would be some time before the undertaking would be complete, and that, if it was to include any incidental detail of the daily funandhilarity of our present existence, it would end up being so long that no one would ever bother to read it. So I thought I'd better do a short update just to let y'all know we're still here, and we still care.

Things that have happened recently:

• Naughty Chicken has started laying eggs (at last!) and yesterday was our first ever Four Egg Day. I am already going off scrambled eggs on toast.
• Naughty Chicken has got into the vegetable garden, necessitating the hasty construction of a chicken-proof barrier above the garden wall. At the time this happened, I was convinced she was terrorising me, as she flew/jumped over the wall after chasing (well, hastily following) me all around the garden and up to the gate. Simon manfully dragged himself out of his Sunday morning lie-in to catch her and return her to the main garden. As he turned his back to walk away, congratulating himself on a chicken-catching job well done, she promptly flew/jumped back over the wall again, trumpeting smugly to herself, as she headed for those delicious baby lettuces, laid out in neat little breakfast-shaped rows. Naughty and Persistent Chicken.
• Naughty Chicken has escaped from the garden, and was found today browsing contentedly in the adjacent overgrown land of a neighbour, in the company of a large black and white cat. Having so far failed to clarify her exact escape route, we have not yet sealed the breach. Instead we are trying to make the home garden a more compelling place-to-be, through the provision of tasty bowls of leak and potato soup (of which we can - and do - make vast quantities). Naughty, Persistent and Greedy Chicken.
• Pedro has become happily accustomed to having his halter fitted, and is getting used to being led around inside the field on his lead, in preparation for stepping out with us into the big, bad world. He seems more like a big, soft, woolly teddy-bear every day.
• Capucine has eaten some carrot-peel from the ground in the catch-pen. Not a big deal I hear you mutter - but the implication of this is that we can now start encouraging her to eat pieces of carrot from our hands, and then we will be able to use hand-fed treats to reinforce any behaviours we want her to learn. Bring on the burning hoops!
• Pedro and Fatma are still mating with a depressing degree of regularlty. Nice for Pedro, I'm sure. Not so good for us, the ever-hopeful owners of a llama-breeding business. Unless Fatma happens to be one of those unusual females that continue to tolerate mating even when pregnant, there will not be any more little ones running around their feet within the next twelve months at least.
• We have conducted our first fully French, non-family visit to the llamas. Following a phone call last Monday from a french lady asking if she could bring a group of school children to feed the llamas, we duly escorted 7 small children, between 3 and 6 years of age (5 french, one belgian and one german) and 2 staff members of their out-of-school club, to see and feed both groups of our llamas. We even rounded off the event by walking Valentine part of the way back to the village with them. Cue lots of photo opportunities of cute little children with bemused llamas. Unfortunately, it wasn't our camera! (Next time....)
• Simon has signed up for a proper French Conversation course, through the AVF (Accueil des Villes de France) and in doing so has managed to volunteer his services as an IT know-it-all to assist with their computer classes, and to volunteer our llamas as a venue for outings organised by the AVF for the many and varied groups of newcomers to the area, who avail themselves of the organisation's services.

Things that haven't happened recently:

• Elif has not had her baby. We had expected her to give birth some time in August. She is getting bigger and bigger, but shows no signs of popping just yet. Given what is going on with Fatma and Pedro, we can see how easy it is to be mistaken about when a llama has become pregnant. We are hoping that Mike and Suzanne were just a bit out with the dates. I am hoping that Elif's huge belly is not simply the result of the extra rations of concentrate food I've been giving her for the last couple of months in the belief that she was pregnant and in need of more protein. Pregnant or obese? Only time will tell.
• We have not bought any land. The long saga of the 8 hectares we were going to buy, and the wine & cereal-growing farmer who also wanted the land, and all the bureaucratic shenanegans with SAFER, has finally reached a conclusion. Having frantically put in a last-minute (literally), official, all-in-french, (slogged-over for 10 hours and proof-read by a french neighbour) request to be considered as candidates for the purchase of the land through SAFER, we ended up coming to an amicable agreement with the farmer. We agreed to withdraw our application, thus leaving him free to buy it all and to continue to develop his cereal-growing business, on the understanding that we could continue to keep our llamas on the Rough Land for at least two years, while he helps us to find a suitable alternative. He has also agreed that, when we find some land, he will clear the space for the fencing for us, using his tractor and various other items of heavy-and-very-useful-machinery. So he gets his land, the previous owner gets his money, and we get to continue to live (cost-free) on the goodwill of others.
• I have not signed up for anything. No French lessons for me. No opening-my-mouth and getting-roped-in for helping in social or work-type activities (except of course to assist Simon when his preemptive folly bears fruit). No meeting groups of other English immigrants for afternoons stumbling though woefully inadequate conversations in something-like-french-with-terrible-accents. I will stay at home with the Internet and a french dictionary, and teach myself enough to get by in all the social contact I want. Which isn't much.
• I have not overcome my feather phobia. But it's getting better. And I have stopped running away from Naughty Chicken.
• I have not finished the Pooh Corner map of Llamaland. Maybe I will. Maybe I won't.

PS This is a little note to Mike in response to his comment on our blog of 21 August.
"Sorry mate, Duc and Valentine are not for sale (to you or to anyone). They're part of the family, and we need them to teach all the young-llamas-to-come everything they know. You can't have custody, but you can have visiting rights whenever you want!"

What day is it?

It really struck me this week, that days have lost their importance. Val said something about a "Monday morning feeling", and my first reaction was "Is it Monday then?"

The routine of our life centres around the various animals - and in some senses they are more demanding than work ever was. Although the breeding llamas would wait for a few hours for their morning feed, there's no way we could miss out a day. The chickens are impatient to be let out when it gets light - and I feel absolutely obliged to get up, put on wellies and go down to them. And at the end of the day, they need to be closed in when the sun sets . . . . .

I never miss a day going to the walking llamas, although I do allow myself the 'luxury' of sometimes not going till the afternoon. I guess they would be fine without a visit one day, and they do have plenty of food so they aren't dependent in the same way as the breeders. But I know that llamas are very much creatures of routine (going to the same position for their food bucket, pausing each time at the same point on a walk because they can see back to the 'home' field, using a fixed toilet area) and we get drawn into the same patterns.

In fact, I am coming to the conclusion that humans and other animals are most comfortable when life has routines. We now are 'closer to nature' in that our routines are determined by the rising and setting of the sun, and in the longer term by the seasons, rather than by the 'artificial' constructs of work etc. I suppose that perhaps I am happier now because it's not the arbitrary decision of someone else that rules my life . . . . but the equally arbitrary patterns of the universe.

Days of the week have nothing to do with nature. I'm rather glad I don't have to think differently about Mondays. Mind you, it would be nice sometimes to just have a day off.

Hunting chickens!

Each, Peach, Pear, Plum....

This is a blog about plums.




Plum is a nice-sounding word. Like 'plump', round and cosy without being fat. And if you say it lots of times quite fast, it sounds like a small, naughty elephant running down a mossy corridor.




I like plums. Red ones, yellow ones, big ones, small ones, sweet ones. Even sour ones. They are a happy, easy-going sort of fruit. They grow in cool wet countries (we had some random damson trees in the garden in Derby), and they grow especially well in the countryside around here. At this time of year, every time you go for a walk, you will find some smiling at you from the hedgerows and laughing heartily as they perlump onto the road in front of you.

Our plum story started quite early this year, when the scarey cherry tree on the Rough Land, that we thought would poison our llamas, turned out to be an inoffensive, and actually quite likeable plum tree.


Strange plums to be sure - the size of a large cherry, with very dark red skin, and yellow inside, ripening too late to be a cherry, and yet too early to be a plum.











However, to go back to the beginning....

Being responsible (and inexperienced) llama keepers, we made it our business to read up on all the possible hazards to llamas that the land we are using might hold. The list seemed endless.

Our initial fears about poisoning from broom pods led us into weeks of back-breaking work trying to rid our first lot of land of the broom in which it was enveloped. However, it turns out that llamas are not the least bit interested in broom, even when there is absolutely nothing else around to eat.

Then we worried about buttercups and acorns. I think we've seen one buttercup in our field, and there won't be any acorns - the llamas have eaten all the oak trees!

No sign so far of any ragwort (although it's surprising how many other yellow weeds, with daisy-like flowers and lobed leaves, hang around in the wild pretending to be the paranoia-inducing culprit).

And then we came upon the big cherry tree on the Rough Land.

Now the sight of the cherry tree filled us with mixed feelings. With the hottest part of the year on the horizon, the llamas were sorely in need of a big tree to provide a decent amount of shade from the 36 degree sun. But the thought that one mouthful of wilting cherry leaf at the end of the summer could kill a full-grown llama like (actually, very like) a cyanide pill, gave us serious cause for concern.

We decided to lop off the lowest branches which I figured were within easy llama-chomping reach (very carefully disposing of the wilting off-cuts, way away, out of llama browsing range), and postpone any serious tree-felling, until we knew whether the llamas would actually show any interest in eating the remaining bits of reachable tree. Apparently, all parts of the tree could be poisonous, but the stones, and the wilted leaves would be the deadliest.

We waited and watched. And although initially all the llamas seemed quite oblivious to it, we noticed Duc's interest in the lowest branches growing, along with the small round fruits which were developing in profuse clusters throughout the tree.

By the end of June, Duc was up to his old standing-on-hind-legs-like-a-circus-horse tricks, and deftly removing the ripening fruits for a crunchy snack between grass-and-blackthorn meals.

I began to panic - imagining we would return the following day to find Duc an inert heap below the deadly cherry tree. Simon simply refused to accept that this could possibly be an issue, and willed the tree to just NOT BE A CHERRY TREE. He found a very red, juicy-looking little specimen and bit into it. "This is a plum", he stated triumphantly, in that 'I'm always right' sort of voice he has. "But it looks like a cherry", I countered, "It has cherry bark, and cherry leaves, and those small red things look like cherries to me". "That may be so, my dear, but it tastes like a plum."

And so it did. But, unable to identify the species, I figured it was probably some weird freaky plum-cherry, that would still cause serious illness if not death. And now, Duc's antics were beginning to bring down tasty morsels for Valentine and Ana to snuffle up from the ground. For my own peace of mind we needed to act.

Which is how Simon came to be up a ladder, surrounded by greedy llamas, picking cherryplums, while I stood below holding the ladder and trying to catch the errant fruits that escaped Simon's grasp, before vast quantities were gobbled up by the four-legged vacuum cleaners.

















It is also how we managed to fill our freezer with many kilos of small, (and very hard to stone) plums for a rainy November's day making jam, and how we discovered, in the end, that llamas do not die from eating plum stones.










And so to August....when the REAL plum harvest begins.

There is a lovely orchard just off a track in the hillside near us, that is bursting with a profusion of fruits, and which we have never yet seen tended by anyone. Which is to say that, although we see that the ground below the trees is hoed and cleared of weeds, and we see CDs hung in the branches (presumably to keep away the birds), and lately we have seen bags of garlic hung like talismanic garlands around the necks of some of the smaller trees, we have never yet, in all our six years of visiting the orchard in our walks, seen anyone there. And no one ever seems to pick the fruit - which grows beautifully, (even in the years when early weather conditions result in a poor harvest across the region of particular fruits like apricots or cherries), and which simply falls to the ground in untouched pools of abundance.

We have never taken any of this fruit because, although it seems that much, if not all of it will be simply left to rot, taking it without being able to ask someone's permission to do so just feels plain wrong. And of course, I always feel as if someone (probably very tiny and ethereal) is watching us from the covered darkness of the wild land that surrounds the orchard. But while the fruit did not find its way into our mouths, it certainly found its way into our dreams.

So when we first thought that we would be buying 8 hectares of land, we fantasized about using an acre of it to plant an orchard of our own. We debated which fruit we would grow, and researched which varieties would grow best in this climate. We checked out the price of young trees for planting, and the price of the necessary tools to prepare the land. And when we realised we would not be getting the land after all (more details to follow....), I had a real sense of disappointment that we would have nowhere to create our own orchard, to provide the sweeter elements of our self-sufficient life-style. Tomatoes, lettuces and peppers are easy to grow in a little back-garden plot, but fruit trees need so much more space.

But now I understand what it means to let the Universe provide. We do not need to grow our own orchard because we are actually living in the middle of a very big one.

Walking down the tracks and lanes that radiate into the hills from the village, there is fruit for free wherever you look. The cherries are all finished, as are most of the apricots , but there are apples, pears, (and apples that taste like pears) figs, medlars, blackberries, elderberries, grapes (from wild, escaped vines) almonds, walnuts and plums, plums, PLUMS. The hardest thing to learn is how to walk past a wild tree, overflowing with fruit, and NOT stop to pick a few bag-loads to take home.

Last week, when we had family visitors here to assist, we netted a trawl of more than 10 kilos of big, fat, purple plums from one track-side tree. But since we already have loads ready for jam-making, these have been turned into a delicious stewed-fruit desert, frozen in meal-sized portions, to be eaten at our leisure with ice cream or creme fraiche. And there are still more out there, calling to us from the hedgerows..."Pick me. Eat me..." This all brings to mind a book I used to read my children in the late eighties (by Margaret Mahy, I think) called JAM. I am sure we could easily end up with more than enough plums to fill our bellies (and our dreams) between now and the beginning of next year's harvest. When we can of course start all over again.

And I am also pleased to report that llamas suffer no ill effects whatsoever from plum-munching, and that Duc, having a very particular liking for for the juicy treats, can sniff one out at 20 metres. When out for a little ramble as part of his walking training, he has learnt where all the plums trees are along the various routes, and he starts scanning the ground for fallen bounty as soon as we approach the spot. I wondered whether there could be a special use for a plum-hunting llama, along the lines of those truffle-hunting pigs. I guess not. Nevertheless, it is a joy to behold him using his dextrous lips to gently pick up a full, ripe plum from the ground, squish it resolutely between his teeth and hard palate exactly as his head draws level with Simon's, and to smugly crunch the stone to nothingness as Simon wipes the sprayed juice from his hair.

Walking with llamas

Llama walking is a strange art. You can read loads about the principles in books and on the web. However, there seems to be no real substitute for trying to be 'in tune' with your own llamas.

When you are out with a single llama, this is much easier than when you have a group. The lone llama and you form a pair – and to walk successfully you must communicate with each other. I find this means I must watch and listen to the llama, and I also speak to him/her. As a result, I often go for quite long walks without seeing very much of the landscape. I tend to scan the area ahead, trying to anticipate anything that might alarm the llama.

Then I spend a lot of time actually looking at the llama, watching where they are watching, and taking note of how they are holding their ears. I'm really not sure that their hearing is very acute (and I have sometimes had to make quite a lot of noise to attract their attention from 40 or 50 metres) but if their ears are forward and erect it's a good sign that the walk is stimulating without being frightening!

Their eyesight is certainly pretty good – and if they are staring into the distance, you can almost always spot something of significance if you look carefully in the same direction. Of course, 'significant' to a llama is not the same as to a human, and it sometimes takes a bit of working out to decide what it is that's holding their attention.

Llamas are generally very cooperative. The lead is there mostly as a guide – and generally is not used to restrain the animal. There are, of course, times when the llama tries to pull away – almost invariably when they are scared. You know you are succeeding in keeping your llama calm, and in communicating with them, when you can walk along with the lead hanging down in a slack curve between you and the llama. Adam shows this well with Valentine, who tends to be rather over-enthusiastic when walking. We are still working on getting him to stay in the correct position that Adam has achieved here (i.e. head alongside the leader, with body behind).

Of course, things get more complicated when you walk llamas in a group. Over the last week, we've had a chance to practice this as Claire and Adam have provided two extra pairs of (very capable) hands.

We had previously been walking no more than two llamas at once. As Ana is the least experienced, we've tended to take her out with either Duc or Valentine. And, because Ana is the youngest, and lowest status, she has always been following her older companion

Now we've had a chance to experiment with different combinations of people and llamas. And among other things, we've learned:

• Duc doesn't like having people walking behind him. Presumably, he finds it hard to keep an eye on where the possible threat might be?
  
• Despite this, Duc – as the most 'senior' of the three – likes to lead when there are other llamas out walking. This might explain why he was rather a handful at first when he was being led by Pete the other week.
  

Get it right, and it all goes very smoothly

Fear and Loathing in Las Chickenas

Is it possible that, after all these years of carefully avoiding feather-contact situations, I might be able to overcome my phobia?

As a psychologist, I would of course have to say yes. Desensitization; Flooding. Different approaches to the same goal, proffered as obvious solutions by well-meaning psych-professionals, and cashed in on as entertaining TV by programme-makers, none of whom have the faintest inkling of what it actually feels like to be disablingly in the grip of a completely irrational feeling which surpasses common fear.

I am (was) a psychologist. I am also a phobic. Many's the time I have wished that I could swap my phobia for a more commonly acceptable one, like spiders, snakes or rats (none of which bother me in the least). Being 'scared of feathers' seems just plain ridiculous. Of course I know they 'won't hurt me'. Of course I understand my response to the sight, nay, even the thought of the sight of one is utterly unreasonable. But I CAN'T HELP IT.

Since it has been a long-held part of Simon's dream that we should have chickens, I began my preparation for this moment way before we moved to France. Those much-missed visits to the lake at Markeaton Park to watch the ducklings required daily walks across expanses of feather-strewn grass, where the feather-covered geese hung out in huge, threatening gangs. I gradually became accustomed to accomplishing this monstrous feat, motivated by my interest in bird-watching (a strange hobby for a feather phobic perhaps, but I really do like birds), and achieved by not looking down, and focussing my attention on the faces and behaviour of the geese, rather than their attire. But still, one flap from a shore-side swan, or friendly approach from a bread-seeking duck, would have me shuddering and moving hastily away from the scene of the horror.

So how is it that after only a few days of back-yard chicken ownership, I find myself able to sit calmly next to the chickens scratching for seeds a few feet away, able to look (hopefully) in the nesting box for eggs, and able to put my hand inside the chicken house to remove the water-bottle for refilling?

It seems to me that something all those psycho-pros may have missed is the powerful effect of the nurturing instinct. Whilst I am not yet at the stage where I can even contemplate the thought of picking up a chicken, or even touching one with bare hands (well, I can contemplate it but only with a sense of utter revulsion), my interest in them as individual living creatures, and my desire to make sure that they are safe and happy, is enabling me to suppress my aversive reaction to their feathers to a bigger extent than I might have imagined. So long as they don't surprise me, that is.

And they are indeed individuals. Luckily their plumage patterns (a nice name for the indescribable) are just about distinctive enough for us to be able to tell them apart. But as is the case with all living creatures that so often appear to look identical at first glance, it is the differences in behaviour -both the obvious things like actions, habits and movements, and the subtler behaviours amounting to manner and attitude, that really makes them distinguishable. It's those things that make it possible for me to identify whether that white llama on the hill 300 metres away is Duc or Valentine.

As individuals, the chickens have already attracted names. (Good job we're not planning to eat them).

After Naughty Chicken, there is Big Chicken, Pretty Chicken and Other Chicken. (Other Chicken has yet to do anything notable to identify herself in a positive way). Big Chicken is...well...big, and has certainly laid us one egg, if not two (I actually caught her in the act on one occasion). She is nearly always next in line to follow wherever Naughty Chicken goes. Pretty Chicken has come close to being called Blonde or Essex Chicken, because as well as having lighter colouring than the others, and a more attractive general appearance, she is also the most stupid, and lowest in the pecking order. Naughty Chicken is the smallest of the bunch, and I suspect a Bonaparte complex might be the source of her bravado.

At this moment, three of them are huddled, sheltering under the leylandii trees. Naughty Chicken is on her own, checking out the nearest bit of fencing, and looking wistfully into the distance beyond. Sooner or later, one or more of these ladies will go AWOL. Any bets on who is likely to be the first escapee? (Blog comments gratefully accepted, and betting odds will be published in the near future).

So for the time being, all is lovely in the chicken-garden. And perhaps by the time the moulting season comes around, the sight of tumble-weed balls of scraggy brown feathers rolling erratically around my feet will no longer fill me with the gut-wrenching, cardiac-arrest-inducing anxiety levels of a virtual-reality horror movie.

Bed-time Buffoonery

Chickens are stupid, no doubt about it, but they are also very entertaining. And, I am surprised to say, quite endearing in a pointy-beaked, beady-eyed, huge-legged sort of way. For someone with a deeply entrenched feather-phobia, and an impressively over-reactive startle response to anything that flaps within touching distance, I am overjoyed to say that I like our chickens.

Having initially watched them from a safe distance (and intended that things should stay that way), I found myself called into service on the evening following their first day of freedom, when it became clear that getting them all back into their cosy little house was not a one-man job.

As the sun set and all the other village birds headedoff to bed, our small-brained friends realised it was time to head for overnight safety. Unfortunately, one chicken (the first out of the house in the morning, and the unquestioned leader of the pack) decided that our smart little chicken house on the prairie was no suitable abode for a wild young hen like her. Oh no. She was a wild bird of the woods and she was damn-well gonna do what wild birds do and roost natural-like in a tree. Or on a picnic table. Or a balcony. Or anything, basically, that was UP.

We watched with amusement as the darkness grew deeper, and Naughty Chicken (as she has already become known) clucked around the garden, eyeing up attractive high places, and attempted flutter-thrash-crash-bang flying antics to get into them. After numerous failed attempts and possibly painful, heavy landings, she eventually perched herself precariously half way up a medium sized, Christmas-tree-like conifer in the middle of the garden, the branch swaying ominously under her far-too-heavy-for-such-a-small-branch weight. Songs about French Hens and Christmas ran through my head, pointlessly.

Amusing as it was, Naughty Chicken's behaviour had unsettled the rest of the troop, who stood about like newly-arrived visitors at a deserted foreign train station, not sure whether to head for the direction marked Exit, or follow the only other passenger up the escalator in the opposite direction. By now, the gloaming had transformed itself into proper dark, and we noticed that we had not very cleverly placed the hen house smack in the centre of the pool of orange created by the (very annoying) street light in the road opposite our house. "Should we move it, d'ya think?" I queried? Simon's look needed no verbal accompaniment. He had already slipped into man-of-action mode, and was heading off down into the garden to Sort This Out.

He confidently approached the swaying Christmas tree, grabbed Naughty Chicken like a Sunday joint, and stuffed her into the hen house as if it was an oven (which after the day's heat, it probably was), slamming the door behind her. The other chickens took note, and headed jerkily away. The problem became obvious. How to open the door to get the other chickens in, without letting the miscreant escape? Clearly more than one pair of hands were required, and the only other ones around happened to be mine.

So, donning boots to protect against toe-pecking and accidental feather-touching-skin events, I approached the scene with caution and a big stick, with which to 'coax' the chickens in the desired direction, and prevent unwanted exits from the house, while the door was open.

After another twenty minutes of loud clucking, fluttering, chicken-running, and multiple incidents of hands (Simon's) grabbing/missing/catching flapping bundles of feather and beak, the remaining three hens were safely consigned to their designated sleeping quarters, for another long, hot, night. Inside, they became silent instantly. Perhaps tomorrow they will know where to go at bed-time.

Eggs!

Well, to be more accurate, egg.

Still, it's the first day. And I did feel really excited. Yes, sad I know, but tomorrow if there's at least one more, we'll be eating them - whether for breakfast or lunch or dinner, I don't care.

And the tomatoes are mine too . . . . :-)

Chicken out!

All of a rush, it seems, despite the amazingly hot weather, we have completed the fencing and bought the chickens.

The fencing was very hard in parts. The main part of the 'garden' is actually 500 square metres of rocky slope. Trees seem to survive well, and there are seasonal flashes of other plants, but really it's just 'land'. Once we had decided that it might as well all be used for the chickens, the fencing task became clear . . . . we had to erect some 70 metres of fence, made up of wooden posts, straining wires, and galvanised netting. Sounds simple. And so it was, in theory. If it hadn't been for the rocks, it would have been pretty simple in practice.

Hours of banging posts with the heavy post rammer made me dream of a nice office job in a cool climate. There's probably a much easier way to do this, and the locals are watching and laughing their heads off . . . .

Val joined me for a team effort on the wire and netting, and this went much better! With minutes to spare, all was complete and we went off to buy the chickens.

The guy selling the chickens had lots of birds. Ducks, geese, table chickens, laying chickens, quails, all at various ages. My request for four nice 'poules pondeuses' was swiftly dealt with, and each bird grabbed by the legs and held up for my approval. As I stuffed them one by one into my cardboard box I started to wonder whether they would all fit. The seller had no doubts, encouraging me to squeeze them in more, saying I could get twice as many in there . . .

I asked how old they were, and he said nearly six months. He assured me they were already laying, and to prove the point he pulled an egg from their box and added it to a nearly full tray sitting by his chair. Neat magician's trick? Who knows. He did also say that the disruption of moving them could lead to a gap in laying. Then I asked him what breed they were. When he had given the answer twice, I asked him how it was spelt. He looked a bit puzzled, but wrote on the box "Worens". He emphasised that they were the best sort for laying. I thanked him kindly, and left, not much the wiser . . .

A bit of internet research suggests we now own four Warren hens - from a breed of hybrids originally developed for battery egg production. This should at least mean that they are docile and good layers - though whether they'll produce for very long we shall see. No wonder he was puzzled when I asked him how to spell their name - as it's English, and perhaps he thought I should know better than him!

Following all the advice we found in books, we have left the hens in the hen house from their arrival here, and overnight, until they could be released the following morning. They seemed to settle in very well - so quietly that I wondered if they had much life in them!

This morning, everything was amazingly quiet in the hen house. I opened up the window, half expecting to find dead bodies . . . There they all were, standing staring at me . . . .

When I opened the door I sort of expected them to barge their way out to freedom. No . . . they just carried on standing there, showing no enthusiasm at all for the big wide world. I settled down to wait, while Val stood up on the terrace, making encouraging noises from a distance. (Val has, of course, a phobia of feathers, so chickens are obviously my responsibility!)

Eventually, one brave chicken ventured out to explore.

But it was another two hours before he was joined by the rest. Hopefully, they'll settle quickly and start laying!

Salad anyone?

The salad output from the garden is increasing, and is in danger of overwhelming us. We've already done all the courgette freezing we might fancy, and now the tomatoes (2 varieties), lettuce (3 varieties) and the cucumbers are all in full production at once.

We need people to come and eat some! Or at least make some new recipe suggestions. Salad for breakfast doesn't appeal, and it already makes up most other meals . . . .

Relief

It's Saturday and clearly the weather has decided to give me a weekend break. I am happy to say that it is raining. Yes, lovely cool, wet stuff, falling from the cloudy sky and raising my spirits.
Today I will keep the shutters open and watch the birds feeding on the balcony. Today I will open the doors and let a refreshing breeze drift through the house. Today I will celebrate the drizzle and enjoy the absence of blue skies. Tomorrow, I will probably be moaning about the mud, and the slugs, and the fact that I can't dry the washing. But today I am happy.

This morning, in between the welcome showers, we did the usual round of llama visits and progress continues on all fronts.

Elif will now let me touch her head and even her neck, while I'm feeding her from my hand, and I think it may have dawned on Fatma that letting these strange people touch you is a good way to get extra grub. She has started trying to get in on the act, while I'm communing with Elif, and I'm thinking that I may as well work on her at the same time.

Capucine, although she still doesn't eat anything other than natural vegetation and hay, always rushes to greet us at the gate, and this morning even tried to help get it open by lifting the rope off the post using her mouth. It was probably just a random bit of 'mouthing' behaviour, but we like to pretend there was an intelligent intent behind it.

Over at the Walker's field, Simon took Valentine for another walk while I stayed behind with the other two. I get to have all the fun!

Actually, watching how the left-behind-ones behave is quite interesting, if a little bit anxiety-provoking. They always become very agitated when one of them is taken out, and if I keep them in the small enclosure near the gate, they pace around frantically, breathing heavily, humming in a high-pitched tone of uncertainty, looking as if they will try to jump over the fence at any second.

After the difficulty we had the last time Simon took Duc out, when Valentine and Ana tried to barge their way out of the gate to follow, I thought we'd better get them out of the catch pen before Simon got to open the main gate. So this morning that's what we did, with the result that, as soon as Simon and Valentine headed off down the track, Duc and Ana charged back into the field and up the hill and round to the side fence-line, as if trying to see where they had gone.

When llamas are running around at full pelt, particularly when they seem a bit anxious, they can be quite a scarey sight. The narrowness of the steep pathways they have forged between the various open areas on the land, make it impossible to easily get out of the way if you get caught midway when they decide to stampede down them.

This morning, when Duc and Ana had headed up the hill, I decided to lead them on to the open area on the other side where we could all see Simon and Valentine walking sedately round the wheat field in the distance. Which was fine, until they went out of sight again, whereupon, Duc decided to head off up even higher, with Ana in hot pursuit. (I really don't know what she would do left to her own devices - she seems to copy everything the boys do all the time. Sometimes I wonder if she might have a gender-identity crisis when she's a bit older).

As I knew Simon would shortly be coming back, I wanted to get back down to the catch-pen to be ready with a food treat for Valentine, and I calculated that, if I was quick about it, I could probably get down the steep narrow path before Duc and Ana came hurtling down behind me. I set off.

About half way down I heard the unmistakable sound of large animals thrashing through the undergrowth. I didn't turn to look. I started running.

But the undergrowth they were thrashing through was not behind me where I thought, but slightly to the side, and as I was running full speed down the hill, I suddenly came face to face with Ana, who had taken a short cut through the middle and was now galloping up the path, full speed towards me.

A nanosecond passed in which I visualised the inevitable consequences of the impact of two bodies accelerating toward each other at great velocity. GCSE physics equations sprang to mind.

Whilst unable to immediately halt my forward motion (I tell you, that hill is steep!), I continued onward and downward toward my doom. I shouted (in an oh-so-commanding, and a little-bit-scared-witless voice) "STOP!!".

Much to my relief, she did a cartoon-animal screech to a standstill, turning broadside on, with head up and ears back, and let out a loud clucking noise (of which Elif would have been proud). I suspect she had the same thoughts as me, when she saw me hurtling towards her. So, in llama vocabulary, I now believe that clucking means "Stop (where you are)". And when I think of the occasions on which Elif has used it near Pedro, it certainly has had the result of stopping him in his tracks. It's not so much a warning sound, as a direct command. If only French was as easy to understand as Llama.

Ah well, never a dull moment with llamas. Who said 'life's calmer with a llama'? They didn't know our llamas, obviously. Although, when they were all reunited and kushed down in their favourite spot after the morning's excitement, you'd think they were the zen-est creatures around. Appearances can be so deceptive.

Down Time

It's a long time since I wrote anything on here. And before you ask, No, I haven't finished the Pooh Corner map yet, and Yes I feel guilty about leaving Simon to keep the blog up to date all on his own.

I'm in a bit of a motivationless morass at the moment. I'm just too hot and itchy (from insect bites) and tired (from waking up at night because I'm too hot and itchy) to be bothered to do anything. I can't help fantasizing about green, wet, cool places - even though I know that if I was in one, I'd be dreaming of being somewhere warm, dry and sunny. I guess some people are never happy!

So, just for the benefit of all those people who may be envious of our move to the idyllic, sunny rural life in Southern France, here are some of the things I miss about Derby:

• Seeing the ducks on the lake in Markeaton Park.
• Lakes.
• Seeing my children every day.
• Walking the dog in woods full of tall, leafy trees and blackbirds.
• Tall, leafy trees.
• Being able to pass a few moments idle conversation with a stranger in the check-out queue in a supermarket, without having to rehearse every sentence first.
• Carpeted floors and inside window-ledges.
• Dunelm Mills and B&Q.
• Echinacea and Raspberry teabags and Simple moisturizer.
• Knowing what people around me are talking about.
• Knowing what people talking to me are talking about.
• Being able to make jokes and take the mick.
• Drizzle.
• Abundant green gardens with rampant nasturtiums.
• Being able to leave the back door open without worrying about the house filling with heat and insects.
• Being able to sleep under a duvet without melting.
• Being able to sleep.

Of course, I really don't miss having to go to work every day. I'd have to be insane to miss that. (Although I do miss the fun I used to have there, and the people that made it funny.)

And I don't miss the relentless sound of the A38, and the sporadic whine of police sirens. And all the chewing gum on all the paving slabs on all the pavements in town. And all the drunken yoofs doing The Mile, and leaving their chewing gum on all the paving slabs on all the pavements in town.

But just for the record – life in Roquetaillade isn’t all a bed of roses.

Fencing and neighbours

We have the fence posts and the galvanised netting to construct a boundary around the garden. This is needed before we get the chickens, partly to keep away animals like dogs and foxes during the day, and partly to stop the chickens roaming into our neighbours' land. We particularly don't want to annoy the mayor, whose garden adjoins ours.

Also we don't want to worsen relationships with our other neighbour, whose son we are challenging for the right to buy the additional land. All very complex, but when we went to see the SAFER yesterday, we had a really useful conversation with one of their staff. He suggested that we should try to reach a compromise with our 'rival' as the two of us were the only people to have applied to buy the land. He's intending to set up a meeting with us both next week – so I need to have broached the topic with the rival before then.

Stress inducing, but I guess all will turn out well. The key is to be able to feel positively about whatever the outcome is . . . .

Anyway, we have also found that we can get chickens from the same supplier when he comes to Limoux (only 5 miles away) every Friday morning. This means that the arrival of the chickens has been postponed from this Saturday to the following Friday – and I have more time for the fencing. Very welcome, considering the current heatwave, which makes the idea of hard work outside in the middle of the day very unattractive!

Walk on . . .

We're on a roll with the mass walking


This morning we went out again with Duc, Ana and Valentine. They seemed more relaxed - and so were we!












A really pleasant bit of training - and the llamas certainly enjoyed the reward when they got back to the field!

After the llamas . . . . .

The hens are coming!

Sumi and I have built a mean hen house. Now all we need is some fencing, and then next Saturday we'll get the hens.

Anyone offering interesting recipes for eggs, courgettes and lettuce? - all of which are likely to be in surplus!

Success!

The walk was fine!

With three of us, we were confident that we could take all three walking llamas out together. It all went remarkably smoothly . . . They all accepted having halters fitted after they had eaten their customary breakfast. Then, the new bit - leads attached - and all was still calm.

We set off down the track - Val leading with Duc, me in the middle with Valentine, and Sumi bringing up the rear with Ana. We had reasoned that this would be the most settling combination, and allow Sumi to have the smallest and least powerful llama.

This turned out not to be a brilliant idea. Ana has only been walked twice - and both times with me. By the time we reached the wheat field, she was getting pretty jumpy, and giving Sumi a hard time. Although Sumi was incredibly calm, a change was needed. She and I swapped llamas, and we turned them all round and headed for home.

The return went very smoothly, and they were soon unhaltered and relaxing with us on their favourite bit of the field. As you can see in the video, they were not exactly distressed after the first mass walk!

Let's go walking!

This morning we are off to take the three walkers out for their first joint expedition. As my daughter Sumi is here staying with us, we have a chance to have all three out at once . . . . .

Who knows how this will work out? More later!

Tour de France

Today Sumi and I went to see the Tour de France. For me this has become something of an annual event, as it always comes somewhere within easy reach of our village.

It's an amazing mixture of tatty commercialism and brief sighting of a mass of athletes. But it's such a French institution that somehow it carries it off successfully, and everyone who spectates seems to have a great time. One of the strangest features is the 'caravan' - a succession of bizarre floats advertising the Tour sponsors. From these, you get showered with freebies, like hats, keyrings, bags. And we came home with a shed-load, thanks to Sumi's enthusiastic dancing and waving . . .

The road is closed for about two hours, and the riders go by in about 40 seconds. And no-one minds!

A summer morning update

It was a beautiful morning - at least it was before breakfast when we were up with the llamas, before it became really hot and windy . . . .

The three walkers (soon to be walkers in a real sense, if we can get ourselves organised for some expeditions next week when Lily and Alfie come to stay) are having a great time on the rough land. (Yes, I know, you're all waiting for Val's promised Pooh-corner map . . . . it's coming, slowly).

You can see that they've eaten and rolled their way to a nice flat area, where they spend much of the day surveying the countryside. They seem really relaxed together, and it's a very calm place to spend time.

Then on to the breeders . . .

You remember Pedro, the stud who suddenly attacked all male llamas in sight, and who would not let himself be touched by anyone?

Well, Val has been working her charms on him for a while now. And her skill and persistence has paid off, so that he will now (literally) eat out of her hand. More than that, she has managed to remove the halter he has been wearing since April. More even than that, he'll even allow a bit of a cuddle while he eats his breakfast!



Is there no end to this woman's talents?

Well, next she is to tackle aloof Elif, who is right at the top of the llama hierarchy, and makes all the others quiver with just a glance or a snort.

She's actually a beautiful llama, with a perfect straight back, and great poise.

She specialises in reaching the tender leaves high up in trees, and has recently taken to bending young oaks over with her neck, even allowing the other females to get in for a nibble while she holds the upper branches in reach.



I can't wait to see what sort of baby Elif produces. She is pregnant by Pedro, and should be giving birth sometime in August. Apparently, you know when females are within a few weeks of delivery when their teats enlarge. Of course, Elif is far too proud to allow anyone to get close for a look at her teats, so we can be seen occasionally sneaking up on her for a crafty glimpse. . . . .






Capucine, who really could do with a sibling to play with, still runs around like a loony most evenings. She manages to bounce across the field, as though she is using pogo sticks - video to follow, with luck, but so far we've just stood open-mouthed watching her perform! She is partially weaned, and eats hay and vegetation, but still doesn't take any concentrate from us. However, she is now very happy to be stroked each morning, and shows every sign of becoming as friendly and biddable as the delightful Ana.

Dog days

It's very hot. Thanks to my new weather station - a brilliant gift from my son Mike - I know just how overpoweringly hot it is . . . . we thought yesterday was a bit much, but today is more than 3 degrees hotter at 34.7°. (If you're curious, you can see the experimental weather log on this webpage which opens in a new window, and there's a summary of current conditions in the column to the right of this blog.)

Our French teacher, the admirable Mme Gleizes, has taught us a range of words for this weather: I like 'un chaleur caniculaire'. La canicule is the French name for the hot weather that coincides with the long summer holiday that most French workers take, and the name has its origins in Latin - with the same root as the English word canine, to do with dogs.

Apparently, the ancient Romans noticed that the hottest days of the year, in July and early August, coincided with the appearance of Sirius - the Dog Star - in the same part of the sky as the Sun. Sirius is the largest and brightest star in the Canis Major constellation, in fact it is the brightest star in the sky. The ancients believed that the star contributed to the heat of the day. And so into French as la canicule, and into English as dog days . . . .

My etymological ramblings should convince you that either I've finally cracked up completely, or just that it's too hot in the middle of the day to do anything except stay fairly still in the shade. The llamas are behaving much the same, with 'the breeders' neatly slotted into the shade of the field shelter and 'the walkers' lying stretched out to catch as much breeze as possible. You'd have thought that it would be unbearable having a thick fur coat on all day, but they do seem to be coping better than we are. Their drinking rate has increased, meaning we have to make more trips up the hill with large water containers, but the walkers - who have loads of vegetation to browse - still seem to be getting most of their liquid through eating. Not for nothing are they members of the camel family!

Max, being a dog, loves the dog days. The hotter the better. As the sun moves around the house, so does he - so in the late afternoon, for him there's nowhere better than the balcony, where he can get fully exposed. He's not so good at walking any more, and rarely runs at all, but lying in the sun is really his specialist subject.

Meanwhile, I manage to dart out into the sun every now and again to water the flagging seedling vegetables. We're having a courgette glut, and are eating lettuce as fast as we can. The tomato crop should be good. If only I was a bit more organised, we would have a balanced diet. As it stands, we shall have to eat the various components of a good salad each in separate weeks. And I'm definitely losing out to the snails with the radishes and beetroot. My organic beliefs are being sorely tried by the rampant chewing of thousands of molluscs . . . . We hardly ever see any in action, because they have the knack of hiding away from the sun all day and then emerging to feast overnight. Any non-lethal ideas welcomed!