Nothing much happens

A few days have passed since the Bad Day.

The hurdle of obtaining hay has been surmounted, (Remotely Interesting Fact: thirty two bales fit in our horse trailer, and weigh around a ton). The guttering has been installed on the field shelter, so the rain water collects in the llamas drinking bucket. Neat. The vegetable garden is taking shape – tomatoes, lettuces, courgettes and leeks in the ground; tomato, red pepper and basil seeds in pots. Despite all the Fuss and Bother of last Wednesday, no mating has yet taken place in llama land. As far as we know.

April continues to shower. Warm and sunny one minute. Heavy rain the next. The field is muddy. The track up to the top gate is muddier. The drive up it in the land rover is scary. More adrenalin bursts, as the road tyres get slick with mud and the only possible movement is a sideways slide towards the edge of a wooded precipice. Eventually back on the safety of the rutted tarmac, we laugh at the muddy trails we leave in the road, just like Real Farmers (and contemplate, with a guilty shudder, the possible consequences for unsuspecting bikers).

We take the dog for a walk, and have a good look at the next bit of rough land we intend to fence. It’s steep in many places and brim-full of prickly stuff. While I stand in a ‘clearing’ of Very Long Grass, Simon ventures off to explore the possible boundaries, leaving me alone in the silence. Strange, low grunting noises from close-by make me jump, and send Max the Lionheart whimpering to my side. The sun is hot, the sky a beautiful expanse of rolling silver and grey clouds bundling around in patches of blue. The joy of yet another moment in a magic place is only slightly marred by the fear of whatever tusked creature might come rushing out of the undergrowth at any second.

There is no easy access to the land – the most obvious way-in being across a field of wheat. Simon cheerfully comments that it will be easy to clear a line around the edges for erecting a fence. I consider the work involved and question his use of the term ‘easy’. I guess it’s all relative. The prospect of carrying fence posts from the nearest driveable point to the highest part of the land makes me feel tired. The thought of removing metres and metres of blackthorn makes me feel sore. The thought of paying someone else to do all the work makes its way into my head. But we can’t afford it and anyway it probably couldn’t be done quickly enough. Plus we’d have to have some more of those dreaded French phone conversations to arrange it.

We walk back home via the llama field and Duc and Valentine sniff at Max through the gate. Nobody runs away. As we head back down towards the village, the clouds empty. Max and Simon both make it home wet, and I straggle in behind utterly drenched. It seems hard to believe that in a couple of months all the land around here will be rock hard and bone dry, when the summer drought kicks in.