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!