And a happy new year

Is it possible, please, for 2010 to be a little more relaxing and less stressful than 2009? Please? Pretty please?
To start as I mean to go on, here are some of today's stress-free images, intended to calm all those who survey the loveliness: the gorgeous peacock butterfly; the ewes with Humphrey the llama; and the grass trying desperately to breathe through the ice.
I don't know if the latter is a metaphor for life, or just a handy one for the dying year, but either way, here's wishing everyone a blossoming 2010 with soft fluffy moments, sharp insights and 50% smile factor.

Happy Christmas

Disenfranchised turkeys

My turkeys have lost their way to the polling booth. They have been done to death, plucked, gutted, trussed, packed and frozen. Forty minutes or there abouts to pluck a turkey, compared to two hours for a goose. The four of them weigh a smidgen under 11lbs to nearly 12.5 lbs, fully dressed, or as seems to make more sense, without their clothes, feet, head and unwanted innards but with their giblets.
So what with my summer peas blanched and bagged and nestling in the deep freeze and the meat element sorted, I should be able to put my feet up until the 25th December...only there's no time left in the diary for buying presents, writing cards or restocking the meagre booze cupboard.

The Bush Inn, Morwenstow

No, I really don't see myself as a restaurant critic. I don't wear enough rings, have a stern enough demeanour or describe my munching in terms of literary criticisms, but I feel I should put the record straight after my mauling of Pan-ache. There are, after all, some simple places that do outstanding food in the area.
After bouncing about with multiple dogs and friends at the usual beach haunt, we headed north along the coast to pick up some strap hinges for the barn doors from blacksmith David North-Lewis. The sea air and traversing of fat cobbles had built a perfect appetite, and the pub, just yards away from the forge, called to us. They were happy for us to bring in the dogs and we commandeered a big corner table so we could tuck the canines, large and small, under our legs and out of the way.
Our eyes slithered over the starters but when we saw the pudding list decided to go mains and puds. Beer battered fish with fresh tartare and homemade mushy peas; homemade beef burger with stilton and relish with fries; steak and kidney pie with roasted veg and mash. Nought complicated there, just straightforward pub food without a gastro complex in sight. But oh my. It was fantastic. Everyone oohed and aahed over their dishes. My burger was stunning - gorgeous beef, beautifully cooked and it smelled amazing - what you always hope for and rarely if ever get. I wanted to bury myself in it. I don't know who the chef is (although he took the pudding orders from me), but the chap sure knows how to cook.
I took Fenn out for a quick leg stretch across the village green and for another sniff of the sea before it was time for almond crème brûlée with shortbread for some and chocolate brownie for me. As the waitress got close to the table I could smell the deep dark scent of good chocolate. This was clearly going to be an adult experience. A bitter sweet crumbly brownie sat in a sea of thick dark, hot chocolate sauce with what can only be called several portions of clotted cream.
We talked at length about the disappointing food we've had in pubs over the years and grinned broadly at having just experienced exactly how it should be done.
There's lots about the local provenance of their ingredients and it shows - everything was super fresh and we've already planned a return visit.
For once there were absolutely no scraps left for the dogs. Shame.

Getting ready for the hols

Christmas eve is my time for getting ready for Christmas day as far as the grub is concerned. The goose and red cabbage with apple have been slid out of the freezer and defrosted. I've made the chestnut and apricot stuffing, wrapped prunes and sausages in streaky bacon, simmered the goosey giblets for stock to make the gravy, dug up the parsnips and beetroot for roasting, watched the bread sauce glub on a low heat and made a fish pie for tonight. The house already smells like Christmas, and there's just sprouts to prepare and an apple pie left to make.
I've walked the dogs and listened to the dessicated oak leaves still clinging to the trees tremble and susurrate in the light breeze, and sploshed through the sodden lower fields which stamps out any other sound.
The banks are full of holes. No, I hadn't ventured onto a High Street near you or into the City. The Devon banks are full of holes and the lack of foliage reveals all the rabbit workings, fox diggings, badger scrapings, shrew, vole and stoat earthworks. Every yard reveals recent activity; disturbed earth, droppings, heaps of dried grass, discarded twigs, acorn cups and natural detritus of all kinds.
At 3pm the light starts to fail, at 4.30 all the birds are put away for the night. Christmas is coming, fast and furious. Hope you have a good one.

Postscript:
Our local pub, The George, burned down last night after six centuries of existence. Everyone is shocked by the loss of this beautiful and ancient building, and rumour is rife about how it started.

The Devil's Cauldron

It's impossible to capture the power, the cacophony, the all pervasive wet in one wee photo, but Lydford Gorge's Devil's Cauldron is quite something. Some gentle pasture, a mild mannered woodland, and then boom! The cracked rock is full of tumbling, roaring, endless water moving at incredible velocity, gushing into the potholes below.
The path is very much single track; no holding hands in holiday mood or chatting companionably side by side. You go down, down towards the mayhem and between the fissured stone into the depths of the gorge, secured either side by hand rails. Then a little swing gate and if you can brave the sudden lack of an outer handrail, soaked and slippy slate steps take you into the heart of the thing, where you stand on a platform right over the cauldron and imagine what it might have been like to be the first to discover this force of nature without a handhold to steady your body or spirit. I baulked and then set my jaw and completed the walk, strangely unaffected by vertigo, probably because everything is so contained and claustrophobic, quite unlike looking out from a high bridge or cliff into a world of scary nothing.
On the gentler parts of the walk, water constantly oozes and trickles, drips and splashes, spurts and springs through the ferns and mosses. Trees grow incredibly tall and straight seeking the light, and the undergrowth is an emerald and jade jungle - a cartel of chlorophyll. It's impossible to imagine going thirsty here; the antithesis of desert
The White Lady waterfall at the other end of the gorge is also beautiful if not so nervily dramatic, but the National Trust rather overdo the walker warnings calling it arduous, treacherous and goodness knows what else. You need stout shoes and a concentrating eye, and the dogs were left at home to avoid tipping anyone into the deadly depths, but although it's fairly steep, it's a short trot, and you couldn't compare it to climbing Everest.

Chocolate rum truffles - for those small gaps left in your stomach

Here’s a present for the New Year - I strongly suggest you use rum or brandy and not Calvados as Hugh suggests. Green and Black’s Cook's chocolate (and their cocoa for sprinkling) is fab for this. The recipe is tweaked but based on River Cottage chocolate brandy truffles - makes about 50 and I doubt you could eat more than two at a sitting.

300g dark chocolate (2 x Green and Black's Cook's choc bars), broken up
200ml double cream
75g icing sugar
50ml dark rum or brandy
2 heaped dessert spoons honey
Pinch of salt
Sifted cocoa, for dusting

Put all the ingredients (except the cocoa) in a heatproof bowl and place over a pan of just-boiled water. Leave to melt, stirring only once or twice. When the truffle mixture is completely melted and blended and thick enough to spoon and not too hot to handle, spoon into petit fours cases on a big tray. You will get drips on your fingers - cook's treat - lick well. Leave to cool, then put the loaded tray into the fridge to chill truffles until firm. Sieve with a bit of cocoa before serving.

Amazing, easy to make, can be done from store ingredients (if you can keep chocolate in store) and gets the best compliments ever. I gave these as presents, making good use of my empty Bravissimo boxes - they take a good number in a single layer, and folks look temporarily aghast that you might have given them lingerie.

A ghostly tale for the holidays

Down in the woods today there were no teddy bears picnicking, just the remains where Grizzlies might have been. Happy holidays.

Love thy neighbour

There is a knock on the door. I think it will be the postman with some recorded deliveries I have to sign for. But no. There is a small smiling man holding out a huge bouquet of seasonal flowers, and they are smiling at me too. I fill my arms with this unexpected treat. "There's a card" says the small smiling man. The card has no signature, but it's clearly from the neighbours whose farm-sitting we are carrying out whilst they holiday en famille in Hawaii. "Thank you so much for making our Christmas possible...forever in your debt".
I am very moved. The small smiling man goes on his way to make more people very happy.

The right to take a break

When you are at school and reach the time when you just can't stand the itchy uniform and the dull homework any longer, it's half term. Or end of term. Or even better, summer holidays. Wired into your very being is the regularity of taking a break. And then, keen to leave your juvenile pleasures behind you, you start work and realise with mounting horror that the statutory holiday allowance is a measly 20 days a year, and school and college suddenly doesn't seem such hard graft after all.
You work for a few years and if you are lucky, your annual leave entitlement grows a bit. Perhaps you get five weeks off a year. There are of course far too many dippy workaholics who take their laptops, mobiles, blackberries and assorted wifi goodies on their holidays, irritating their spouse, lover, children and the folks in the next hotel room; that's their call.
And now, we have John Gieve being criticised for being on holiday when he should have been at work, managing the financial crisis of the moment. Firstly, it appears he was actually attending his mother's funeral for part of his leave, and secondly, what's the problem with taking a break? His boss was at work sorting things out, as no doubt were most of his staff. I presume, just as the royals don't fly together in case the lot get mashed in a single aircrash, that the Gov and his deputy don't holiday at the same time - very wise. If either man was the sole person able to control the situation I would be very worried; what if one of them became ill, or died, or just needed a day off to see to the boiler repair man?
Sorry folks, I just don't buy it - everyone is entitled to take a break and if you do a very important job, then someone else will have been briefed to cover it for the short period of your no-doubt much needed absence and rest period. Should nurses or surgeons never take a break because there is always someone in need of an operation?
And then there are farmers. Not sure how it can be organised that farmers can have their statutory entitlement - but then they are self-employed, and the law doesn't count. Here, neighbours cover for the odd day, weekend or slightly longer absence, but it is a big responsibility and you can only do this with other farmers, folk comfortable with animal feeding regimes, milking and knowing whether that sheep should really be upsidedown. Farmers usually have big hearts and are generous in giving of their time and advice; in time of crisis or busyness it's all hands to the hayfork, but they don't often have deputies to cover for them.
Perhaps we could develop a scheme like the one in Finland, and I could have my very own Deputy Dawg.

A seaside special

Today was an impromptu holiday. The plan - to take the dogs to the beach now that the summer season is over and only the unemployed, the retired and the child-free are tackling the Cornish coast. The National Trust's Northcott Mouth may not be found on their website, but it is a wee treasure all the same. Smooth sea shaped boulders and pebbles far too big to put in your pocket litter the edge of the beach, making a satisfying crunch sound as you make your way seawards. From a distance you see the purplish black-capped jagged rocks peppering the beach and as you get closer, you can see that the rocks are in fact a mussel-lovers paradise.
The dogs pick their way carefully over the rocks and through the pools, allowed off their leads here all year round. They are mildly nervous of the sea and jump back from the lacy white froth, barking as I move away from them to get my knees splashed by the last licks of a once vigorous wave. Once I'm back out of the scary sea the dogs are playful but keep close, and watch as I twist some of the larger mussels off their salty barnacled bed and into a fresh as a daisy pooh bag.
The surf is up, a perfect Beach Boys day, only this beach is too rocky for safe surfing (is there such a thing?), and the noise of the waves is pounding and fierce and sucks away all other thoughts.
For now, the rock pools are ankle deep, clear and still. In a few hours they and the rocks that surround them will be feet deep in water, there will be no visible beach, and the woman who runs the tea caravan with its neat benches on well-clipped lawn, will be at home making her own tea, whilst I pick the beards from the mussels and serve free food.

Pull!

Having fun should come with a health warning. Yesterday I had a lot of fun, and today I am suffering , and it has absolutely nothing to do with alcohol.
Summer has finally and belatedly arrived, and so an impromptu party for friends and neighbours was conjured out of thin air, the vegetable patch and the local butchers (no time to thaw adequate heaps of home grown carnivory). There was a whirlwind of hay turning, mowing and topping. There wasn't time to get the lawnmower out, so the tractor and its mega mower danced across the garden too and we just ignored the tractor tyre tracks it left. Bowls of edibles were produced, and then a borrowed clay pigeon trap was set up.
It is many years since I've used a shotgun, but as the afternoon shadows started to lengthen, I took my first shot since arriving on the farm. The explosion in my ear was literally deafening. My ears rung and shut down for a few daze making moments. When my head steadied I ran off to fetch the ear defenders, and then settled the gun back into my shoulder. With the decibels more under control my body had the capacity to consider the recoil as I thundered out half a dozen or more pathetic attempts to catch the birdy, but the wind caught them each time and I didn't have my eye in to anticipate as needed.
As folks arrived we drifted into the garden and ate our fill, talking until it was too dark to see each other.
This morning I have a bruised right tit and armpit and my shoulder is stiff with surprise. I can't wait to have another go.

Old Testament toad

The rivers are not running with blood, but they are bursting their banks and cruelly taking life. The news is grim and Gordon Brown will be taking over a country not so much cleansed as deluged. As for the personal being political, the largest toad I have ever seen in this country took refuge from the watery onslaught in the dog's room last night and as it is still dark I have yet to check outside whether this is a single visitation or a veritable plague, and if I should therefore be checking for lice (might be a tick or two on the sheep), flies (check), dying cattle (my heart starts to sink), boils (so far, so smooth), hail of devastating effect (not yet...but the grass intended for hay has nonetheless been flattened by the downpours), locusts (just butterflies at the moment), and far worse.
The toad was the size of my fist - I do not have large hands, but even so, that is a big Bufo bufo. It was carried carefully into some lush green undergrowth out of dog harm.
There is something hugely appealing about a toad. They live a quiet life, rarely intruding on your thoughts or vision, and then they appear apparently out of nowhere to remind you of their existence and helpful destruction of veg patch pests. Digging up spuds a few years ago, a knot of toads emerged blinking from the soil and incredible care had to be taken as more of them were revealed at each now tentative forkful of earth.
But the biggest toad I have ever seen anywhere was Italian. The Toad of Fontemelaia as it was thereafter named, was the size of a football and I nearly squashed it, driving down the unmade treacherous track after an evening at the local pizzeria. There was this big round lump in the road. Thinking it was a rock that had newly fallen on the path I screeched to a halt. As we went to move the rock, the headlights showed it to be mega toad. We gawped in awe. It hauled itself away from the light never to be seen again. I still wonder if it was a figment of too much chianti, but there were four of us and we still recall that night and the wonderful cherries and fireflies that flourished below the flea-ridden but oh so romantic farmhouse.
If my biblical toad is still around in the morning light I will try and take a photo of the man himself.

It's show time!

Summertime is showtime. It's when farmers decide they can take the odd day off here and there and meet their mates in beer tents, get hustled and hassled by men in suits selling big tractors, and poke at the premium livestock on display. That latter grouping includes the sleek human showjumping and dressage fraternity as well as the eyewateringly endowed bulls, boars and billies. The choice of agricultural shows in the South West is enough to keep you in holiday mood and off the farm for months. This week it's the Devon County, next month the Royal Cornwall and the Woodfair. Then there are all the smaller shows such as the almost identical in content Okehampton and Chagford shows just one week apart; the only difference between these two is the probable wealth in the pockets of the punters. Then there are events with heavy horses, the plot to plate specials, the specialist poultry dos and posh food fairs. Everywhere Barbours, flat caps, leather cowboy hats, and dogs, dogs, dogs. It's when I get to admire the goats, pigs and sheep (and make a note of the contact details of the breeders); stare in wonder at the mighty cows (and put my pen away); slide my hand over impressively shiny and strange machinery that I don't understand. Services and goodies you can't unearth in yellow pages helpfully reveal themselves and you come away with armfuls of info that you stuff in a folder that can never be found when you need it. Raspberry vinegar and local cheeses fill your bag. You pat the donkeys and have a little yearn for one of your own. Peter Purves soundalikes (or perhaps it's the real thing) commentate boozily over the tannoy. You sneer at the cider samples (homemade is better) and riffle through the antiquarian books, giggling at gems suggesting decidedly poisonous ways of treating your best mare or gun dog. There will be a falconry display. Ditto dancing diggers and sheepdogs putting runner ducks in a pen. Bring it on.

I feel good

In the luscious lead-up to a four day weekend, it's amazing to sit outside and feel the hot sun do its worst on the crow's feet. The dogs lie on the cobbles avoiding the sharp loose stones, chins on their paws and eyes closed in pleasure. So much of the to-do list has to go on hold until lambing is finished; I plan to take a book and a straw bale into the orchard and do my shepherding in comfort. A leisurely kip might be nice; perhaps a divan of bales would be better? M&M can provide horsehair mattress stuffing for added luxury. I could doze, iodine a few navels and trim a few feet, and avoid the great brashings burn-up taking place elsewhere on the farm. I could take the dogs down when the fires are mellowing at the end of the day and they can chase around where piles of hedge-laying detritus had blocked our path. I doubt I can avoid loading logs onto the trailer for next year's firewood, the first of multiple handlings (field to trailer, trailer to woodpile, chopped and moved to second woodpile, chucked in wheelbarrow and brought into the house, stacked by fire, into fire....combustion) before it gets to the woodburner. But it's a t-shirt task and it's going to be t-shirt weather, and I feel good.

A luxurious place for luxurious people

One way or another the planned summer holiday never happened, so Mopsa and I were treated to a posh country break near Ashburton in Dartmoor in December. Prepared to confront bad weather head on, we chose somewhere that could provide cosy log fires, a supreme location, fabulous food and on the doorstep woodland walks for the mega-pooch.
Doing the old Internet hunt (googling: posh country hotel dogs) we found Holne Chase. As we drove down the rutted drive six weeks later through undeniably ancient woodland to a smart but not too grand hotel facade, we did the metaphorical rubbing of hands at having made a sound choice, previously sight unseen. Things got even better as a very friendly Dutch member of staff walked us down to the stable suite where we were staying. Stable doors opened onto a simple but smart sitting room with what at first appeared to be a cast iron log stove (turned out to be gas-fired) in full flame. Squashy Knole sofa, rugs, even squashier dog bed and TV (never turned that on) made up the downstairs, and a good sized bedroom with seven foot double bed and decent sized bathroom completed the upstairs accommodation. We snaffled the biscuits, bathed and changed for dinner and headed up to the hotel restaurant for the first of several delicious meals. If you like game, seafood, and most meat-eaters fare, then you'd be happy at Holne Chase. The food is excellently prepared, unpretentious and substantial with great local cheeses, big wine list and good, friendly service. The geese, ducks and hens that roamed across the huge lawns made it feel very much like home and the walk to the river was beautiful.
But then we noticed a few niggles, which to our mind deleted the hotel's own determinedly held definition of luxury. First the wardrobe: it was a cupboard with hangers which contained a rickety melamine chest of drawers. Only trouble was you couldn't see what you had put in the drawers as the cupboard had no light, and there was a real sensation of not really providing space for personal possessions and clothes for more than a single night. Bedside tables had no drawers either - just the ubiquitous chipboard with mini tablecloth and glass top to give the impression but without the substance. The bath was shallow and there were inadequate shelves for putting your own things down in the space - but a nice fluffy towelling dressing gown was provided (but only for one and there were two of us). No extra pillows were in the room and I like to sleep on a good mound of them. Being specially offered as a hotel to take dogs, walking boots, fishing rods and other accoutrements of the country life, there was no hard floor area for these, and worse, no sink for washing the dog bowl, filling the kettle and doing stuff you wouldn't want to do in the upstairs bathroom. The cold water was consistently warm - absolutely yuck for brushing your teeth but the worst of the domestics was the rationing of the bogroll. Even the lady on reception had the grace to say that at a luxury hotel, you should expect to use two sheets per go! We did have a fabulous break, but we were constantly aware that some of the small things that make all the difference to your longed-for holiday were not quite right. We didn't complain about any of these things as we were there to relax and rest, and I knew I could get it off my chest with a backward looking blog. There were previously unannounced supplements for some dishes (an additional £5 for beef on a menu that was already £35 per head for three courses). However, our special request for lobster on day 3 of our stay was dealt with swiftly and we had no qualms paying for a supplement for this which we knew we would incur in advance. The owner of the hotel was much in evidence - a countryside alliance type of chap, who joshed his guests loudly and with vigour (causing occasional offence, but apparently harmless). It was only as we had paid and we were leaving that he let rip some appallingly homophobic comment, believing that I would, of course, agree with him! I would suggest that the place needs a few "home improvements" but that the most successful one would be for the owner to spend his time playing pooh sticks on the various bridges on the Dart and leave the running of his fantastically located joint to his excellent staff and their lovely dogs.