Nothing much more to say. I’m just here with the promised extra pics of the twins born yesterday.
Mother and babies seem to be thriving.
Already they seem bigger.
It’s still not clear whether one is a girl, but the one closest to us has been positively identified as a boy.
The last hold-out mama remains obstinately pregnant. The Forbearing Husband and I are off tomorrow for a few days in Wellington so perhaps she’ll hold on until we get back. Gestation, like love, cannot be hurried.
Our super-sized mumma finally gave birth this morning and now we see the reason for that excessively large girth.
Yup, we have twins!
I grabbed these photos in fading light after I got home from work so they are not fabulous quality. I’ll see if I can get some better shots of our new additions tomorrow morning. I wanted to let you know straight away though, since you have been Humming Hopefully for a while now.
Looks like we might have a boy and a girl…
…but it’s pretty hard to be sure just yet.
Until tomorrow then. I’m off now to count sheep!
The Forbearing Husband and I made Tiny into our base camp today while a nice man called Hamish prepped our kitchen floor ready for the new [redacted] to be laid. Not telling yet, I want to keep you in suspense a little while longer!
Dog tired after moving all that kitchen paraphernalia around.
It’s felt a little like being on holiday. More so after Forbearing Husband ventured into the kitchen to extract the kettle, and our tea making supplies. Because really, what kind of a holiday is it without a nice cup of tea?
If we are out here long enough another raid may have to be staged to obtain the gin and a bottle of tonic. Limes we have aplenty, on a tree just beside our tiny abode. Handy!
Tiny house writer.
Tiny house tea drinker.
So, Forbearing Husband has been working at his scribblings*. I have been reading, and futzing with emails. Any minute now it will be time to brush and feed the ponies, and then we are off out for dinner. A wise choice I thought, since the kitchen is largely empty.
Floor prepped kitchen, looking towards dining area.
and the living room looks like this:
Sigh, we’ll be sorting that out after dinner.
And just when things were almost back to only our normal state of disorder.
Worst of all, there seems to be a fine film of dust on every surface. Oh wait, I think maybe that was already there.
How was your Thursday? Anyone else experiencing a fine film of dust?!
* And most worthy scribbling they are, to be sure.
Apart from those unborn lambs!
A new batch of AntiGene Muesli. Here’s the recipe.
Visitors to the farmlet have been missing their fix of AntiGene Muesli over the last few months (sorry Little Quail and Nurse Jenny). One way and another I’ve been too busy (or lazy), to get to Bin Inn and stock up on the raw ingredients.
All sorted now though after a bumper shop last week. And we’re cookin’.
Take note, you sheep-mamma’s with lambs in the oven. Your turn next to deliver the goods.
Anyone else getting started on something they’d been putting off?
I was hoping to be able to share cute photos of the rest of our baby lambs today. I’m afraid there has been a small hitch in that plan though — they haven’t been born yet. That’s right, we still have just one mother and baby pair, and two increasingly broad-in-the-beam mums-to-be.
Mother-in-waiting #1. Surely to goodness this must be twins.
Our sheep gestation calculations suggested that we would have lambs at the beginning of September. Our first boy was born on the 5th, so naturally we felt certain there’d be more babies along at any minute. Now, after eight days with zero additional deliveries, I can only guess that Mr Ram — overwhelmed by exhaustion after the first impregnation — had to send out for oysters. Courier service to rural areas can take some time.
Mother-in-waiting #2. This one is a first time mum.
Don’t worry, I’ll let you know as soon as there is a population increase. While we’re waiting perhaps you could hum a little something in a Hopeful Manner? I’ll leave the choice of tune to you.
As previously mentioned, we got our kunekune pigs with high hopes for them being useful as lawn mowers. After some years of mowing largish lawns at our old house, the Forbearing Husband had expressed a deep desire to avoid pushing a mower around at the farmlet. I promised (quite recklessly, in hindsight) that he wouldn’t need to. I was quite sure we could get some farm animals to keep the lawns tidy. I even had a plan to call our eagerly awaited lawn-mowing sheep Briggs and Stratton.
Fig the pig, adorned with blades of grass undoubtedly gained while creating a large rut in a paddock.
Sadly my optimism was misplaced. Animals that eat grass seem incapable of stopping there. Mouthfuls of fruit trees, roses and even the occasional whole grapefruit have all slid down the gullets of our grazers. As for the kunekune pigs, they do more digging than mowing. Areas of grass that have been occupied by a pig end up looking like a rugby pitch after a particularly vigorous game. Some people put a stop to these shenanigans by adding rings to little piggy noses, but it makes us sad to think of those squidgy little snouts being punished for doing the thing they love best (#not-real-farmers).
So what are pigs good for if not lawn-mowing? I heard you say bacon, and I’m going to pretend you didn’t.
Moving right along.
A mass of Jerusalem Cherry — pervasive weed extrordinaire, and mortal enemy of all on the farmlet.
When we bought the farmlet The Clearing looked like this, and it more or less remained in that state until a few weeks ago. It was full to chocka with Jerusalem Cherry (aka JC), a weed already much discussed on this blog.
There had been various weeding blitzes staged in The Clearing over the years, but we had failed to make much headway. The JC plants in there are prodigious; shoulder height, and growing so densely one can hardly fight one’s way into the mass of vegetation to swing a spade.
I’m guessing by now you can see where this story is heading?
A fanfare please for The Arrival of the Pigs (they’d like you to consider this their theme song).
Nell makes her entrance, squidgy little snout at the ready.
Yes, those grunting little rototillers were just what were needed. They marched on in, and took to their task like — well, like pigs to mud. They snuffled and shunted, grubbed and burrowed, wallowed and dug. They made tracks through the jungle of weeds, loosened up the soil and unseated that diabolical JC. What’s more they thoroughly enjoyed every minute of it.
Afterwards us humans did some digging of our own, along with a bit of unavoidable wallowing in the gumboot-sucking mud. We pulled up great clumps of JC which we hauled to the bonfire pile, gleefully anticipating incineration day (it was, in fact, those very plants we were burning on the afternoon of Daredevil Deborah’s swim).
By the time we’d all finished, the landscape in The Clearing looked set for a re-staging of the Battle of the Somme. We are hoping it will start to grow some pretty grass over summer, once we’ve done a bit of flame throwing to thwart the emerging JC seedlings. Although the Forbearing Husband has renounced lawn-mowing, he does not object to flame-throwing — a change being as good as a rest and all that.
Daredevil Deborah and Nina frolic in The Clearing partway through JC removal.
The muddy area has been weeded, the area to the left is the next to be dug.
So there you are, the story of two little pigs, who — while frightfully incompetent at lawn-mowing — went on to prove their worth.
I think we could say it now.
I thought you should be the first to know…
We have lamb number one. A little boy.
Mama sheep gave birth this morning.
Being born was clearly quite exhausting for junior.
The other two ewes are due to have their lambs in the next few days. One looks to be pregnant with twins judging by her girth. Don’t worry, I’ll keep you updated and post plenty of cute photos.
It happened today! The first swim of the new season. Executed with style, and the speed of a woman outrunning hypothermia, by Daredevil Deborah.
A conversation about the possibility of swimming started this morning while farmlet residents were tending a bonfire. The sun was warm, the bonfire warmer, and as we moved a satisfyingly large pile of our evil botanical adversary into the flames we sweated profusely.
Deborah enters the water with the words ‘It’s not too bad so far’ …
The word ‘swim’ left Deborah’s lips first, and she went to check the pool temperature. The rest of us took guesses; Favorite Stepson thought 13°, Stephen of House Kragbol 12°, and I (ever the optimist) hopefully predicted 15°. The Forbearing Husband did not guess. He has a writing deadline to meet and was typing furiously in the Tiny House.
… And she emerges declaring it ‘invigorating’. A word straight out of the AntiGene swimming lexicon.
And the answer? A none-too-balmy 12.5°C . Nonetheless into the pool our brave Deborah went. I briefly considered joining her. Very briefly.
Instead I sat on the side and soaked my feet, spoke soothing words, and photographed her achievement for the blog. Look, someone had to take the pics, and there are times when one must make sacrifices for one’s art.
Anyone else been swimming yet? Anyone else glad they haven’t (yet)?
I’ve subjected you to a few rather longwinded blog posts recently. So here, by way of a palate cleanser, is a pictorial essay I’m calling ‘The Farmlet in Winter’.
Nell covered in mud, and hoping earnestly for food. Fig and Nell will sit on command if you have carrots.
It’s a good trick, and one which never fails to impress visitors.
Giselle, who has become a bit of a tyrant in the chicken house, shows us her imperious look.
Summer’s adorable velvety-soft nose.
Summer also hopes earnestly for carrots, she does not, however, sit on command.
What she does like to do in winter is to go hooning around the paddock practicing her sliding-stops.
Because *horse*!
Bonnie takes every possible opportunity to eat, insisting she is at imminent risk of starvation <rotfl>.
Here she is grabbing a few bites of greenery during a winter walk in Seven Acre Wood.
In the vegetable garden there’s a forest of rhubarb starting up.
I planted a few extras last year because I’ve taken a liking to stewed rhubarb with my AntiGene granola.
Meanwhile the Munstead Wood rose popped out a surprise midwinter bloom in the English Garden.
And here are the miniature Tête-à-tête daffodils just in time for the change of season.
Why is it that I find tiny things so cute?
Well that was winter. I have a couple more muddy tales to tell you, and then we’ll be romping into spring! I’m more than ready to leap into a season of baby lambs (due any day now), short but ‘refreshing’ swims, and sowing seeds for summer vegetables. Perhaps Deborah and I might even making a start on rehabilitating that ramshackle old greenhouse.
What do you most look forward to doing this spring?
Warning: Oversize blog post ahead!
Last week I told you about my unexpected purchase of a cabin called Tiny. If you haven’t already, you might want to read that post in order to marvel at the sheer fiscal recklessness of ChrissyB. In the same vein try this post, and this one, about other unplanned and daring purchases, and get a taste for what the Forbearing Husband has to put up with.
Enough about that. I’m generally very sensible. The sort of person who checks twice that power points aren’t live before messing around with wiring, and always wears her riding helmet. Great, now we’ve got that out of the way… would you like to see Tiny? Thought so. Look!
Sitting on the trailer at Waipu ready to move.
Cute, no? Well, cute is as cute does, and by the time we’d hauled our new friend 60kms or so up SH1 the Forbearing Husband wasn’t feeling the love. Here’s how it all went down.
When we bought Tiny she was based at Waipu, and we were fortunate that the person selling her knew quite a lot about moving oversized loads. He had offered in the Trade Me listing to actually deliver her within a 30km radius. Unfortunately the farmlet is outside that limit. Nevertheless, the seller (let’s call him ‘The Man From Waipu Cove’) seemed confident that with his help we could get the job done without paying professionals. At a saving of $1800 on renting a hiab that seemed like a good idea.
Tiny weighs two tonnes. She is 5.2m long, 2.5m wide, and 4m high. The plan was to jack her up on blocks and put her onto a borrowed trailer. After adding the height of the trailer, our load would be up around 4.6m. That’s a tad over the 4.3m legal hight limit on NZ roads (shhh, she’s here now, and no harm done).
Our main concern was overhead power lines. Mostly they are 5m above the ground, but that’s not guaranteed especially on small rural roads, and telecommunication lines can be lower. We live on a small rural road. Thus in the weeks between buying and moving Tiny, I became obsessed with looking at power lines as we drove along roads near the farmlet, panicking myself about how VERY low some of them looked. Full disclosure, I’ve only just kicked this habit.
The loft sleeping area has a double glazed stained glass window.
Not to worry. The Man From Waipu Cove (henceforth TMFWC) decided that if we were to get to his place at 4pm we could get Tiny settled on her trailer by 6pm. That way we could drive home in daylight, and at what we hoped would be a nice quiet time on the roads. We were doing the towing in the newly-acquired Beast, with the Forbearing Husband driving, and me riding shotgun; TMFWC was to follow us. He would be looking out for low power lines and maintaining walkie-talkie contact so that he could warn us to stop before we hit them. Confidence was high.
On the day, we arrived at the appointed time and set to jacking Tiny up. It was a fully absorbing process, and quite satisfying; a couple of two tonne hydraulic jacks lifted one end at a time, and she was gradually blocked up higher and higher until we were able to slide the trailer right underneath. Brilliant. Until we looked at the time — 9pm! Oh frak. Best get on the road then.
Away we went, and for the first 15 minutes, just enough time to get us out of Waipu itself and headed towards the main highway, all was going to plan. At every low looking line we came to we would slow down and TMFWC would talk us through “Yup, keep it slow, looking fine, okay you’re good”. It was still scary, but a sort of controlled scary. Someone was looking out for us. And then the inevitable happened.
Lifting Tiny up on blocks. The trailer is on the left of the photo ready to slide under her.
It got dark. Too dark for TMFWC to see the power lines any more. Too dark for any of us to see them. Advice from our expert mover ‘Just drive, and keep driving’. Holy cow!
So we drove, and we drove, and we drove, and we drove very s-l-o-w-l-y. Once out on the highway things were better in one way — underground power lines, yo — but speed was our enemy. If we got up over 70kmph Tiny started swinging around and fishtailing as if she was going to throw herself right off the trailer. Even though Forbearing Husband was pulling over when he could, and driving at a crawl when it was safe for people to pass, we were still officially holding up traffic. At one stage a police car drew up alongside and we all held our breath waiting for the siren. Then, after a second or two, the long arm of the law accelerated away. The Forbearing Husband and I (at the pointy end), and TMFWC (over the walkie-talkie), all breathed a collective sigh of relief.
Ready to roll! We taped the top triangular window in case it cracked en route.
Making our way off SH1 and along the final segments of rural road towards our house presented more challenges. The road is winding and hilly. As we negotiated a tight bend on one particularly steep section, TMFW, who was still trucking along just behind us, feared that if we ran out of grunt Tiny would pull us backwards. Fortunately The Beast has staying power and a manual gearbox, and we swept up that hill (forever known to us now as ‘Tiny House Hill’) without breaking a sweat.
In a way the worst part of the whole trip was the 8km section before home, where I knew for sure (remember those obsessive observations?), there were some very low power lines. There was nothing to do though but to follow TMFWC’s earlier advice ‘Just drive, and keep driving’. Forbearing Husband drove, and I tried to mentally lift power lines in the places where I knew they were lowest. We didn’t hit a single power line, and I’ve since added telekinesis to my resume.
Tiny in her new spot at the farmlet. She just fits right in.
Well, we finally got home at midnight, and by the time we’d shoe-horned Tiny into her new situation between CEDARS house and the top paddock (here’s the farmlet map for orientation purposes) it was close to 2am. After returning the borrowed trailer, and offering profuse thanks to TMFWC (we delivered him some more tangible tokens of our gratitude later that week) we fell into bed. It was all worth it to me though for the view from the kitchen window next morning.
There was Tiny, nestled between a tree fern and a willow, and looking all the world as if she’d been settled there for years. The Forbearing Husband even forgave me just a bit for that hellish trip when he saw how pretty she looked. As mentioned in my last post though, he did make me promise faithfully that we would never have to move a tiny house again. In fact he went a step further — he said that if ever I even contemplated such a thing he would …
Tiny, ready to welcome visitors. The unattractive tape on the top window has since been removed.
… pay whatever it takes to get the professionals to do it. Have I mentioned before that the man’s a saint?
What’s the scariest load you’ve ever moved?
