Hello dear readers; it’s been a while, and I thought it was time I wrote to you. Somehow it is now February, and several weeks have passed since I last put a figurative pen to paper. Much has happened, and by now, most of you will be back on the grind, having realised that summer was a lie.
So, pour a drink, find an easy chair, and let’s catch up.
Christmas was a low-key affair, the usual schmozzle of organising far too much food, opening presents, and drinking far beyond the recommended health guidelines. It’s not hard to do, seeing as the wowsers these days will tell you more than a thimbleful of wine once a blue moon is all you are allowed.
Speaking of the madness of wowsers and how crazy the world is becoming, I was listening to the news last night, and they debated two things. “Is eating cake the new smoking?” And, “will we soon see pubs with no beer?”
WTAF is wrong with people? The ancient Egyptians invented the cake, and now people want to cancel it! And what morons are trying to smoke their cake? You’re meant to eat, not bloody set fire to it. Bugger me.
As to pubs with no beer, that’s just wrong. And a bit like Oat Milk calling itself “milk” when it isn’t, you cannot call a pub a pub when it doesn’t have beer. As Slim Dusty said, “what a terrible place is a pub with no beer.” I’ll tell you what you call a pub with no beer, “shit.” Sorry for the language, but this is serious.
I’m seriously considering opening a pub that serves only cake and beer. I’d make a fortune.
Anyway, back on topic. Christmas was an orgy of all things that people are trying to cancel and excellent as a result. Cake, beer, wine, whisky, things wrapped in plastic, things made of plastic, meat, and sugary foods.
K had ordered some Christmas decorations, and lo and behold, they arrived the week before. The rural delivery man had to drive to the house and offload a massive box to the deck. It stood half my height, and I thought that K must have ordered a tree of some description. As it was, she had ordered this.
Now, K claims this was a mistake, that she overlooked the dimensions of said decoration when ordering online. I, for one, secretly think she wanted a giant Santa.
The dogs were outside when Giant Santa was installed in pride of place, and when they came in, they were sure it was an intruder. Hackles were up, growling was made, and barking was directed at the interloper.
Santa is now guarding the spare room until we pull him out for another year. Mind you; we are seriously considering installing him in the fruit trees to keep the birds away.
To get over the excesses of Christmas, we took another week off and indulged in further excesses. I’ll detox in 2024. Maybe.
The work doesn’t stop for long, and as the CFO of this farming enterprise, I was soon back in the office, sitting on my backside, charging people to give them advice that they just wanted to argue with. I think that’s what I do, give people advice, charge them for it, and then charge them further for defending the advice I have already given.
This is similar to you having a problem with your car, taking it to the mechanic, and when the mechanic tells you what the problem is, you say, “no, it isn’t!” You then argue with the mechanic, who is keeping a tally of the hours, until finally relenting. You relent when you think the mechanic has agreed with you, even though he hasn’t.
Still, it pays the bills, of which there are many.
K had her first paying guests from the glamping site, which is now near completion after a heroic push to get the last few things over the line. Their feedback was very positive, aside from one thing I shall get to, and it was interesting hearing it from their perspective. It’s hard sometimes when you create something to see what it looks like (or, in my case, reads like) through someone else’s mind.
The one negative feedback was about the rooster, which is now the bane of the neighbourhood. Neighbours that are half a kilometre away, or more, can hear it. Roosters are loud and are banned from our property. Peacocks and pigs also, as you know.
The average rooster crow is 130 decibels, the equivalent of standing next to a jet taking off or firing a gun next to your head. They are louder than peacocks and pigs. The loudest rooster crow is recorded at 148 decibels, like standing on an active aircraft carrier.
Putting that aside, the glamping site gained rave reviews, which prompted another few people to ask about staying. K has done an amazing job; the guests felt like they’d been on some adventure. We’ll be throwing in free earplugs for guests in the future.
“You’re always moaning about the weather, you farmers.” A friend of mine said to me.
“What do you mean?” I replied, looking at him with some suspicion.
“It’s too wet, then the rain stops, and it’s too dry, then it’s too windy, or not windy enough. Never happy. You’re like an Englishman.” Said he.
“That’s a bit harsh,” I looked at him, “given you are English and can out moan the moaniest of farmers.”
“Moaniest is NOT a word.” He says.
“See,” I said.
Dear reader, “moaniest” IS an actual word, my gift to you; use it liberally.
The weather (of course, I was going to talk about the weather) has been weird. I swear someone has dragged New Zealand up into the tropical south pacific. We’ve had days of ridiculous heat and humidity.
This is not good for many farm creatures. Flystrike has been rampant this year all over the country and in the valley here. More sensitive readers, skip the next paragraph, which describes what fly strike is.
With the heat and humidity, flies start to turn up in droves. They lay their eggs on the animal, and when the larvae hatch into maggots, the maggots start to eat the flesh. If you catch it quickly, you must clean the skin, get antibiotics in, and apply a remedy. I’d like to see any farm “influencer” try and do this. It’s one of the grossest jobs and necessary for animal welfare. It can come on fast. I was talking to a farmer down south this week, and he said he lost twenty-five in a mob; he was checking, but it came on very quickly. Apparently, it’s knocking over a lot of alpacas in the valley, which must be more susceptible to it.
Prevention is better than the cure, so K set about doing that this week. The sheep were dosed. As usual, the crossbreeds, including the massive ram, submitted to this peacefully. It’s not an invasive procedure, after all.
But the purebred Arapawas were once again convinced that K was trying to murder them. A great rumpus was had, and K ended up with a few bruises and covered head to toe in dust. These things will not even stand still in a race. The lasso was employed with great effect, and the mad beasts were sent on their way, safe from a hideous death. No thank yous, though, just hostile looks from the furthest point away they could get to.
Honestly, these are the stupidest breed I have ever worked with.
“But they look so pretty!” say people. Maybe, but we have one ram that thinks the shed is it’s enemy and tries to attack it. I mean, chronic stupidity.
In the tradition of everything breaks on the farm, despite it being the warmer months, the dishwasher gave up the ghost, the septic dispersal field looks like it has problems, and the spa pool has a satanic thermostat that either randomly heats the water to burn your skin off level or drops it to icy cold.
Honestly, you learn very quickly on a farm about depreciation and capital maintenance. Something that cities could learn a thing or two about. I know a spa pool is not quite a farm tool, I’m sure we could dip sheep in it and claim it as such, but you get my point.
Septic dispersal fields occasionally get blocked, and ours is likely to be in that state. It means that rather than the treated water evenly dispersing over a large area, it can pool. If it does pool, you can be sure it will do it right where it is the worst bloody place to pool.
Needless to say, the neighbours and I have been having conversations around a wet piece of land, staring at it as if a) we are experts and b) we can see through the ground. We are not experts, and neither do we have x-ray vision. Ross, the Super Septic Man, is coming next week. He’s the expert, though he does not have x-ray vision, I hope.
And no city smart arses, Three Wates wouldn’t help us at all. In fact, if Three Waters were in place, they’d have been out here with a water engineer, erected $7,000 worth of health and safety signage, written us strongly worded letters, demanded we do water testing and tell us to put in more fences.
In the girls can do anything category, the replacement dishwasher delivery man was genuinely confused when I told him that he didn’t need to install the dishwasher; my partner was going to, which K did. And didn’t leave a giant mess behind her like the usual tradies. She can add plumber to her CV now.
Rory McTavish is a horseman and cowboy from down south. He has a company called NZ Action Horse that does much movie and television work. He and K keep in contact, and Rory recently came to do some work with the horses while I was relegated to farmhouse cook.
A good farmhouse breakfast consists of everything the health practitioners tell you not to eat. Bacon, beans, more bacon in the beans (this is crucial), eggs, bread, butter, sausages, and lamb chops. Yes, you can eat chops for breakfast; it’s excellent.
As it turns out, Rory also lived in Gisborne and was there when I was. We spent some time doing the Gisborne thing, where you try and figure out who you know in common. And, Gisborne being Gisborne, there were quite a few. In fact, Rory was a bouncer at one of the pubs I used to drink out, and he may have asked me to leave on the odd occasion.
Watching Rory and K work with the horses was interesting. It’s an art. Each horse is quite different but the same in a lot of ways. They have their personalities, fears, sense of fun, and working style.
It was a brief visit, but he’ll be back, I am sure, and K’s longer-term plans around horse work another step further ahead.
Well, dear reader, that is all from me this time. I’ll write to you again soon, and in the meantime, if I find any of you have been attending pubs with no beer, I will be unsubscribing you immediately.
And remember, it is ok to eat cake; it is not ok to smoke cake.