Snow Day

Soft white flakes fall from the sky overnight. By morning, the hills are blanketed by snow. Gearing up to battle my way into work, I am relieved when my employer rings to tell me to stay at home. The roads are too bad, snow still falls thickly and even if I manage to get there, it is likely I'd be unable to get home safely.

Donning many layers of clothing, shuffling like an old woman to avoid slipping on the icy path, I feed and water the chickens and Spike the gander. The chickens are reluctant to leave the shelter of their house, and Spike shouts in outrage at the sight of all that snow, for which he seems certain I am in some way to blame. The friendly robin by the back door, bold and cheeky, reminds me to add extra food to the bird table. Though my fingers are painfully cold, I make two trips out to the woodpile for extra firewood. Then I can light the woodburning stove and thaw myself out.

The world has a strangely muffled quality today, I feel a sense of peaceful isolation. Few cars crawl up or down the hill. The snow continues to fall; sometimes thick flurries, sometimes small, scattered flakes. My footprints from the morning chores soon fill and are smoothed away.

*****

Tonight the cats and I snuggle around the stove, grateful for its comforting, glowing warmth. I have plenty of food and firewood. I have my new computer to play with. I have nowhere I need to go, nothing I need to do. It could be a lot worse.

Gunny

IB's beloved cat, Gunny, died yesterday. He had been ill for a few weeks with some kind of lung problem,, gradually fading in front of our eyes. He was only 9 years old.

Later that evening the screen saver on my computer, displaying random photos from my files, brought back so many memories. Not just Gunny, but so many other loved and much missed animals. Cats - Teasel, Tigger and Herbert. Chickens, from our first three (Josephine, Daphne and Sugar) all the way through Blanche, Blodwen and Bronwen to our rescued battery hens (Ginger, Babs, Mac and Norma-Jean) and more recent arrivals like Blodeuwedd I who was snatched away by a fox. Ted and Dougal, the guinea pigs. Our original geese, Buffy and Angel are now gone, along with their goslings, Snowy (killed by a predator) and Sunny (re-homed after fighting with his father). Further back, there are older, pre-digital era photos - Algie, Koshka, Julie, Mina, Thomas (cats), Max the budgie, Frances the duck, Nicky the dog.

Anyone who has had a companion animal can tell you that they are all individuals, each one a unique character. Oh, how they worm their way into your heart - and the pain when they are gone.

Today, in beautiful sunshine, we buried Gunny in an area we have earmarked for a forest garden. He was wrapped in one of IB's T-shirts, and we placed flowers and a favourite toy with him in the ground. We planted an apple tree on his grave. In years to come I imagine us sitting under the tree on such a sunny day, sharing our memories of Gunny. In the meantime, we will continue to create new memories with  Bear, Marley and Dandilo, the cats. And enjoy the antics of Bella, Dot, Daisy, Blossom, Ceridwen, Blodeuwedd II, Misty and Morag, our current flock of hens, and Spike, the gander. Our animals bring such colour to our days. Sharing our lives with them is a privilege, and the pain of their loss is a small price to pay for the joy they bring.

RIP Gunny August 2002 - June 2012

Taking Eggs to Mair

The early evening sun is slanting golden rays across the fields as I walk down the lane to take my neighbour Mair her weekly box of eggs. Lambs bleat at me through the hedge as I pass by. They have grown quickly, already they are half the size of their mothers.

Each week I walk down with a box of eggs for Mair; each week the changing seasons have something new to show me. Today there is a sharp chill in the wind, but there is bright sunshine and blue sky. Shy violets purple the bank of the stream. The daffodils are all but finished, now there are celandines and windflowers and soon there will be bluebells. In the hedge, the exuberant froth of blackthorn blossoms contrasts with stark black thorny twigs. the new hawthorn leaves are such a vivid green, the very essence of spring rebirth. The smooth grey limbs of the ash tree glow in the light of the setting sun.

I listen to the bird song, hoping to hear the happy chatter of swallows, but not yet. Soon, soon, those joyously swooping spirits of summer will return. But not yet.

Savouring the sights, scents and sounds, I walk slowly down the hill - and even more slowly back up again. It is steep, and even after living here 11 years I am still rendered breathless by the time I return to my own gate.

Now I wander down to the geese. Buffy and her new beau Spike have been wandering all day by the greenhouse, feasting on the tender spring grass there. Now I shut them safely back in their pen before twilight - and any peckish foxes in the vicinity - descend. Then I make my way back up to the house through the vegetable patch, noting with satisfaction the profusion of golden cowslips in the flower bed by the compost heap. The apple tree is just starting to come into leaf, and soon the flowering cherry will be putting on her show stopping display of fairytale pink blossom.

In the dark days of winter I longed for spring. And now it is here and passing all too quickly. It is good to take a little time out to fully appreciate the onrush of spring. It is lucky Mair expects her box of eggs each week. It's the perfect opportunity to stroll down the lane, sniffing violets and listening for swallows and keeping an eye open for the first bluebells...

August Pleasures

It has been a quiet, uneventful weekend - heavenly, after a hectic week. Work has been extra busy and at home the house has been in turmoil while a chimney has been lined in preparation for the installation of the new wood burning stove. Earlier in the week my lovely brother and nephew were visiting so there has been much socialising too.

Yesterday I harvested mange-touts and courgettes from the veggie patch, and a basketful of peaches from the dwarf tree in the polytunnel. This morning I had lovely lie-in, and after tending to the chickens (in their luxurious new run!), geese and cats, grazed on juicy blackberries from the hedge. The elderberries are also ripening, so it will soon be time to make a few gallons of wine. And the damson tree is literally weighed down by its enormous crop which is gradually turning from green to purple - more wine, and lots of jam! I love all this harvesting, it's so satisfying.

Meanwhile the kitchen is scented by the bunches of herbs that are hanging up to dry - rosemary, watermint, meadowsweet and St John's wort. Bear snuggles, purring on my lap as I type. What a lovely day! I hope yours is just as lovely.

I'm Back!

It has been the longest, hardest winter.

I struggled with a job I hated during the long, dark days, sinking deeper into depression than I realised. My divorce came through and T married his new partner almost immediately, which felt like a final, bitter slap in the face.

As winter dug in for the long haul, the bitterly cold and snowy weather took its toll on everyone at Halfway Up A Hill, including the animals. No fewer than 3 of the chickens died from infections or simple old age, and one was taken by a fox which dug under the fence surrounding the run (luckily we heard the commotion and ran down in time to prevent further casualties). One of the younger chickens also suffered recurrent sour crop, and ended up living on a windowsill in the house for several weeks while we laboriously treated her with antibiotics and hand fed her until she recovered. Meantime, we suffered the frustration and inconvenience of being snowed in for a couple of weeks which seemed to drag on and on.

Later, in February, I succumbed to the nastiest chest infection I've ever experienced; it took me nearly 6 weeks to recover and the antibiotics I was prescribed had no effect whatsoever. IB also caught it and together we nursed each other as best we could, with heroic support from my poor Dad, who was also nursing Mum through it.

The final tragedy in this catalogue of drear and misfortune came when Angel the gander stopped eating and preening, seemingly unable to open his beak more than a couple of millimetres. We took him to the vet, only to find that somehow, he had both broken and dislocated his jaw. It's almost impossible to imagine how this could have happened, our best guess is that in chasing one of the chickens he ran into a fence post or similar obstacle and injured himself that way. Sadly, the damage was inoperable, and with many tears we made the horrible decision to have him put down. Buffy is gradually adjusting to her widowhood, and at some stage we will try to find her another companion.

This longest, hardest winter seemed truly reluctant to loosen its grip, and the unusually cold and dry weather remained for a prolonged period, the normally lush green hillsides strangely brown and deadened by drought and frost.

At times I didn't know how I would get through it. But spring must follow winter eventually, no matter how strongly winter clings on.

And now at last, spring has come. The spring rains turned the fields back to green, and as the sun shines and the birds sing, the leaf buds are breaking and flowers are blooming in hedgerow and garden. I have left my soul-destroying job and am investigating the possibility of starting a small business of my own. IB and I have been cleaning and decorating the house, coaxing the neglected vegetable patch back into productivity, and dreaming and planning for the future.

And today I realised I am happy, truly happy: back to the normal 'me' that I have been struggling to regain for the last 2-3 years, since - well, the exhaustion brought on by the Summer Gathering in August 2007, really. Can it be that long? Looking back I can't believe what a struggle life has been since then. Yet suddenly I feel like I am swimming with the tide instead of constantly battling against it. Somehow I am in alignment with the Universe again.

Perhaps one day I will be able to look back and see the pattern of why I had to spend so long struggling just to keep my head above the maelstrom of hardship being flung my way. One day. For now I am happy to know I am in calmer waters, going with the flow and enjoying the journey once more.

Today, Halfway Up A Hill...

Today, Halfway Up A Hill, the sun was shining, and the sweet, heady scent of elderflowers drifted on the breeze.

Bees bumbled happily in the comfrey patch, swallows swooped and dived in a blue sky and a cheeky blackbird feasted on newly-ripe redcurrants.

The cats - Bear, Marley and Herbert (who had stopped by for a visit) sunned themselves on the warm paving.

The chickens wandered happily through lush summer grass, scratching for delicacies and murmuring gossip to each other. The geese cooled their feet in the pond before dozing in the shade of the elder tree.

And Moonroot worked in the garden, enjoying the sensation of warm, damp earth on her hands and the sun on her back. Later she picked the first strawberries of the season and planned an afternoon of elderflower cordial making...

Life is sweet.

Tragedy

Buffy and Angel's gosling - so new to the world it was as yet unnamed - has disappeared.

Last night when I went down to shut the little family into their shed for the night I couldn't see the gosling, but assumed s/he was probably safely snuggled under Mama Buffy on the nest. Even so I had a mild twinge of unease, so to be certain, after shutting the shed I checked all round the goose run and in the pond. I found nothing out of the ordinary. I knew the devoted parents would never have left their offspring unattended anyway.

This morning when I opened the goose shed the bad news was confirmed. For the first time since she began incubating her eggs, Buffy came out of the shed as soon as I opened the door. Followed by Angel. But only the two of them. I checked inside the shed - perhaps the little mite had taken a chill in the cold, windy, wet weather. But no, no ailing gosling, no sad little corpse.

I can only assume that some predator - a buzzard, red kite, rat, weasel, stoat, mink or polecat? - must have snatched the gosling. Whatever it was must have been quick and sneaky to have outwitted Buffy and Angel, whose entire focus was their baby.

I know they are grieving, as they did last year when Snowy died. I just hope geese have short memories, and they are not left hurting for too long. At least they have each other, a rock solid partnership for comfort. Looking back over the posts I have written about them and the other animals here at Halfway Up A Hill it's clear to me how unique and individual a character each creature is, how rich and complex their relationships with each other. How anyone can deny that animals experience emotions as we do is beyond me.

Sadly that includes grief sometimes.

Warning - High Levels of Cuteness Ahead!

Sadly, only one of Buffy's clutch of eggs seems to have hatched. Happily, the gosling is just gorgeous and Buffy and Angel are as proud as punch. Just a few minutes ago, they took him/her for a first walk outside the shed en famille. Here are the photos (you can just see a glimpse of Angel's foot in the second photo, to give you some idea of the size of the little ball of gosling fluff):

Lady In Waiting

In the goose shed, on a cosy hollow lined with straw and the softest down from her own breast, Buffy sits waiting, patient. This work requires dedication, stamina, self-sacrifice and a strange, dreamy calm. Day after day, night after night, for a whole moon-and-a-bit, Buffy sits on her precious eggs, leaving them only briefly to snatch a few mouthfuls of food and some water.

Angel stands guard outside the shed, silent and steady, until he spies a potential threat. Then there are shrieks of outrage and alarm as he chases danger away. I am clearly perceived as a threat, and so each morning when I open the goose shed, I place an empty watering can to draw Angel's wrath and protect my own legs from attack. Angel comes flying from the shed and mercilessly slays the watering can, before returning in triumph to Buffy to boast of his victory.

Apart from the ritual slaying of the watering can, I suspect Angel is feeling a little bored and neglected while Buffy is so focussed on her nest. Yet in a few weeks, hopefully there will be goslings to protect and teach and play with. Buffy's vigil will be over. It will be summer and life will be good.

In the meantime, Buffy sits and waits and dreams.

Frozen

The ground is frozen solid. The temperature here hasn't been above freezing for about a week; overnight it has regularly been down to -6ºC. Frost is caked onto most surfaces, and the garden birds search singlemindedly for food. The days have mostly been sunny, which has thawed things a little where the sun's rays reach. But in shaded or north-facing areas, the frost and ice is a permanent fixture. Overnight, the cats take it in turns to crawl under the covers with me and warm their paws. Each morning I have been feeding the chickens with a hot mash to warm them up, which they clearly love. The geese, hardy birds, are unphased, even seem to enjoy crashing through the ice on the pond each morning.

Today it is overcast and nothing looks like thawing. It is even snowing a little, tiny specks of snow whirling down out of the silvery sky to powder the grass.

I have a dilemma. I really need to go food shopping. The problem is, I now have my new car (as of yesterday), and I'm feeling anxious about driving an unfamiliar car in such nasty, icy conditions.

This irritates me, because I know I used to be braver. I am realising that one of the side-effects of a long-term relationship is the way you become reliant on a second opinion. If T was here, I'd say, 'I need to go shopping but I'm a bit nervous about driving the new car on icy roads', and he'd either say, 'Oh it'll be fine, it's not that bad and they'll have gritted the main roads', or, 'No, I'd leave it another day or so, we can make do with things from the freezer until the weather improves'. And then my decision would be made for me, one way or the other. I would either feel brave enough to go, because really, it's not that bad, or I'd feel justified in chickening out because it's not very nice out there and there is stuff in the freezer.

Being part of a couple is a hard habit to break. When something happens - good, bad or funny - my first instinct is still to ring T and tell him. He helped me find and choose the new car, and just last night I emailed to get his opinion on buying a new digital camera (the old one has broken

:( ). He is a useful person to consult about such things, being technically minded where I am most certainly not. But I'm becoming aware that I need to stop relying on him in that way. I need to find my own way. As a single person I not only have to make up my own mind (horrors!!), but also take responsibility for my own decisions.

One of the positives of the last couple of months is that I have begun to rediscover myself. T never stopped me from being myself, but part of the dance of a relationship is in the compromises, negotiations and adjustments we make for each other. It's nothing huge or sinister, just a little accumulation of things that happen so gradually that we are not even aware of how we have changed - until, perhaps we find ourselves alone again. Like remembering that actually, I do like bread - just not the unsliced malted stuff we used to buy because that was what T liked and he ate more bread than me. Or realising that I can eat breakfast in bed if I feel like it, because balancing a tray on my lap doesn't bug me like it did him. Or deciding with a jolt of pleasure that I can - if I choose - now spend hours wandering around an art gallery without feeling guilty because I have a bored partner in tow.

I have been remembering things I like to do - and gradually stopping doing things I don't! - and it is a good feeling, like finding a long-forgotten favourite book.

The flipside is this lack of confidence in myself and my decisions, which sometimes leaves me frozen with uncertainty. But I remember a stronger, braver me and I know she's in there somewhere. Each challenge faced will remind me that I am capable, I am brave, I am confident, and I will grow back into the self-assurance of JUST ME.

And now I think I will go and do that shopping!

Things I Have Learned This Year

As the end of the year is fast approaching, I thought it may be wise to look back and take stock of what I have learned this year - which includes, amongst other things:

1. I really love knitting.


2. I can make a great risotto - except when I am trying to impress friends who are round for dinner, when it magically morphs into bland stodge.


3. Sometimes life is weirder than a soap opera.


4. I enjoy planning seasonal rituals.


5. True friends rally round in times of crisis - and sometimes you don't realise what a true friend someone is until then.


6. I may be the only woman in the world who can't stand Sex and the City.


7. Waterproof mascara is worth its weight in gold.


8. I can wire a plug.


9. How to play Chinese Chequers.


10. Goslings grow really fast!


11. Bruce Springsteen is just as wonderful live as I always imagined he was.
12. The weather is completely unpredictable.
13. Chocolate Tiffin could well be the most delicious foodstuff on the planet.
14. Things are never so good they can't turn bad.
15. Things are never so bad they can't get worse.
16. Things are never so bad they can't get better.

What have you learned this year?

This Morning, Halfway Up a Hill...

This morning, Halfway Up a Hill, early morning autumn mist was gradually giving way to sunshine.

Webs frosted with dew hung everywhere, catching the slanting early light.

Leaves glowed in their closing splendour, awaiting the final tumble to earth.

Bear pondered, inscrutable cat thoughts.

Sunny the gosling, now fully grown, stretched out his wings and legs, felt his strength, ate his breakfast, and knew that life is good.

Gossiping around their feeder, the chickens reached a similar conclusion.

And Moonroot felt her heart begin to heal, just a little...

Sad, Sad News

The goslings have been growing almost visibly over the last month, their baby fluff almost entirely replaced by feathers. They are almost as big as their parents, and sometimes I have to look twice to tell the difference.

But today I came home from picking my Mum up from the station (she has come up to attend the Summer Gathering) to a horrible shock: something had killed one of the goslings.

It must have happened while I was out, otherwise I would have heard the commotion. Almost anything sets the geese off shouting, and an attack on one of them would have caused a huge uproar.

When we got back, I took the afternoon grain ration down to the chickens and geese, and knew something was wrong immediately by the silence - the sight of me bringing food always causes a hubbub of excitement. The geese were nowhere to be seen, the chickens strangely crestfallen. I went immediately into the goose run, anxious as to what I might find.

The buzzard flew up as I approached, but vegetation obscured the view until I rounded the pond. By now I could hear goose murmurs from their shed, and my first thought on seeing the pile of feathers on the bank was that the buzzard had killed a pigeon in the run and the geese were freaked out and hiding. But as I got closer it was clearly too big for a pigeon. And too torn up for me to identify which goose it was.

I went to the shed, and found Angel, Buffy and Sunny huddled together. The victim was Snowy. I immediately decided to shut them in for the night with their grain, while I (a) cleared away the corpse and (b) checked the fences for breaches - at this stage I wasn't sure if the buzzard had been merely taking advantage of left-overs from someone else's kill (e.g. a fox).

Unfortunately, as I went to get the grain, the bereaved family chose to follow me out, perhaps sensing that it was now safe. They immediately saw Snowy's remains. It's hard to imagine that a goose has facial expressions, but believe me, I saw Buffy's face as she looked at the torn and broken body. And in her eyes, I saw her heart break. This is the moment that keeps coming back to me. Not the clearing away of feathers, flesh and bone. Not the search for evidence of fox involvement (there was none, no breached fences, no paw prints). Not the resigned quiet of the remaining residents of the goose shed, or the hysterical clucking that erupted from the chickens when I finally got around to feeding them. Poor, poor Buffy. Somehow, I feel I have let her down.

Sometimes I regret that I have not been able to have children of my own. But sometimes, very occasionally, I get a glimpse of the unbelievable pain of a bereaved parent - and I think perhaps, just perhaps, I am lucky that I will never ever experience that depth of grief.

Sorry, Angel, Buffy and Sunny. And Rest in Peace, Snowy.

(The photo shows Snowy and Sunny together in happier times. Snowy in the foreground, Sunny behind her).

Growing Goslings

T just took this photo of Buffy, Angel and the goslings - thought you might like to see how they're growing. They're now coming up to 5 weeks old.

Gosling Update - and Herbert

The goslings are now two and a half weeks old, and are growing rapidly. They spend most of the day outside the shed with Buffy and Angel , eating the lush early summer grass, snoozing cuddled up to Mum, swimming in the pond and learning goose behaviour and etiquette from their parents!

I find it most amusing that they both copy Buffy and Angel's 'get away from our precious goslings!' stance when they see either of us coming. This entails extending their necks and, in the case of Buffy and Angel, hissing in a threatening manner. In the case of the goslings, it's more of a cute squeak.

This brings me nicely to how their little bodies are changing shape. When they first hatched they were ovoid little balls of fluff with a head and feet. Now they're developing longer necks and their bodies are elongating into a goose shape. They've still got quite a bit of growing to do though.

Thanks for all the suggestions of possible names. I'm actually thinking of calling them Snowy and Sunny, as one is distinctly paler with a white bum, and one is darker with lots of yellowy bits. I'm not sure if this may be sex-linked, as I have no clue as yet to their gender - another good reason for choosing non gender specific names.

Anyway, here's a couple of photos so you can see how they're growing, including one of them doing the 'big scary gosling' pose.

Finally, for Herbert fans, I have at last managed to get a photo of our handsome hero, in typically laid back style:

A Whole New World...

This evening, Buffy & Angel finally brought the goslings out from the safe haven of the goose shed for their first look at the big wide world outside. Cue a whole slew of gratuitous gosling photos...

Yes, I think we're as besotted as the proud parents.

Fuzzy

Fuzzy on many levels, the foremost being picture quality. But it's hard to get a good photo in the darkness of a shed when your subjects won't stand still and their protective parents are trying to peck the photographer!

Anyway, for gosling fans everywhere here are our two cuties. Still unnamed as yet. More and better photos will appear in due course.

Hold The Front Page!

Latest news - we have goslings! Buffy has hatched out two of her eggs, and she and Angel are as proud as can be. They're both very attentive to and defensive of the goslings, so as of yet I've been unable to get a photo. But I'll post one as soon as I can!

So - names? Spike & Drusilla? Or Connor and ? Or non-Buffyverse names? Anyone got any great ideas?

A True Love Story

A few years ago, we saw an advert in the local Smallholding Association newsletter for a pair of geese. I persuaded T that geese would be a useful addition to the menagerie as they would help keep the grass down, act as 'guard dogs' and hopefully produce goslings that we could sell on.

We fenced off an area of the meadow for them, and finding an old dismantled shed hidden in an overgrown part of the garden reconstructed it as safe night time accommodation for them. We added a baby bath picked up at a car boot sale for them to bathe in, and an old washing up bowl for drinking water. Thus prepared we went to pick them up.

Their names seemed obvious - they were Brecon Buff geese (a traditional Welsh breed), so the goose was immediately christened Buffy. And by logical extension, her partner became Angel.

Buffy and Angel lived together quite happily for a couple of months, roaming free in their part of the meadow by day and safely shut away from marauding foxes each night in their shed. They learned the daily routine very quickly and would quite happily amble off to bed each evening at dusk when they saw me coming down the path, ready to bolt the door behind them.

Things went on peacefully until all hell broke loose one day when the local hunt came charging through our plot. The garden was filled with baying hounds and chaos, the geese honking in alarm and the chickens squawking and flapping in terror. I panicked, being unable to find Tigger and worrying that she'd be set on by the pack. Luckily she appeared, shocked but unscathed, and the hounds tore off up the lane. Before I could remonstrate with the huntsmen, they had all followed the hounds and peace once again descended.

I've never been in favour of foxhunting so I was quite annoyed by this episode - and even more so the very next day, when I heard a great commotion from the geese. I went outside, where I could see Angel honking for all he was worth, but no sign of Buffy. Thinking that something must have startled her, and perhaps she'd flown over the fence and now couldn't get back to Angel I wandered down the hill. Buffy was nowhere to be seen. Then I heard a loud crack from under a gorse bush - and walking over to investigate, found myself face to face with a fox. The fox which had just snatched and killed Buffy - the crack had been her neck bones.

I was so sad - and I was furious. Furious with the fox (which now fled), furious with myself for not keeping the geese safe from harm, furious with the damned hunt for failing so dismally in its efforts, and furious that they had presumably chased this fox out of its normal territory and stranded it here, so that it was desperate enough to attack a fully grown goose out in the open in broad daylight.

Angel was bereft. It was heartbreaking to see how much he missed her.

Sadly we fixed the fences so that they were fox-proof. In penance we dug out a proper pond for Angel. And we spent time each day petting and playing with him - we even bought him some toys - but it was obvious that he was desperate for the company of another goose.

I began trying to find him a new companion. I scoured the ads in the Smallholder Association newsletter, looked out for adverts in the country store and the local newspaper, rang waterfowl breeders and chased up leads suggested by friends and neighbours. Nothing. It seemed no one had a Brecon Buff goose they wanted to part with. Finally, after several months I couldn't stand seeing Angel so lonely any more. In desperation I placed an ad in the Smallholders Association newsletter. It read: 'Recently widowed gander seeks young Brecon Buff goose for friendship, perhaps leading to romance. Please contact....'

Almost immediately we had a call from someone who luckily had a young Brecon Buff goose for rehoming, and even more luckily found our lonely hearts ad funny rather than insane.

We went to pick up the new goose, agreeing with her previous owners that if Angel rejected her, we could take her back. As geese tend to pair for life, we were worried that he may not take to her.

We needn't have been concerned. It was clearly love at first sight. As soon as Buffy #2 was released from her travelling box into the goose run, Angel ran across with wings protectively outstretched and stood between her and us. They bonded immediately, and Angel totally lost interest in playing with dull old humans. Who says there is only one true love for each of us? The new Buffy was now the centre of his world.

And a few years later, Buffy is still the centre of his world. Angel is the centre of hers. They eat together, swim together, sleep together. Angel still puts his wings around her protectively. And he guards Buffy fiercely from any perceived danger, be it an unfamiliar human, a jackdaw looking to raid their food, a chicken that oversteps the mark or even the dreaded wheelbarrow (which is clearly a menace to right-thinking geese everywhere, if Angel's outraged reaction to it is anything to go by). The lovers are inseparable. And right now, Buffy is sitting on a fine clutch of eggs, with Angel proudly guarding her. Hopefully in a few weeks we may hear the patter of tiny webbed feet...

Morning Routine

The alarm blares at 7.30am (a bit earlier in summer, a bit later in winter). Stumble out of a warm bed, struggling into sheepskin slippers and pulling on skirt and jumper over nightclothes. Wiping sleep from eyes, shaking dreams from head, mumbling about not being a morning person, down the stairs to the kitchen where cats wait expectantly.

Slippers off, wellies on. Out into the shock of cold morning air, carrying chicken food, goose food, guinea pig food. Cats weaving through legs, splash or slide or walk (depending on weather) downhill to the greenhouse. Guinea pig is fed and watered, and the chicken drinker retrieved from its overnight frost free haven. Next, chickens are liberated from the hen house and eagerly cluster round their food. On down into the goose run. The geese run honking up the hill from their shed, gratefully flapping their wings in the freedom of fresh air.

All the while, Bear and Marley chase and tumble, darting up trees and pouncing on each other. Tigger sits in quiet, solitary dignity at the top of the steps, glaring as she concentrates on beaming out the psychic message: 'Cat food now. Cat food now.'.

Then it is back to the house, where Tigger vocally demands Cat Food Now!!!. And is rewarded with a bowlful of her own, as are the other two.

Cereal for me. Shower for me. Clothes for me.

The day has begun.