Dead Tired

I rode my horse this morning as usual, then I return to the house for a cup of tea and a sandwich. Sleepiness overtakes me, and I lie down on the carpet, watching my daughter play. She feeds me, and gives me a drink, and covers me up with the blanket. My husband gives me a sorry glance before heading outside. "Poor girl, what did that horse do to her?" He walks past my horse's paddock - the horse is lying down in the paddock. "OMG! What did she do to the horse?!"

Morning Musings

It's wet, windy. Dark. The dawn is just starting to break through, and vague shadows appear in the landscape. The horses are grazing peacefully in the valley, each busily eating out it's own, carefully selected patch of grass. Unnoticed, a figure appears on the ridge, watches them, barely able to make out their shapes in the hazy light.

Suddenly, a voice pierces the air. One of the horses looks up. She knows this voice. She notices the lonely figure on the ridge - too small for a tree, too big for a fox. She flares her nostrils, and trots on. The other horses look at her, then search for the source of the voice. In a matter of seconds the herd is together, and galloping up towards the ridge.

Near the top they ease their pace. The ridge is sparse with trees. The horses spread out, and form a front - each one passing between two trees. For a moment, it looks like their numbers double. Their approach is frightening, imposing. In awe, I stand my ground.

The moment passes, and I turn to lead them towards the hay. They see it now, and trot on. For a short, unforgettable pause in time, I am part of the herd. I feel their heat, I hear their breathing, I understand their longing to always be together. As they overtake gently, I grab the one I am looking for. The dawn light wins the battle of the shadows. Night retreats. Day breaks.

Blackberry lashings

I get up early (as usual) and go riding. The house sleeps and snores.

By the time I return, there are a few smug, post-breakfast faces around the table. They all slept well, they're all feeling good. Time for some work.

So we take a trip down to the big shed and drag out the tractor. The slasher rings out with a wining vengeance, and blackberry splinters fly mercilessly. But the minute they hit the ground, a thousand (ok, ok, more like four) rakers, bring them together into neat little stacks.

When the work is done, the kids drive the tractor back into the shed. The horses are fed, the hay put out, and there are left overs for dinner. We bid our visitors a very "welcome anytime" goodbye.

More helpers

Ok, no one reads my blog. At least not the bit about how hard helping hands are expected to work at the ranch. Today, they arrive in hoards, loaded with bedding and supplies. I compare the head count to the room count and shrug my shoulders. After all, it's my husband who invited these people, he can worry about where they will sleep.

The primary task for today is a mountain bike ride. Pete's work mates vanish temporarily, only to reappear transformed as lycra lizards, wearing technically advanced helmets, and state of the art bladders. They hop on their two wheeled steeds and disappear up the track.

We are left to sit back, enjoy a cup of coffee and watch the view. I am so relaxed I feel out of place.

After about three hours, the men return, exhilerated. They jump in and out of the shower, and the fridge (for a beer). Chips roll into bowls. They light the bonfire, and the BBQ. Bottles of red wine appear on the side table, and it takes the women five tries to get the head count right for dinner. The table is heaving under the festive offerings, which come in waves from the hot BBQ. It's musical chairs around the table - if there is nothing left on your plate, then you must offer your seat to the next person. Just when everyone thinks they are full, the damper rolls in. It is delicious. Consumed in seconds.

The troops go to check out the bonfire. Within minutes they are back, soaking wet. "It's gone, all gone." Time for ice cream, and reading magazines, and putting your feet up, and going to bed.

A helping hand

A friend of ours regularly comes up to the farm to lend a helping hand. His sole reward for the efforts - a fast horse ride, and family meals.

He came up by train last night, had a home cooked meal immersed in a happy family atmosphere. It wasn't an early night though, and this morning he is up at 6 to catch the dawn ride. By 7:30 we hit the trails. The pace is on as promised, until we venture into the forest and explore a new track. When we finally make it through the slippery, rutted, boggy trail (hey, it could have been leach infested as well!) we pelt home as fast as horse will travel.

We put the horses away, and agree that second breakfast is a must. Afterwards, I catch a 20 minute lie down, while Anthony is off to help Pete with installing a pipe in a paddock. It involves some hefty earth moving. It's a pretty cold day. Judging by the work men's discarded clothes, they must be working pretty hard.

After lunch the pipe work is completed, and the boys get busy fixing a trench. More earth moving, and shoveling, and pounding the fresh clay and soil into place. The next task is brush cutting and raking the poisoned blackberries. And after dinner, when every worker could rightfully expect to unwind in front of the fire, nursing a glass of port, Anthony is helping to feed the horses, and driving the hay out. Ok, driving the tractor is kind of fun.

On the drive back, he is allowed a snooze. But his day truly ends when he arrives home after 11pm.

Clippings

They stare at me, their arms outstretched towards the sky. The rain has helped them all it can. I cannot stand their pleadings any longer. I get out there with the shearers. Click, click, click around the creeping rose, click over the butterfly plants. More click and the ground covers are sheared. The garden paths, and edging boulders sigh with relief as they resurface from underneath unruly growth.

Sabina comes to my aid, and piles the clippings into the barrow. She holds on tight and guides the barrow towards the gate. "Come mama, I help you". She opens the gate, carefully eyeing off Tosca. "There is a wheelbarrow full of stuff - food? - in my paddock!", Tosca comes over with goofy curiosity. Despite careful sniffing, the goods of the barrow appear to be inedible. Tosca returns to her hay, we exit the paddock with caution. There are enough clippings for another barrow, or two, or three. And that's only half the garden!

More wood

The stack of wood in the garden shed is growing smaller and smaller. Soon there will be bare ground. Of course, we could stop using it to heat the house, and live in temperatures of 11 degrees C. When you've been outside in 6 degrees C (which really feels like about 2 degrees C because of the wind chill and/or humidity), 11 degrees C feels quite balmy. And it doesn't even feel that bad first thing in the morning, when you've got your down parka and beanie on.

We glance at each other, then my husband is gone. I hear the chainsaw working busily in the background. It screeches while cutting through wood, then rumbles again when idle, but it never stops. When it does, the tractor rocks up at the garden shed, fully loaded with perfect slices of hardwood. Then the sound of splitting resounds like a lazy woodpecker.

"Come Sabina, lets go for a walk to see which paddock has been stripped of its fallen branches."

Tank and post

The tank dome support pipe needs to be installed. We draw straws - my husband pulls out the one, which indicates he has to install the pipe. My job is to sit outside (more or less) and listen for noises of panic. The thing is, when someone is in a 45,000l tank all movement sounds like noises of panic. So I think my job is to raise alarm, should the noises stop.

Well, strictly speaking, I am actually sitting in the shed sorting through some horse gear. And the only noise of panic comes from me, when suddenly I hear a very clear voice "I need your help, there's a piece of wood under the tank".

So we slowly lift the beast, propping it up with ever increasing logs. And sure enough, there is a very sorry looking piece of broken pine post - a left over from our tank rolling procedure. So having removed the post, the dome support pipe is installed with ease. And now the tank is waiting for gutter and connection installation, while the deluge continues.

"Peter Pan"

A trip to the theatre. Sabina's first time. "Peter Pan" is playing during the school holidays, put on by the Warragul Youth Theatre, with an all children cast. The small country town is half an hour away from the farm. It's a real outing. I love it!

We enter, and the place is already buzzing with the noise of chatting children. They are sitting on the floor in front of the first row. Sabina turns around, her little hands lifted into the air, "mama, up, up, up". Overwhelmed already. We find a nice spot, almost in the middle of the second row. The show starts. Sabina watches Wendy, Peter Pan and Tinker Bell without much expression. When Captain Hook comes on stage, children are called up to volunteer as pirates - Sabina stays firmly in my lap. Then the crocodile sings. "Mama ... crocodeel" - finally, a reaction, a good one. "Mama ... the crocodeel didn't eat anyone". Oh, she's really getting into this.

Captain Hook is fantastic. He has a long black wig, a huge hat, big boots, a cape, a thin mustache, a piercing look and a stern voice. He dances all over the pirate ship, and sings of doing away with Peter Pan. Sabina slowly goes pale and cold. I think she may be coming down with the flu. Then she turns to face me, and buries her head in my chest, seeking protection from the mean and evil Captain James T. Hook.

By the end of the show she is brave enough to sneak a peek onto the stage, as the entire cast merrily sings an encore medley.

When Papa comes home from work, we tell him about the show, and Peter Pan, Wendy, Tinker Bell, even the "crocodeel". But should you mention Captain Hook, Sabina will quickly glance over both shoulders, and run to you with little outstretched hands calling "up up up"!

Recovery day

The girls' weekend continues. Not everyone eats eggs and mushrooms for breakfast. The rain keeps coming in cold misty showers. We get smoked out of the shed as we light the 44 gallon drum fire place. We decide to saddle up, while simultaneously coming up with a 1001 reasons not to ride. As we're about to put foot to stirrup, I get a phone call summoning me home. We ride out. The rain subsides, and we trot on. A few smiles come out, so does the sun. We canter, we gallop, we canter. More smiles. More sun. We're on top of the hill now ... at Dead Cow. The views are ours. As we ride through the front gate, then clouds glower, and it rains again.

We put the horses away, and give them some carrots. I get another phone call - it's okay now, I should take my time.

Bar weather

A girls weekend away at the farm. Husband and daughter stay in town. So do half the girls. The clouds roll in, and we saddle up the horses to the sound of "pitter patter" on the shed's tin roof. We ride far, and venture bravely discovering new tracks in the forest. The horses slip on new territory. The boys on trail bikes stop for a chat ... longer than usual. The rain gets heavier, and we turn for home, gloves sopping wet, frozen hands and toes. Reinforcements arrive at the ranch, to help us warm the house, and get into the drinking spirit. Or is that "drinking of spirits"? Music and dancing keeps the horses awake.

Feeding at sunset

Before we bought the ranch, the horses were agisted and I would go to feed them after dinner. It was dark. I hated slipping around in the paddocks, rail, hail, sleet, or stars. When we bought the ranch I had visions of watching romantic sunsets, as the horses fed happily in front of me, casting long shadows. Alas, somehow, I'm still feeding in the dark. My husband knows I hate it. He could change his farm work routine to give me sunset feeding. He installed a light.