Hey Santa!

Santa Claus (A.K.A., Kris Kringle, Papa Noel, and Father Christmas),  Santa’s Grotto, near Reindeerland,  North Pole,  Somewhere in the middle of the Arctic

Dear Santa Claus,

What a year, eh?  What happened to it?

In all of the hullabaloo, I believe I may have neglected to send you my annual note last year, for which I am terribly sorry.  Rest assured, despite this oversight, Roger and I are thinking of you and hope you, Mrs. Claus, the Elves and all the Reindeer are happy, healthy and ready for your upcoming big night of global gift giving. What a job you have!

While you have been busy getting ready to travel the globe, spreading your usual good cheer (I think you have a rather large task ahead this year), we’ve had our own busy schedule.  Lots of work demands which took me away from Crockern nearly every month.  I did travel to some terrific places like Ireland, the USA, Paris and Brussels, which made it fun.

Lots of friends and family visited us from near and far, which was a treat.  We traveled to Wales and managed several weekends away to visit friends throughout the UK.  We even spent a week on a canal boat winding through the country-side.  Have you ever done anything like that Santa?  I highly recommend it.

When home, we set about our usual projects and a hearty thank you is also in order for helping us with a good year for our garden.  After making needed improvements to the raised beds to keep the rabbits out, we enjoyed a terrific crop of lettuces, potatoes, tomatoes, chard, spinach, kale, cabbages, beets, strawberries, blueberries, rhubarb, asparagus and onions. Even now in the midst of winter, the garden is providing us with winter vegetables. If you wouldn’t mind, could you send our thanks to Mother Nature when you see her at the New Year? The weather this summer was great for the garden and we would love to put in our request for another splendid summer for 2017. Along with the garden, we had so many opportunities for BBQs and evenings in the hot tub.

I don’t have much for “the list” this year.  I could use some time to rest and reflect on this past year and focus on my intentions for 2017.  I am planning to use the holidays for precisely this activity.  For Roger, I’m wondering if we might not consider some head protection.  There was that concussion he suffered while laying a fence this summer.  But, after seeing Roger knock his head more than once on a low door frame or beam in the house, our friend Miriam suggested he could use a “house helmet”.  Old stone farmhouses are not easy places for someone his height and I’m wondering if your elves might have some suggestions.  I know they are short, but I’m guessing they may hit their heads on the underside of a work table from time to time.

The chickens have had a good year and in preparation for the holiday season, are taking several weeks off from egg laying.  The one Roger nursed back to health is happily scratching for worms with her mates as I write this.  All six of our hens have recently finished moulting, so we are anticipating their winter break is soon coming to a close and we’ll be back into having too many eggs.  If that happens when you are flying past, we’ll make you an omelette or a soft boiled egg.

We think you’ll enjoy a few improvements since your last visit.  We finished the floors and walls by the wood-burner, making that room cozy as can be.  We still have to work on the ceiling, but we’re not in a particular rush.  Of course, if you or the elves are looking for a short working holiday, let us know and we’ll move the furniture out of that space and you can help sand the beams.  You’ll like the staircase we refinished and now that the water system is up to date, you may have some thoughts about whether we carry on with the work in the kitchen, finish the office, or start the small bathroom next.

When you arrive please be aware Sam is moving slowly and can’t hear as well these days, so you may need to bend down to give him a little scratch behind the ear.  When you do, be warned that Millie will thrust her chew toy into your hands and insist on a game of tug.  She’s not met any reindeer yet, but likes meeting other dogs.  She’s shown no interest in the Dartmoor ponies, sheep and cattle she’s encountered, so we’re guessing your team of eight reindeer plus Rudolph will be a welcome set of friends.  Warn your team, she does enjoy a good game of chase!

Bit of a non-sequitur Santa, but can you vote?  I received my British citizenship this spring, and with my new dual citizenship, had the right to vote in both the UK referendum and the USA presidential election.   You have such an unusual address, it’s unclear where you cast a vote.  And, does your system of democracy involve electoral colleges?

We are excited for the holiday season. The tree is up, decorated and ready for your arrival.  We hope you’ll have some time to visit when you come to Dartmoor.  With all of its history and adventures, the projects and quirks, the visiting critters and various challenges, the coziness and the beauty, both inside and out, Crockern continues to captivate and enchant us.   As you’ve always told me Santa, with the right attitude, each day can be filled with wonderful adventure and discovery.  Boy oh boy, do we have that here.

Safe travels Santa. I hope the weather will be clear and bright for you as you take your sleigh across Dartmoor.  Maybe there will be one of those super moons to guide you!

With love and warm wishes for a healthy and happy holiday season to you, Mrs. Claus, all the elves and reindeer,

Catherine

Crockern Farm,

Pretty much in the middle of Dartmoor, UK

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I’m dreaming of ….

Recently, Roger and I find we awake in the morning with a greater number of aches and pains.  Feeling this way, one would hope for a slower start to the day, a chance to lounge in bed with a cup of coffee, read the news, and spend an extra hour contemplating the day ahead.  Alas, not here at Crockern where everything is a small-demand requiring our attention.

Lets begin with Millie.  She starts her puppy day with joy and excitement, and no end of energy.  Boundless.  Bouncing.  Filled with fun.  Everything is a curiosity and a possible game.  She was recently described as “high drive” by a woman who trains dogs for agility.  At first, this seemed like a good thing, but what I’ve come to discover is that it may perhaps be code for disobedient.  She’s smart and can see the end point, so elects to skip all the middle bits.  She’s like the smart kid in geometry class who knows “one does not equal zero” so why bother with all those steps in the geometric proof to demonstrate that fact?

Meanwhile, Sam, her patient elder, is struggling with the hard wood floors and getting his balance.  His mornings involve some sliding about as I fly out of bed to lend a hand and help him to his feet and out the door.  Shortly thereafter, we three head down the track.  What once took 15 minutes is an easy 30 minutes as Sam stops to take the scent of an animal which passed that spot in the night.  As he inhales deeply, Millie charges off the hill, out of the gorse, with her toy proudly dangling from her mouth before knocking into Sam to see why he isn’t chasing the same toy.  “Why Sam?  Why?”

At this time of the year, the sky is dark as we set out for this first walk of the day.  Still, the birds begin to awaken and there are a few songs to be heard across the moors.  After our walk, the dogs and I fill the bird feeders, let out the chickens, and bring in some firewood.  As we enter the kitchen, Roger is there with his coffee and catching up on the news.  I love the days when I get to be home all day without a work appointment, chore, or social engagement.  We all lounge in front of the wood burner, reading and contemplating our next walk.

Our house projects have been somewhat stalled of late.  No particular reason other than we had a need to take some time off from them.  Of course, just as we were settling into that idea, our water tank developed a huge bulge.  If it is not obvious, this is not a good thing.  A bulge, like any blister on a toe, will eventually burst.   And in the house — specifically under the stairs — that would leave us with a nice little mess.

And so, despite our desire to take some time off, we were facing a problem.  They say, “Every cloud has a silver lining.”  What they don’t say is “every hot water tank has …”  No, they don’t say that and that is because it would be stupid.  Our hot water tank is made of copper, which corrodes over time, especially where the water is more acidic as it is here on Dartmoor.

When Crockern was first built, there was no internal plumbing.  The river likely played a vital role for all the water needs of residents some time ago.  As modern conveniences changed the way people lived, so too the water system at Crockern evolved.  Over time, the system here came to resemble something designed by Heath Robinson, one of those ridiculously complicated machines constructed to accomplish something terribly simple.  Here’s how it worked:  Our water would come from the spring about 100 metres north of the house and enter a tank outside.  Water from this tank would be pumped into the house and up into the loft into an overflow tank.  This tank permitted gravity to then send water, under pressure, to the taps, showers, and toilets.  That same bit of gravity, fed water to the hot water tank which was heated with redirected heat from the Aga.  Of course, when we put in the new boiler a few years ago, which had the ability to heat water, but we elected to delay connecting it to the entire house.

Nearly a year ago, in one of our exploratory whims, we removed a false wall in the kitchen to reveal all manner of pipes.  We lived with these, thinking “one day, we’ll clear all that up and change up the water system.”  That day arrived when the hot water tank developed a noticeable rounded swelling on what should have been a smooth surface.

We called the plumber and got an estimate.  We called another plumber, received a nicer estimate and scheduled him to come out and begin the work.  What should have taken one day, unfortunately took two days, but he managed to disconnect the hot water tank and remove it.  Next, he hooked up our water system to the boiler which heats the water when we require it, rather than all the time.  After he left, Roger removed the redundant overflow tank while balancing on a ladder over the stairs.  He also removed all the silly pipes which were hiding behind the false wall and were now no longer needed.  The thrilling part is that the pump works less frequently and our water pressure is better.  A few weeks later, we back-filled the AGA and as a result are burning less fuel.

So why didn’t we do this earlier?   We are free of extra pipes and an inefficient way to heat water.  We’ve gained closet space.  We have greater water pressure.  The truth is, there are a lot of projects and this one could wait.  The copper water tank was working.   And as the Laws of Renovation declare:  Each project results in an equal  and opposite amount of additional projects which are always unanticipated despite enormous preparation and planning.

In short, we’ve learned with this old house, there is never a project which can begin and end all in the same month.  Now that we’ve changed up the water system, awaiting us in the new year are the following:

  1. Repoint the wall that was previously hidden.
  2. Build shelves in the closet under the stairs which previously housed the hot water tank.
  3. Remember to install a light INSIDE the closet so we can see what is on those new shelves.
  4. Purchase a new whizzy pump (the current one sometimes — usually around 11 p.m. at night — stops working and requires one of us (okay, Roger) to head outside and give it a good whack! — and put it under the stairs, along with a ph regulator for the water.

Four steps!  Four manageable and easy steps.  Really?  What project can end in four more steps?

None.  Nadda.  Zilch.  That wall in the kitchen, which needs to be repointed, is one part of a wall in the kitchen.  We still have paint to remove from another wall, and repair blown plaster on two other walls.  The beams need to be sanded and shelves under the counter tops to be built.  These are a few projects for the kitchen, but not all.  With our newly modernized water system, we can permit ourselves to renovate the small bathroom, which still has carpeting on the wall as a nod toward insulation and no insulation in the roof.  In the office, there is a radiator I’d like to move, floors to sand, some walls to paint, and another wall to repair.  We can’t do any of this until we address the flashing on the chimneys outside.  Oh yes, the list goes on and on.

Four more steps?  In our dreams.

Autumn is Knocking

The light on the horizon has changed significantly this past week, casting long, broad shadows across the hills.  The sky is filled with an eclectic mixture of brooding, grey clouds adorned with cotton-candy-like puffs of white accentuated with splashes of blue.  Crisp leaves are beginning to carpet the ground and collect in corners of the garden and in all our drains.  An annual autumn project of clearing leaves has now appeared on our to-do list.  The most notable announcement of the season’s change is the formation of the bright flame-red berries dangling from the Rowan trees.

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Where did the summer go?  It seems just yesterday we were filling the long days with visitors and projects.  We were busy tending to the vegetable garden and our on-going repair of stone walls.  Daily we pulled weeds, maintained the garden, and filled potholes.  We spent hours gathering and consuming the abundance of our vegetable beds, building a new fence — which resulted in an unfortunate concussion for Roger — juggling family demands and embracing the arrival of the thoroughly modern Millie!

In the summer months, we carry on with all our activities until our bones and muscles ache, taking breaks to walk Sam and Millie or have a cup of coffee. By the end of the day, covered with dirt, we put away our tools, clean ourselves up, and prepare dinner. Afterwards, we take a glass of wine and make our way back outside to soak in the hot tub.  We make plans for the next day while the night shift of wildlife clocks-in. On a clear night, one by one, the stars appear in the sky and the bats flash past to feeding on new insect life. Foxes and badgers make their plans for the evening’s hunt and forage, and the tawny owl in the stand of pines across the valley sings a musical riff.

Now, as I walk the dogs in the early morning, I feel a chill in the air and can see our breath in the dawn air.   This first walk of the day is one of two stories:  Sam sniffing all the news of the day to come and slowly awaking his achy bones as he lumbers down the track; while Millie darts from one moment to the next, chasing her toy and racing past me and Sam to exercise her job as the Ambassador of Joy!  I certainly have my pre-coffee challenge with the two dogs moving at different speeds and entertaining their different interests, but our pack of three sync up with the pleasure of the crisp morning air.

As we turn the corner on our walk, down in the valley the fog hangs along the river as if a dragon flew past in the night and left a breath trail.  Exposed by the morning dew are the webs of the thousands of spiders who make their homes in the gorse bushes.  With the arrival of cooler temperatures, many of these spiders now seem to be making their homes inside our house and not a day goes by when I don’t discover yet another large arachnid awaiting rescue from the kitchen sink.

It’s not just spiders who have made their way into the house, we’ve had a few bats too.  Recently, I was spending the afternoon stacking our winter wood supply in the barn when I noticed something flapping about in jerky flight.  Too late to be a swallow or a house martin, they’ve left for warmer climates and won’t be back again until the spring.   When I stopped to investigate, I spied a bat hanging upside down in the rafters.  I’ve not seen it there before or since, so I suspect this is simply a temporary rest stop as it was too early to be out and about hunting insects.  Sure enough, later that day Roger and I spent the better part of the evening trying to isolate the Horseshoe bat, which had found its way from the barn into the house.

The greater horseshoe bat is one of the larger British bats with a wingspan of about 35-39 cm, and also one of the rarest.  We are in one of the few areas in the country where these bats are still breeding, so it is a treat to see one.  After Roger photographed and confirmed its identification, we managed to get it into a room where we could close the doors, turn out the lights, and open the windows so it would head out into the night to commence its hunting before returning to its roost in parts unknown to us.

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As the plants die back to conserve their energy for a spring bloom, so too, Roger and I have turned our attentions to readying for winter.  But we aren’t there yet. Soon, we will spend more of our time inside by the fire and less outside. As the nights draw in and our wood burner provides daily comfort, we will turn our attentions to projects inside.  We have a water tank which needs replacing, pipes which need relocating, and we’re making some changes to the hot water system as a result.  Roll on Autumn….

Oh, The Lengths We’ll Go!

Roger’s capacity for detail and care often moves me.  He possesses a patience and ability to dig deep, learning what is needed for nearly any challenge.  Where I might be a planner and excel at fitting a number of things into small spaces; Roger can manage details, intricacies and care in ways I simply can’t imagine.

We had been away in April for a week and enjoying a long overdue holiday.  When we returned, we saw one of our chickens sporting a very messy bottom.  Our neighbour who takes care of our chickens when we are away, indicated she had observed the chicken’s messy bottom and thought it might be a prolapse.

Well now, that’s a first for us.

Raising one’s own chickens is a thoroughly rewarding enterprise. Chickens are certainly the most easily managed of domestic animals — they are smaller than goats, and more practical than parakeets.  Our small flock of hens produces enough eggs for us to use during the week, plus extra to sell.  We keep them safe from predators, provide them shelter and food, and a good bit of free-ranging yard in which to explore, take dust baths, and catch worms.  Unlike Sam and Millie, our chickens don’t need to be trained or walked.  The very idea is preposterous!

Of course, when a chicken develops health concerns that is another kettle of fish, so to speak.  If Sam or Millie were sick, we would take them to the vet.  But, who takes chickens to the vet?  We enjoy our chickens, but we don’t over sentimentalise them.  We’re in the country-side and most people who keep chickens would likely make a nice soup when their hens stop laying.  That won’t be the fate of our girls, because we enjoy watching them in the garden.  Even so, they won’t get a ten mile car ride to the vet when they are feeling poorly.

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Thankfully, there are perhaps as many chicken forums on the Internet as there are chickens in the world.  If you need to know anything about feeding and raising chickens, breed selection, housing options, or recipes for eggs, just click onto one of these discussion groups and you’ll uncover a wide range of expertise, experience, photos and personal stories.  It was one such forum which Roger availed himself of the health and wellness section and quickly learned what to do in this slippery situation.

Treating a prolapse begins with a visit to the chicken day spa, also known as our kitchen sink.  Here the chicken will step into a warm saltwater bath and soak her bottom for about thirty minutes.  I adore soaking for hours in a bath with a good book and a glass of wine, so no doubt in the world of chickens, getting to sit in a bowl of warm water would be bliss!  I’m certain I’m right as our sickly chicken, one of our most evasive and difficult to catch, soon came to see Roger as her key to the spa and practically jumped into his arms when he came to get her for her warm bath.

In the beginning of her care regime, we were concerned about this flighty hen sitting for thirty minutes in a  warm water bath having her bottom cleaned, so I sang to her.  My repertoire bends towards camp songs and I can sing for a good twenty minutes or more about “When it comes to the end of a Brown Ledge day” or “On a wagon, bound for market…”  To more than a few, this skill is among my more irritating, right up there with singing the fifty States in alphabetically order.  But, to this hen, my dulcet tones seemed to do the trick.  Of course, it may have been the warm water bath because as care continued over time, Roger suggested my singing wasn’t necessary.

With the chicken relaxed and her bottom clean, Roger next sprays the hen’s bum with antibacterial spray.  Easy enough.  The prolapse must be pushed back and with the help of a  little haemorrhoid cream, Roger eases the hen’s uterus back into place.  Success!  Somewhat short term though, as about twenty minutes later, her inner organs slipped out again.

For over a week, this procedure of water bath, antibacterial spray and a haemorrhoid cream push-back was conducted twice daily.  The prolapse continued to prolapse.  Reading further, chicken information forums Roger learned about making little harnesses which attach around the chicken’s wings to hold everything up and in, a sort of uterine girdle.  There are endless discussions of the steps people have taken, ultimately ending with such disheartening messages like, “after a week of treatment, the chicken died.”  Like not driving to the vet, we decided to draw the line at making a uterine girdle.

While Roger carried on applying his chicken nursing skills, another chicken who was looking happy and healthy suddenly dropped dead by the feeder.  She was just over 5 years old when she died.  This unexpected death set us about preparing for the loss of another hen.  Her prolapse was not correcting itself and we didn’t want her getting an infection or suffering.

After ten days of treatment in Crockern Spa, our sickly hen, the one who loved Roger for the warm baths he provided, developed a limp.  Was this an infection?  Did she sprain it jumping onto a perch?  Or, was she feigning a new injury to extend visits to the spa?  We may never know because this beautiful hen with her silly slipping out uterus and awkward stride, made a full recovery.  Her warm baths have stopped and so too has her willingness to being caught.  She is back to her evasive manoeuvres, sporting a nice clean bottom and no limp.  She is her old self again.

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Happy and healthy and back in the gang (second from right).

Finding my Way

Recently I attended a navigation workshop for women offered by Two Blondes, a fabulous business run by two women dedicated to getting everyone outside exploring (check them out:  http://www.twoblondeswalking.com).  The idea of other like-minded women, interested in the outdoors and Dartmoor appealed to me.  But learning to properly use a compass, well that was the cherry on top!

How had I gotten to my fifties and not learned this skill?  Three of my four brothers were Eagle Scouts and my Dad was a Scout Master with the Boy Scouts.  As a family, we frequently went camping.  And yet, no one taught me this basic skill.

Is it possible I’ve never learned because I never needed to do so?  Years ago, friends and colleagues gave Roger a silver cup engraved with “The Navigator”.   When it comes to using a compass in the wild, I’ve obviously relied on Roger.  It’s easy to let him figure out our route, while I mind the dogs, look at the landscape and enjoy myself.  And given that engraved mug, who wouldn’t cede responsibility?

But it is not sustainable to take the back seat and rely on others to explore new areas.  The times I’ve gone out to explore on my own, map in hand, I’ve managed to get somewhat lost on Dartmoor.  Not so much lost, really, but haunted by an overriding awareness that I could get lost at any moment.  Then what?

Dartmoor is a tricky challenge, which is why the military train and orienteering activities like the Ten Tors or Duke of Edinburgh are held here.  The usual landmarks found in other national parks are often absent.  Forests change due to cutting.  Walls on the map aren’t always there as they may be historic and grassed over.  Pillow mounds and hut circles, easily identified by archaeologists or skilful navigators, often look like a pile of rocks to me.  Add to that, the weather can be like the ocean with shifting tides from clear, calm waters to rip tides putting an innocent swimmer in peril.  Knowing what you’re doing on Dartmoor is a good idea to say the least.

Thirteen of us gathered for our workshop by Two Blondes.  Armed with our OS maps, compasses, and enthusiasm, we chatted about why we were there:   “I want to get my skills and sense of direction back.”  “My partner always reads the map….what if he drops dead?”  “I just want to do something for myself and sometimes that means walking by myself.”  I was in good company.  All these women, ranging in ages and skills, backgrounds and interests, were crooning just like Annie Lenox and Aretha Franklin, we were doin’ it for ourselves.

Soon, the workshop begins and we open our maps to locate towns, pubs, buildings, footpaths, woods, and rivers and streams.  We calculate distances, times and read the contours of elevations.  All of this was familiar from the hours I’ve spent pouring over OS maps.  I love them for their detail and history.  These beautifully scaled representations of the land are the key to exploring, complete with the easy to use 4 or 6 figure grid reference system.  This part of the workshop was interesting, but when we were going to get to the compass?  That little magnetic mystery that somehow holds the key?  Every skilled navigator will say, “trust your compass.”   But mine, with its needle, orienting lines, directional arrow, declination line, magnifying round and compass scale sat there teasing me.  Then suddenly, one of the Two Blondes announced, “Okay, everyone pull out your compass.”   At last!  And within minutes, what had always seemed difficult and elusive, was made easy.

Roger has explained how to use a compass before, but often he assumes I know what he’s talking about.  Because it is familiar to him, he enthusiastically shows me all the cool things, without ever setting up the basics.  He tells me about true north, magnetic north, and how the map shifts out of north by 1 degree, 29 minutes every year.  My mind drifts.  Is this how Robert Scott and his men missed their South Pole destination only to die tragically close?   It is fair to say, Roger is operating from the notion that I surely must have some basic concepts about this simple, yet revolutionary, circular instrument.  But the Two Blondes knew that we few, we happy few, we band of sisters didn’t know and thus provided a simple, encouraging, and educational approach to using our compasses.   And it is so easy and fun!  I now see why Roger would make the assumption I had a basic understanding.

 

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After mastering our compasses inside, we set out on a walk.   Navigating is not just about the compass, it is also about timing and distance, so we learned our pacing.  We set a bearing and headed off to find a pool on the moor.  Why would anyone ever want to go off a path and find a pool/bog marked on the map?  Well, because it’s on the map and with a compass and a little know how you can.  And what a find!  This bog area was covered in all manner of wildflowers and dwarf shrubs of heather and billbery, along with sedges, cotton-grass, deer grass and purple moor grass, the likes of which I hadn’t noticed along the path.  And because of the boggy nature of the area, all the grazing animals stayed clear, so there was indeed a different wildness to the flora and fauna.  The path we left was still busy with other walkers, families, bike riders and the like.  But up by this pool, away from the path, we could only see the Dartmoor wilderness — that vast landscape rich with varied ecosystems.   We noticed small blue flowers, heard bird song, and spotted sundew, a small carnivorous plant with red spiked leaves to enable it to catch insects to supplement its diet due to the poor nutrient levels of the blanket bogs.  What we couldn’t see was the footpath, or anyone on it, and we were a mere 250 meters away.

Oh, I’m hooked alright.  I love the compass and the idea of being able to learn to orienteer with greater skill.  I love how ordinary it looks, but that it powerfully denotes direction.  I also prefer my little compass to the modern geospatial app on my phone, which is useful but not foolproof.  When I got home, I told Roger all about my day.  He shared my excitement and showed me another type of compass, a sighting compass.  I had no idea we had this little treasure.  He attempted to explain to me how it worked, and nearly failed until I explained how the Two Blondes taught us to use a compass at which point, he wound back his enthusiastic description so that I could see its potential.  Practice and patience will improve my skills as it isn’t exactly rocket science.  In the coming days, I plan to set out and make a few discoveries on my own so that all of us can safely get lost together.

Make Room For Millie

It’s no small matter to ready a home for the arrival of a new puppy.  We’ve brushed up on basic training information, readied dog crates, and set about removing chewing temptations such as shoes and wires.  We’re not looking forward to sleepless nights, but remain hopeful for quick house training.  Fingers crossed.

We’ve had it easy with Sam.  He came to us as a rescue dog with a few issues, but he has never damaged anything inside the house.  Suffice it to say, we’ve been spoiled.  With all the projects at Crockern, we’ve kept working on the kitchen at the bottom of the list as it seemed too disruptive.  Besides, two people and an old dog could live with our kitchen layout for years and not be all that fussed.  Sadly, the design of our kitchen did not lend itself to the arrival of a puppy.

Kitchens with fixed cabinets can be hard to rearrange without incurring significant disruption.  With our free standing cupboards, a design change is theoretically simple, but the required logistics to make a change are on par with landing on the moon.  To simply move this there, that needs to go there, and in order to do that, this will have to be emptied in order to move this there, and on it goes.  More than once, we’ve walked away, mulling over possible solutions.

Our first step was to empty the shelves under a fixed countertop and remove 50% of the shelves to make room for the washing machine.  Excellent plan if only the space below were bigger or the washing machine smaller.  But, the slim margin we were dealing with meant Roger had to completely dis-assemble the counter and its frame.  A day later when he finished, we squeezed the washing machine into its new location.  Feeling pleased with ourselves, we stood back and noticed a small leak.  Smugness was quickly replaced by panic!   Taking a few deep breaths, Roger climbed behind the washing machine and made some awkward adjustments to the plumbing.  We were back in business.

Or were we?  The kitchen table was buried beneath the items which were once stored under the counter.  And we hadn’t begun to move furniture.  I pride myself in being able to organise, but this situation was quickly testing our patience and skills.  We looked at everything from those shelves and around the kitchen and began to hatch a plan.

For the next phase, we must:

  1. Empty the refrigerator;
  2. Move the shoes, coats, and basket of hats, scarves and gloves;
  3. Empty the dresser next to the shoes;
  4. Move the dresser;
  5. Put the refrigerator where the dresser once sat, but occupying the space where the shoes where previously thrown; and then,
  6. Return items to the refrigerator.

Sounds simple enough, but everything in the dresser needed to be cleaned before being returned. The dresser needed a new location, so the cabinet holding all of our booze and cookbooks had to be emptied and moved too.  Rapidly we were running out of places to set all of our stuff!

Hours later, and nearly everything in its place, there remained one piece of furniture.  Our largest dresser, the very one we picked up at an auction when we first moved to Dartmoor.  We didn’t really need to move it, did we?  It looked good where it was and also was hiding all manner of ugly paint work.  But it was in the place which was perfect for the dog crate.  Considering the level of disruption we had sifted through, why stop now?  Because, if we moved this dresser, we could remove the paint from this wall.

Spices, canned and dried food, cups, and glasses had to come out of the dresser and moved out of the kitchen.  Having become an old hand at removing paint from stone walls, Roger began to apply peel away paint remover to this ugly wall which we had now exposed.   Removing this paint was not purely an aesthetic decision.  It was holding in moisture and we had a gross little problem that was only going to get worse until we let those stones have a chance to breathe again.

The paint on this wall was trickier than the previous stone wall we cleaned as it was oil based and did not want to come off in nice little flakes.  Instead, it clung on in a gummy, gooey sort of way.  Roger spent a day picking at it.  By the end of that day, he hung plastic sheeting to protect the kitchen, put on his waterproofs, and got the jet sprayer.  Yes, once again, we were using a power washer INSIDE the house to remove the final bits of paint.

What a mess!

After several hours of cleaning, we moved this last dresser into its new location and returned the contents.  We found homes for our boots and a good location for the crate.  We did all of this in five days.  Five days to transform a bit of the kitchen.  It feels bigger and brighter and the damp on the wall is already diminishing.  We still have big projects in this room:  blown plaster to repair, another wall covered in that tricky paint, and some significant plumbing to change, but for now, the small steps we took have made a big difference.

When we have deadlines like friends coming over for dinner or visiting for a few days we manage to complete projects swiftly.  Bring home a puppy and we throw it into another gear, shifting from idea to action.  Perhaps I’ll suggest a party sometime soon and we’ll see what we get done.  For now, we welcome Millie!

 

It’s a Dog’s House

It’s well known that dogs are good, no great, for our mental and physical well being.  But can they benefit our home?  Sam seems to think so.  He loves bursting out the front door for a walk, sniffing all the goings-on outside and then returning for a treat, some water and a nap in front of the AGA.  Lucky boy.

As he gets older, slower, deafer and mellower, we’ve started thinking about getting a puppy.  WAIT!  WHAT?  For the past 30 years, I’ve only rescued adult dogs.  Scratch, Al, Jack and then Sam.  Scratch was actually a puppy when I rescued him from the pound, and he was a bundle of joy and hard work.  I swore then, “no more puppies.”  Somehow, Crockern tells me to ignore this broad brush stroke rule and start talking puppies.

“What kind of puppy would you want Roger, if we were to get a puppy?” begins my campaign about a year ago.  “Do you think Sam would like a puppy?”  “I wonder if a puppy would help Sam as he gets older?”

Roger, having never had a puppy joins in on my explorations.  While I dove right into websites and kennel club forums, Roger was happy to listen to all of my updates.  The pros and cons of crate training.  The 100 most popular names for dogs.  The top 10 smartest breeds.  Discovering the difference between intelligence and obedience.  Hours of you-tube videos on teaching your dog how to run agility courses, or play dead, or fetch your slippers.  I moved past the hard graft of training a puppy and right into the big payoff.

Roger brings me right back to earth with a concern:  “Will a puppy chew our furniture?”

If we were gone all day long, that might be a concern.  But one of us is usually home and Sam currently spends almost no time without one or both of us, so that would enable us to keep all our furniture safe I assured Roger.

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Having had dogs, we both know how they can leave their mark on the interior of our home.  Dirty paw prints, drifts of shredded hair under the furniture and in corners, and shaking muddy water across the room on a rainy day.   Roger and I may take care to remove our boots, but Sam doesn’t share this thinking.  He couldn’t care less about avoiding puddles or squelchy bogs before racing back inside the house.  Sometimes, Sam gets so excited for a walk he steps in his water bowl, spilling its contents all over the kitchen floor.   And lets be honest, what dog barfs in the loo or outside?  No, any carpet will do.   But who cares?

The truths are clear. Dogs are terrifically opinion-free.  While Roger and I may spend hours deciding and then working on a ceiling, or a wall, or even the type of tap for the bathroom sink, Sam is blissful in his lack of concern.  He could care less if we lived in home laid out by interior designers or a shack in the outback.  As long as he is loved, fed, walked, and loved some more, he’s happy.

Besides, who else is going to greet us at the front door, tail wagging and gazing lovingly up at us as we potter around the house.  Dogs!  Who else makes us laugh with their ways of getting us to do their bidding (really Sam?  Do you see how hard it’s raining?  You really want to go for a walk?) or chase bunnies in their dreams?  No one except a dog, that’s who.

And since nothing completes a home like a smelly, shedding, daft but delightful dog, we’ll be picking up a puppy in June.  Watch this space.