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pink and the moon

Pinkandthemoon

Its been a long day. We often begin with an idea of errands or jobs we will achieve in the day. And we also always say; there is no rush we are here forever. Buuuuut... once you get started one chore easily leads to another.  After the animals, and errands done first thing, the girls and I headed off to a summer fair in the mountains. A little while there and we came home to find the husband busy setting fire to things burning all the garden rubbish we have accumulated since clearing fifteen years of overgrown gardens. Never one to be comfortable sitting down when others are working, I began to work too. Clearing the hedge clippings, filling the troughs, and finally unable to put it off any longer, creosoting the gates. 


Creosote is not like creosote anymore... dark sticky hideous oily stuff, now its a lot like paint and comes in many many shades. Trying hard not to appear too alternative and townie I did stick to a shade of brown.  Brown is not attractive and as I was painting on what turned out to be a sort of ginger poop colour {exactly a ginger poop colour to be honest} I confess I wish I had picked blue or something.   Ah well... everyone has brown. just trying to fit in... Tho, the local farmers have already written me off as 'not a farmer' and no doubt 'a little bit crazy' so I really should have gone with blue.

It was while painting the poop colour on the gates, and counting down to being able to finally sit down, that I became aware of the goats crying. 
(You might think goats bleat, but I can assure you if in distress they really sound much more like they are crying) Sometimes when they hear our voices they do cry out, pleading for our attention, so I ignored them for a few minutes hoping they would go back to eating and I could carry on painting poop creosote everywhere. 
They didn't, and so I sent Daisy to see what was up. she was about ten paces away from me before she yelled the goats were in trouble. 
Goats do not get in trouble by halves. This was a drop paint brush moment and race up the track to their field.  
Cue one goat the other side of a four foot thick hedge -and therefore also the other side of a stock and barbed wire fence.  The other goat, desperately upset to be parted from both the people and his companion had tried to follow and got stuck in the very prickly hawthorn hedge. 

To cut a long and sweaty story short, both goats are fine, one has at the tiniest cut on his heel  (- how he is not sliced apart from barbed wire and a hedge of thorns I do not know, luck of the goat as usual) But Daisy and I are scratched, cut, stung by nettles, bruised by squeezing into the tiniest prickliest gaps- and an awful lot of fencing wood is now rammed in a gap that isn't really a gap to start with.  An hour of fence patching, hauling great big wooden gates into the hedge to attempt to stop them doing this again, some goat first aid and swearing and I am shattered. The most disheartening part being until the fence is replaced by the fencing man, no patching I ever do will hold a curious goat.  Several acres of field, hazel, banks, trees, shelter, food and water - no thanks we'd rather get hurt attempting to go next door, and eat that identical hedge.   Times like this I rue the day I ever got goats, and Daisy tells them she doesn't like them anymore.  We don't mean it, we love them to bits, but goat drama makes you very weary indeed.  One hot hot shower later and I am a bit less cross. Still picking thorns from my arm and random hedge bits from my hair, but yes, less cross. ;)  I don't think there will ever be a quiet dull day around here...