big ideas from a little garden

tales and stories of how we make the most of our garden and our terraced house.

Saturday, 10 December 2011

The Taming of The Shrew

 *a Cuckoo Maran
Here at the tinyholding we have taken possession of a new hen. Due to the passing of Ollie; Rip, a true Gent of a cockerel and a beautiful boy, we had room for one more. True we are at the limit but we have no intention of getting any more and restricting their space. We were quite happy to just keep to the egg laying committee we had, but the opportunity of a beautiful Cuckoo Maran came up. She had be raised from egg by a good friend from the land of Downsizer.The chance of chocolate brown eggs was far too good to pass up.
And so.....Enter Maggie.
In true style she was going to be name Daisy as most of the girls have flower names. She is not a flower! Oh no!
She may well be the devil herself!
I was warned that she was a little, ahem, feisty. She sat in her box all the way home from Welshpool like a veritable angel. She was brought into the house, sweet as a kitten. Then DD said "let's have a look at her then"
I merely opened one flap of the box and all hell was unleashed upon us. She exploded into the living room with a flurry of claws, beak, feathers and squawking. It is safe to say DD was afraid, very afraid. Possibly wondering what I had done to unleash such a fury upon him. She was chased down and tucked safely under my arm. I tentatively tickled her chin (fearing for my fingers). A sure enough, given a couple of minuets she was all gentle cooing and fluffiness. We popped her back into her box with a drink and something to eat after allowing her a ten minutes wing stretch. It was, after all, 10 pm.  There she spent her first night at the tinyholding.

The following morning came around and DD did his usual round of feeding and watering the demanding crowd. Again lifting the flap and expecting docility. Silly DD! Chickens don't have a lengthy memory. I was summoned with the slightly worried. "MD, she's OUT!" She was making eyes at the gecko, no way was she going back into the box.
Now, I have integrated many a chicken to a new flock. I isolate the new girl leaving them with the ability to see each other. When the mutual running at each other has stopped within a couple of days they get to play together but sleep apart until I sneak out at night, and put new hen next to big boss hen on the perch. It has never failed.

Having a slightly new set up since settling in at the tinyholding I would have to rearrange some sort of run.
DD says "Let's just pop her out and see how they get on". I, myself was more than a little dubious but thought, we can alway intervene if needed.

Here is how it went. Darcey (the cad) grew a couple of inches. I am sure he was standing on tippy toes. You could almost hear the spirit of Leslie Phillips emanate from him "Hell-o". He promptly popped his step ladder under his wing and went in hot pursuit.
Pecky eyed her with some distant speculation. Biding her time to show her who really governs around here. After all, she does have the Thatcheresque barnet. All other hens have been allowed to *think* they rule the roost and she will casually let them stretch their proverbial wings. But, get too full of themselves? Not on Pecky's watch!
Gwynn and Snowbell trotted ever so slowly up to her. She pretended to mind her own business. Scratching for grubs. Slowly, slowly, catchy Maggie! Shuffle, shuffle, peck, scratch, look the other way. Closer, closer until, wham! feather and wing at the ready. Who's the biggest? Well, after around 4 seconds, clearly it was Maggy. Gwynn was shown what for. She did not pass go she did not collect her hundred grains.
The frat-house hazing that Snowbell had clearly put her up to had failed. Gwynn is still  the new girl! Snowbell takes one step toward Maggie. Intent on sorting this issue out herself. Maggie looks at her. I must say, I have never seen a chicken shuffle backwards before. Her wings metaphorically in the air "Okay, okay, every-thing's cool here. It's your garden now."
During the kerfuffle Rosie and Violet raised the sweet little heads and started their turbo chicken decent of the garden. About a third of the way they stopped dead in their tracks and beat a hasty retreat.
Then comes the surprise. After her five minute affirmation of the garden she spent the rest of the day perched upon the old garden bench, with the other girls exchanging coos. She has settled in as if she has always been a part of the gang. Even Snowbell seems to be happy with her company.
This, however is not the end of her tale. She is clearly a wanderer. The very first evening DD went to pop her away. She had not, after all, been shown her accommodation. The Bell boy and chamber maid had been a little lax. She was nowhere to be seen. DD hunted, I hunted. We then hunted together. Nothing. Damn it!
We decided to leave it for the night as she may have gone to ground under the shed or some such thing. Around an hour after their bed time there was knock upon the door and the time old question "Have you lost a chicken?"
"Yes", we yelled in unison.
Fortunately she had decided to pay a visit to the local animal fosterer. The lady (and grandmother of the cubs friends) who takes in every waif and stray. We were told we could pick her up in the morning as right now "she was sleeping". I'll bet she was! She had made it across around 20 gardens to get to her destination.
She has now been returned to the garden and her new joint committee members. One wing clipped and happy.
In all the handling over her first few days she has become quite docile. She now will be picked up, with a small amount of persuasion and given a chin tickle. Always handy for mite and foot checking.
In all the adventures we have, indeed, Tamed the Shrew.
Many thanks to Pookie for our latest girl. She is delightful!
*photo yoinked from  The Devonshire Traditional Breed Centre
for beautiful cuckoo maran pullets contact Rosie Pointer

Tuesday, 22 November 2011

Intrepid adventures into the living room.

The Tinyholding has been home and hearth to DD for around 10 years.  He has lived here, and worked here with moderate success.  I say moderate because when the rest of the team moved in the dining room looked like a building site.  The oven and the washing machine were out of service.  The children's room(s) were being used as a storage area and DD lived between the rooms he needed to function. These rooms, that he has lovingly decorated and restored are a testament to his creativity, tastful eye and perfectionist nature. I don't think he has been too shell shocked by the difference a whole family can make.  Indeed, I think he shares my belief that a family can make a house into a home.
There have, however, been one of two problems arising from our installation. How exactly we thought we would fit two households full of STUFF into one (smaller) house is beyond me.  We are still tackling these issues one at a time. Slow and steady wins the race. We are both fully aware you cannot fit the contents of a transit van into a shoe box. Sacrifices have been made and we will continue to do so.  DD has removed all defunct items from the storage (oops I mean children's) room(s).  We can now look to making them into two separate rooms on a more permanent basis. Instead of partitions we can aspire to walls, and doors!

The thing that has spurred us on to get things done is the imminent arrival of some spanking new dining room furniture. Soon it will be the season of goodwill and good food.  We are having a house full and do not wish to have to seat them around our picnic table that currently serves us as our dining suite. As I'm sure you can appreciate, we do not wish to place our lovely new furniture into a building site. The subsequent decoration involves DD having access to his tools without the aid of a mountaineering pick and crampons.  So operation declutter has commenced.

So far between us we have cleaned and reorganised child burrows (ew ew ewwwwwwww) This involved the discovery of many micro bacteria growing on pants and in cups. Making a certain Nesty Boglin's burrow look less like a reject pile from a Sally Army Shop. Donning a bio hazard suit and slicing through the teen fug of  Teen Beasts Lair.  Removing long dead DD technical gubbins and a general spit and polish. I am pleased to report that the Boglin Burrow has remained tidy and she has even folded her Pjs. The Teen Beast's lair has remained minimal in it's fallout. And DD's nerves are calm.
The chest of draws that will go toward housing my extensive wardrobe have been emptied and are in the process of being restyled with an eclectic collection of ceramic knobs.
The office has once again become a haven of gizmos and tranquility.
My task for the day was to excavate the living room. I have a vivid memory of it being a light and airy room of grainy wooden furniture and thriving plants. A place where DD and I could entertain guests, or sit and relax of an evening. A room to indulge our joint love of music and TV dramas.
Our haven of tranquility has turned into a youth club. Indeed, I am considering installing a revolving door to accommodate the teen population of the village. Our adult, peaceful living room has turned into a gaming den for Teen Beasts. It is the home of xbox, wii, Ds's and laptops. The terrain littered with empty crisp packets, sweet wrappers, juice glasses and other child detritus. The sweet, scent of the household flora is masked by the general child odor of sweaty feet and biscuits.
Well, no more! I have primped and polished. I have trimmed the plants into happy foliage. I have swept and dusted. I have reorganised wires and put away controllers. The room now smells of beeswax and lilies.
The lamps shed a cozy glow over our tranquil family room once again.
Or at least the did at 3.30pm. Since then there has been a steady stream of marauding children, three cats and a dog in there.
Woe betide them if it is not left as it was found!

Dog School!

The brainless wonder, how we love her!
I am currently sat at the laptop composing a few blog posts for my own entertainment. If, readers, you are also amused, then that is a wonderful bonus.
I am having a bit of a rest after being an intrepid living room explorer (more about that later). Even though I only whispered to DD about my back not hurting, it clearly heard me. I, as always, thought "yay, no pain. Time to clean the house for all I am worth".  I see you shaking your head, reader.  I hear you tut tutting, but no, I will never learn. I do have a shiny, clean, beautiful living room out of it though.
During my short sabbatical I am listening to The Tinyholding going on around me. I can hear DD, chatting on the blower to a client. Little tweets making their musical selves known as they flood into his machine via tweetdeck. (How long until they gets old? Ooh about five minutes ago I should think)
The high pitched whine of the essential life machine cleaning daily grind out of the laundry.
The occasional shuffle of a Teen Beast hard wired into his gaming essentials.
Best of all, and certainly most entertaining, is listening to Nesty Boglin "Training" the Uber Ginge that is Porge(Georgie aka Georgianna aka Chestnut Cherub aka Pooch).
Bless her, She is the sweetest beast (the dog that is) There is not a mean, snappy bone in her body. She love cuddles, people food, running and her ball. She fears cats, chickens, geckos, sprongy cat, boxes, sock puppets, any toy that makes a noise, and pretty much everything else.  She has the IQ of a gnat. The memory of a goldfish and the learning ability of a log.  In short, dear reader, she is thick.  Lovable, but thick.  Eager to please, but thick.  Giving and eternally affectionate, but thick.
Frankly, I adore her!
As you can imagine from this description, she isn't the most trainable of dogs.  I consider it a boon that she knows sit, lay down and stay (not that she remembers them and which command is which)  Due to this I do feel Nesty Boglin may be fighting a loosing battle.
Armed with a bag of "treats" ie cheese and dog biccies.  She is attempting to lead the happy, yet dozy thicky through a home made agility course.  Expecting her to keep her nose at the right level and complete said course in police dog style.  Not stopping to investigate her own feet or the shadow she has just passed.  She does not want her to walk backwards or sideways.  She would like her to weave through the obstacles and not just knock them over to sniff them.
Just yesterday she put on such a performance.
SHOCK! She has, in fact taught her to SIT, LAY DOWN, ROLL OVER, BEG, REACH FOR THE STARS and BOW.
What poor Ms Boglin has, in the past, failed to take into account is the memory of the pooch in her new found genius.  She did not factor in another person entering the room to watch.  I sat down ready for the grand unveiling.  Nesty Boglin grinning in anticipation of hers and Porge's great success.  The starlight of their glittering future at dog shows, country shows, village fetes and, hell why not, even the West End, flashing before her eyes.  She talked me through the whole show.  Explained the principles behind each trick. Discussed the merits of her training methods. Then...
Drum roll please.....
Georgie decided she would much rather run around in circles, have her belly scratched and play the fool.
Poor Nesty, dreams of the West End dashed.  She did manage to get some sort of performance out of her beloved Pooch.  But best of all she was showered in love from the adoring Ginge.
It's a good job we don't have anything that needs herding on the tiny holding, eh?

Thursday, 17 November 2011

Pockety Trews.

Poor DD has had to spend the autumn, thus far in shorts. He's not adverse to baring his knees for the girls. They are, indeed, very nice knees. I do, however, think he would rather have a choice.
Nearly two years ago a certain someone offered to make him some trews with many, many pockets. He does like a variety of pockets to stash half the contents of the house in. I think it is a male version of a handbag. I have been assured many pockets = a happy boy. The more pockets the happier. It's a strange old world when pockets equate to happiness but there it is. This certain person (it may have been me) has completely failed to come up with the goods. Not really much of a surprise when you consider the fact that sewing makes my wrists hurt.
Poor DD has gone with out. He has patches on his patches and some of his old trews are positively indecent. It has become a far cry from fashionable wear and tear and now is in the realm of looking like a tramp. Not to mention frost bite of the unmentionables.
This morning saw the delivery of two brand new, shiny, pocket laden pairs of trews. Never has there been a happier boy! He spent a good 15 minutes counting his pockets with a big childlike grin on his delectable mush.
I may have failed in the creation department but I have made up for it with sheer volume of pockets.
I know how to keep a man happy!


Nesty Boglin
The latest tinyholding venture is to get the childerlings cooking. Not such a problem with the Nesty Boglin, as she has always loved to cook. She adores making cakes and, to be honest is rather good at it. One of her ambitions for a future career (and there are many) is to become a Chef. Of course, in true Boglin Style she does not want to be a boring, ordinary Chef.  She will be a TV Chef, with a chain of cake shops that will make her wealthy.  The idea being to fund her life style of rescuing the worlds neglected hounds, pooches and mutts. She also wants to be a zoo vet, a singer, an actress, a teacher, and a world renowned eccentric. That's my girl! She's clearly going to be busy.
Well, to encourage (or exploit) this desire it has been decided that the Boglins will cook once a week. As you probably know already, dear reader, we are nothing if not meticulous about the provenance of our food. We are fussy about our ingredients and we cook from scratch. Not for us is the world of ping food. Y'know, into the microwave (popty ping) for two minutes and you get an unappealing bowl of slop with all it's phytonutrients zapped out of existence. In fact we do not own a microwave, and we will not in the future. (Being a bit of a phytonutrient fanatic that I am)
Last nights fare was a heap of Spaghetti bolognaise. Delicious, it was too. I had planned on cooking it myself. But Nesty Boglin had asked "when is tea?"  The unanimous answer was "when you cook it, madam".  This rather sarcastic remark was greeted by a very excited Boglin, who then insisted she was to cook.
So, armed with the statutory, onions, garlic, peppers, mushrooms, fresh tomatoes and the left over homemade tomato and basil soup as a sauce, she set too. We had one or two worrying questions from her, such as  "do I use a whole garlic or just one clove?"  I thank my lucky stars she asked.  She made a sterling effort. She also seemed amazed at the amount of mince required to feed four.  Good quality mince, procured from our local butcher, Simon/Jason (one day I'll get his name right)  A jolly and chirpy chap who now greets me with "Shw mae". A wonderful addition to an otherwise typical Derbyshire village, The farm Gate.
Of course, in an ideal world we would have a freezer full of meat from Rob Rose, but we can't always have everything we want, and Simon/Jason is a wonderful local business. With first class service and products.
Upon my casual saunter into the kitchen, just to look you see, not to interfere. I was sent with my tail between my legs from HER KITCHEN!  I see she is practicing the stroppy chef persona already.
She even laid the table. Napkins and pepper mills at the ready.  With a chorus of "compliments to the chef" and "cheers", a fine meal was had. Even Huck Boglin couldn't find a reason to complain. And lets face it, if the 12 year old boy can find a way to torment his 11 year old sister than it is good evening!
It's his turn sometime this week. Frankly, I'm a little more worried about that meal!  As for Nesty Boglin practicing her chef skills once a week. Bring it on!

Wednesday, 16 November 2011

Harry is heading for a hiding!

Dear Harry,
I do love you with all my heart. I know you are an old man and think this gives you impunity to act as you wish. Your cuddles are the business and your giant fat belly is adorable. I love your cute black ears and the way you flick your bottle brush tail when you walk.
However, listen up buster. Your fluff and old age will not see you through another night like last night. The office is not your own personal palace. It is a work place for myself and DD. It is not a chill out room for overweight, has been, thespian cats! Scratching at the door is unacceptable at the best of times. Damaging the paintwork on the door frame will not gain you friends or sympathy. Pulling threads free of the carpet will only make us, your people, cross. But, remember well my dear boy. Doing it at 3am will, I promise, earn you such displeasure you will find yourself living your twilight years OUTSIDE! I care little for the rain and wind! You are wearing your very own exclusive range of fur coats. I WILL test it's weatherproof merits. Those bowls of delicious meaty morsels (by the way, the four of them are not all for you!) will cease in their abundance. You will have to find a new love of juicy meeces, as they will no longer be a tasty snack but the mainstay of your diet.
All in all, my furry friend, THINK ON!
your loving human
MD x

Monday, 7 November 2011

The Mould Master!

DD has become the Zen master of mould destruction. Since adding seven more sets of lungs and 300% more laundry to the house the condensation created has become a huge problem. It is an old 19th century terrace and has very little ventilation. It was originally built as a two up two down colliers terrace. I love to sit and imagine the state of the art closed range that would have been in the chimney breast of the kitchen (now our dining room) and the open coal fire in the "good parlour". The windows would not have been double glazed, and the need for ventilation would have been minimal. Modern central heating and glazing has rendered the house a sort of warm sealed unit. Imagine putting a warm damp cloth into a biscuit tin and leaving it in a cold damp field. No doubt within a couple of days you would have a furry friend to call your very own.
Our bedroom is suffering the worst of it, as that is where the laundry is dried. We live in every spare inch of this house and there is simply nowhere else to place it. Therefore our bedroom has started to resemble a Victorian laundry.
The wall has a creeping black mould that is working it's insidious way upwards. Soon we will be sleeping in a dark, dank hole that looks like a set piece from the film se7en. I will have to start looking for emaciated corpses in the cupboards at this rate.
At least it did until DD saved the day (and myself from nightmares) Yesterday saw him on his knees scrubbing the wall with a solution of warm water, biological washing powder and a squeeze of bleach. He has done a splendid job. The bleach removed most of the staining and the washing powder killd the spores. Unfortunately it also thinned the paint, but hey ho, you couldn't see past the black mould anyway.
Half a dozen sturdy holes drilled through the walls, has provided some seriously need air flow and now we watch and wait.
Of course, being a Sunday evening all this was achieved with a cool glass of C&F to hand.  Power tools and wine?  Safety first ;)
Dear reader, I will not fool you into thinking I merely sat around watching DD's sultry form handle power tools in a manly way.  I, for my own part tackled the festering hole that had become my bathroom. It had got to the point where you would emerge from the shower feeling somewhat more soiled than when you went in.
Armed with a determined stare and a large bottle of bleach I whipped the mould into submission. Once again the tile grout is white and the floor does not contain botulism.
Being a vile chewed bubblegum pink with the most heinous flower pattern. Not to mention the matching pink suite. It cannot be called a nice bathroom. It is high priority to have it transformed into a haven of ablution. I can, however say it is clean! And that dear reader, is something to be proud of, in our eternal fight against the damp.

Sunday, 6 November 2011

Hen Party

DD's kind folks have some grand old fruit trees in their garden. They generously share their bounty with us at this time of year. The intention is to make mountains of yummy apple sauce and other products for the freezer. A few remain as eaters and perhaps some could become cider.
The reality is that they end up fermenting in the bag in the larder. We become alerted to the process by the tiny black fruit flies taking up residence.
Darcy the Cad!
Personally I cannot stomach the scent of reasting fruit or veg. It makes me heave. Due to the warm autumn we have had, the shelf life of the fruit has not been very long, and at the first whiff of suppurating apples I was on to DD to dispose of the offending items.
Now, we both know how the egg laying committee love an over ripe pear. There would be Chicken crimes perpetrated in the garden for the possession of such a treat. Indeed, I believe if I only put one out we would see the beady, psychotic gaze of a pear crazed Pecky on Crime Watch. So the obvious answer, in DD's opinion was to give them to the girls (and the boys)
The problem was the advanced fermentation of the apples.
Happy reader, lend me your imagination for just a wee moment.
We have all been witness to the stereotypical image of teens on the loose in clubbing central. The intoxicated image of a rowdy crowd of otherwise sensible and responsible twenty somethings. Not to mention the WI on the sherry!
Now transfer that imagining to the hen house. Olly and Darcey with their wings flung about each other. All prior competition forgotten. The words slurring from their slackened beaks, "you're my best friend, you are". "I'll never have another friend like you. Let's never let the girls come between our friendship again"
Rosy and Pecky meanwhile, have climbed on top of the coop. Lifted their frilly leg feathers and are treating the others to their interpretation of the Folville Follies.  Meanwhile Snowbell looks on with disdain. Listing precariously towards a comatose Gwinn. "See, I always said that Pecky was a slut!"
Off in the distance we can just see the frilly, feathered knickers above the spallyed legs of Violet as she lays, hiccoughing with her nose in the dirt.
The following morning they come staggering out of the coop. Little chicken shades over their reddened eyes. Heaving at the sight of copious amounts of poultry corn. If you listen closely you can hear the whisper from Violet "I will never drink again!"

In truth, however, they wouldn't touch the apples and they have since dissolved into the veg bed! But, let's face it. That is nowhere near as funny :)

Monday, 12 September 2011

washday blues (and reds, and whites, and yellows)

Yipee, the tinyholding has a new washing machine!

We were kindly donated a new machine by the generous neighbours of DD's Ma and Pa. Now we can tackle the growing mountain and not spend a small fortune at the local laundrette (very lovely ladies btw and a cute kitten)  I have every confidence it can cope with the two little spark's vile pants! Excess schooliform! Chicken soiled clothing and pooch furred bedding!

The sheer bliss of laying in bed at night and hearing the grime of the day being sluiced away is heaven indeed. Perhaps shares in ecover could be a sound investment?

Monday, 15 August 2011

To bee, or not to bee.

A bright idea or unmitigated disaster? I have just sat at the table with DD. A huge bowl of pasta for supper made with left over beef, a chilled glass of pinot and soft lighting.

The subject of bees came up. Now, my view is that if you respect the wee little critters, they could be a wonderful advantage to the tinyholding.  Who doesn't love honey? Imagine the cakes, sweets, and glazes. A spoon full of honey makes MD a happy girl.

I am currently undergoing a variety of therapy courses to retrain as a phytotherapist/massage therapist. The advantages of having our own honey are infinite. A sideline to the tinyholding is going to be my own cosmetics. After all, what is the point in clinical herbalism if I can't make it pay?  The pluses far outweigh the minuses.

We would locate the hive on the roof of the ground floor bathroom and kitchen. This would raise the bee line from any unsuspecting passers by. Not to mention team duck working in the garden.  It would be accessed via a step ladder that is removed when not in use. This also affords us with added security for them.

So what is stopping us?

1. knowledge.
2. financing the project.
3. not wanting to upset the neighbours.

These, in my opinion, are merely hurdles to be vaulted.  We can learn!  Ignorance of a subject should never prevent a person from doing anything. Ignorance and lack of knowledge is not a negative. It is a starting block.
Finance is, and will be for a long time yet, a means to gain appreciation of all we struggle to achieve.

As for upsetting the neighbours. A regular donation of eggs, preserves, veg and eventually honey should sort that one out. Everyone loves a generous neighbour.

Personally I relish the idea of street entertainment in observing the barefoot bee-keeper in action.

"ow, ow, bugger, ow!"

Perhaps DD will see the merit of footwear on this rare occasion......

but then, probably not!

Sunday, 14 August 2011

When the tiny holding takes over the subconsious.

While discussing the merits and ethics of deep tissue massage, poor sleepy DD started to drift. Now, I'm not a vain woman, but I would like to think my conversation would stimulate the mind a little more.

I have been greeted by the phrase "why don't I just bring the chickens in?"  What, I ask you, has that got to do with aromatherapy and deep tissue massage?  Bless him!  DD clearly works too hard. I must make more time to practice these ethics upon his poor exhausted form . :)

no flip, only flop...

Even though a completely barefoot lifestyle is preferred, I cannot claim to be as hardcore as DD. I suffer from sore feet on occasion and have been known to keep a pair of flip flops handy.

Picture the scene! The egg laying committee have forgotten that their home has been relocated up the garden. In an absence of comfy beds they opt to sleep perched on the ladder located next to the back door. So we decide carrying them to bed is the only option. Unfortunately this involves walking through the slurry the rain and chooks have made of the garden path. DD has made the majority of it shiny and clean but some still resembles the Somme. Not wishing to brave the duck faeces between the toes experience, DD decides that my flip flops are the answer.

I would like you all now to imagine the spectacle. DD limping down the Somme like path with sleepy, yet outraged chickens in his arms. Then the inevitable happens. The flip flop toe post gives way. (he is size 11, I am size 5. I wonder why this happened) Cue Quasi Modoesque limping and groaning in the twilight, with stroppy flapping chooks under arms. The neighbours must love us :)

bock bock bock....

chickens and ducks are installed. After a two week false start where they lived just outside the backdoor. The egg laying commitee are now safely and happily installed down the end of the garden. There they can scratch round in the leaf mould under the conifers. There is room to dust bath, sunbath and do their chickeny thing. Within seconds of their home being scrubbed, shiny and relocated they went to investigate. Soon enough though they were hanging out at the back door like a bunch of hoodies. Beware the back step you may be mugged for your corn! Ah well, at least DD has made them a nice blank canvas to decorate with their highly scented splats.;)

A new begining

Barefoot Team Duck have finally consolidated our lives into one household. Both MD and DD have a deep rooted desire to be as self-reliant and sustainable as possible. Our aim is to do this in an environmentally friendly way. Never loosing sight of the barefoot ethic. Treading lightly on the earth and giving  back for the generosity of all it provides for us. We wish to heal the earth in a small way where we can. All the while keeping our family happy and healthy. Instilling good ethics and a sense of fun into our cubs. Turning them out into the world as well rounded, kind and thoughtful adults.
Feel free and welcome to follow our journey as we try to get the most from our tiny holding. Maybe one-day you can come with us on our journey to the small holding we so desire. In the mean time stay tuned and never forget to laugh. After all, if you can't laugh your way through your life then a sad journey it will be.