Finally updating this site, which is so far out of date.  this particular page is extremely inaccurate as a result.

We sold off our cattle some years back, let the hens live out their lives as honoured pensioners until they fell off their perches, and then didn't replace them.  Expensive to feed, they churned out a glut of eggs when not really needed  - and as soon as we were expecting shearers or other visitors, they seemed to go on strike... 

We don't kill our own meat any more, buy beef when needed from our neighbours, and are down to just three horses living out their retirement in idle peace (Avalanche, Little Rock and Spirit).

But for old times' sake and possibly your interest, I am leaving this page in for now.

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Cattle | Horses | Hens

CATTLE

Our cattle are a motley bunch to say the least. Eleven at the last count, of varying ages and quality. A bit of Dairy Shorthorn in some, Welsh Black in others, a touch of Hereford... Heinz 57 in fact. I stopped milking house cows in 1994 when I was ill, and have never re-started. Island cattle can be a bit on the frisky side if not handled often, and I wouldn't want to attempt milking one of ours - the old girls that I did milk are all long gone, leaving just the semi-wild ones. Since even the old girls needed their back legs hobbling - using manears or rawhide straps - or tying back (see pic), in order to extract some milk safely without getting seven bells kicked out of the milker, the semi-wild ones are not worth even thinking about... We never got a lot out of each cow due to the poor keep round about here, and had to ensure that the calf got its fair share too.

I used to quite enjoy milking, which was done once a day and usually into a jug one-handed, Island-fashion. I did manage to persuade some cows to accept a bucket under them ie the two-handed approach which was my more usual method with goats and cattle in Britain - but often this was met with disbelief by some of the older ladies in the herd - swiftly followed by a lifting of tail and a splattering of the smelly stuff - which of course ricochetted off the concrete in the cowshed, with inevitable results.

There's a grand view from our old cowshed, which was later converted to a killing-house for mutton but not used now. There I would crouch on my stool, milking away and meditating. Just me and the cow and my thoughts... and an impatient calf, bawling to be let loose and get at the milkbar before I swiped the lot.

Nowadays it's long life milk (UHT) in clinically-clean cartons for us, with the children long gone from home. And in a masochistic sort of way I actually miss the splattering and the cursing and the warm milk frothing into the waiting container, while the cats patrol impatiently outside the door.

Of course there's more to cattle than just milk. And if you're vegetarian, best skip the next bit...

We normally tuck a beef a year away into the freezers, after converting it into sausages, burgers, mince, stewing meat, roasts etc and steaks. Last year we bought a carcass from our neighbours at Shallow Harbour, this year we have a nice steer earmarked... With the cattle running wild a certain amount of stalking is called for. We try to move the bunch as near to a track as possible keeping them calm, since killing is done in the open, with the animal suspicious but not traumatised. No abbatoir atmosphere or collective consciousness involved. Having downed the animal with a .22 rifle, we drag a wooden sleigh up close to the carcass (which has been bled), rope it on to the sleigh, and get it back to the shearing shed as quickly as possible, while still warm.

The far end of our shearing shed is dual purpose, with wooden gratings over a concrete floor. With shearing long over, the gratings are lifted and the floor cleaned before beef-killing time arrives (ie when the blue buzzer flies have stopped being a nuisance). Here the carcass is hauled up using a pulley attached to the rafters, and dealt with by Clive as swiftly as possible. The innards are neatly parcelled in the hide and dragged away to the beach for the birds to feast on. (Hides need salting almost immediately if they are to be of any use.)

The carcass is then left to hang for a few days before being cut up and processed for freezing down. We rarely eat mutton nowadays, preferring beef. And after many years of slaughtering sheep, Clive is not sorry to have stopped. The annual beef is quite enough, thankyou. Cats, dogs and redbacked buzzards get their share of the less desirable bits and much is also minced and frozen for cats to enjoy later on.

Homegrown beef is delicious... and no additives.

Horses

We have seven horses and ponies at present - none of them being ridden. They live out all year round, being moved from winter paddock to summer paddock and only having bought-in oats or hay if the weather is really bad. They stay pig-fat usually. I've ridden all my life but now have no-one to ride out with, so the horses remain idle. See Falkland Islands - Camp Life for more details on horses in the Falklands.

The matriarch of our little herd is the elderly grey pony Bastina who is a great character and taught our daughter Dot to ride; she's about 13.2 hands and part Welsh. She came with the farm when we bought it in 83 and was rumoured to be 12 then...

Then there's Jody aka The Donkey - mule would be more appropriate as she has long ears and is a large dark brown lady. (Very dark bay.) Maybe 15.2 hands, not the prettiest animal around, with soup-plate feet which grow into flippers if left. (No horses are shod in the Islands.) I bought her unseen - and her feet were trimmed well back when I collected her (having flown to the sellers' farm carrying my saddle). Quite a ride home, over a couple of days, as she was totally green and did NOT want to leave home. A whole saga in itself, that journey... But she has carried many beginners safely round our farm in her time. Getting on in years.

Dallas is a crabby chestnut mare, around 13.2, with a daughter Little Rock who is a tad taller and much nicer natured. Little Rock (whisper it with shame) has never had a rope on her, though she is rising seven. We have no corral or round pen here to handle youngsters. She was to have gone to a new home but this didn't work out. Her name? She was sired by Nashville out of Dallas - Little Rock is roughly halfway between the two, on my atlas anyway...

Spirit is a blue roan of about 14 hands. Can motor when he feels like it and was raced lightly soon after taming. Wasted here and may go to town in the spring; thinks he is the boss horse of the troop and had serious words with Cocoa when he arrived.

Avalanche is a dark brown mare, around 15 hands. Funny about the mouth due to an accident when tamed (ie broken in) so I bought her a hackamore, then was ill and haven't ridden her since then. Used to rear up and won't go forward happily with a bit in her mouth. Bucks like a good 'un (local term is 'jumping' for bucking and 'breaching' for rearing) but is always penitent afterwards and stays with her victim...

Cocoa (formerly Klondike) is - well - chocolate coloured! dark liver chestnut I guess, with white socks and pale feet - yuck. He's about 13.2 hands. Long in the back. Bought because he is elderly and meant to be 'quiet' - but I wouldn't ride him out on my own.

I hope to ride again one day but it's no fun on your own and Clive is far too busy.

Hens

Just about everyone in camp keeps hens, and many have ducks and domestic geese as well.

Feed is expensive, being imported, so wherever possible poultry roam freely to obtain what they can to supplement corn etc.

We only have eleven old girls at present, who lay the occasional winter egg but produce faithfully throughout the summer despite their great age. They aren't the smartest of hens to look at any more but they seem happy enough with their self-feeder and free ranging where they please, including the nearby beach.

We sometimes pickle surplus eggs in diluted waterglass for winter use, but this year with just two of us at home I didn't bother.

We don't normally get a lot of winter snow; the photo was taken a few years ago!