PhotocatsEyes

Tzzze monkey is finished!

It took some puzzling as the head and the sweater are badly explained, even for an experienced knitter like I am. But I got it...
It is ready and waiting to go to Belgium.
The lady in the haberdasjerie store looked somewhat puzzled too when I asked for a pair of eyes, but she will live to tell the tale.
For god sake, it is a haberdasjerie store, they should know that people need eyes... Even without mentioning that it’s for a stuffed toy...

In fact, I did love knitting this one so much that I could be persuaded to make another one... It’s a funny animal, you can also put your finger in his mouth.
There is sort of a little mouth between the nose and the chin. I wondered if it was going to be finished, as it was a race with obstacles. I ended up loosing an arm, that needed reknitting, which made me end up with a shortage of dark brown, the face was hell to put together after knitting it... The sweater is a small raglan type, and I had never done raglan. But in the end, it all came together and Wappie was born.

The sweater was knitted but I repeat, the guidelines are so poorly written that it sucks big time to finish. So off I went to the wool store in Knaresborough for more explanation.
I had forgotten it was market day, and darn it, I had no camera with me but my ipone. I used it to snap some market shots.

It’s odd, I don’t easily go to market days, but when I go, it’s fun to watch and to be amongst people. I promised myself to go back on a sunny day, and this time with my camera.

Don’t know if my American readers know the concept of a weekly market, but in Europe, the custom is widely spread. Products are usually cheaper then in stores, and when the sun is out, everyone is happy and the vendors call out even louder.
As that is what needs to be done when market is on... The vendors are supposed to call out for customers and make their goods appealing.

I had tea in my favorite tea room in Knaresborough, and could watch the people go by from the window. A relaxing moment, could use that one.
I came from Harrogate, for my appointment with masseuse, and by the time I got back to the car, I got a fine.
The parking meter was not working, and I had put up my disk, but to no avail, they ticketed me anyway. And you are better off paying it as soon as you can, because if you don’t, the fine goes from 25 to 50 pounds. I was extremely unhappy...

Anyway, Mr Wonderful did not yell at me like my in my previous life Mr Fiasco would have done, nope, he just paid it and told me that it was OK, he had gotten fines already too. Definitely a keeper, that husband of mine.
I passed by the veggie stall, and took some of the fresh produce.

All neatly arranged. Some of the vendors turn their stall into a living gem. The way they arrange draws you in totally.

I am actually surprised that the iphone sums up the colors so well. Small files, around 2 MB, but great colors.

In dire need, I now know that my ipone can take some more or less decent shots, as long as you don’t look at them with a loupe or blow them up too far.

I do come home with bell peppers and spring onions, ready to make a good dinner. Just add shrimp...

Now I am on the lookout for a new knitting project... On a sad note, the wool store is closing on coming saturday. Another victim of the general recession.
It makes me sad. We need our little stores, I wonder how many more stores in Knaresborough will have to close their doors, it’s the little people that get it all.
The rich are becoming a bit less rich, it is the middle class and poor people who have to shrink expenses to a bare minimum.
Not fair at all...
As my old grandmother used to say: The water always runs to the sea. Translate to money makes money...
A life lesson...

Talk later! I still have those cute firemen in a folder. Watch this spot...

Blue Bell time is here...

I had a lazy day on Saturday. Wanted to go to Knaresborough, back to the wool store, because I wanted to knit TZZZe Monkie... . Not any monkey, no, a special one, with a little sweater.

I went into the wool store, browsing the wool assortment, when all of a sudden, I found TZZZe Monkie. Fell in love at the spot. And decided to go for it.
Now all I need is a baby to give it to. I wonder where I will find a baby...

I love wool stores, it is hard to resist to the plush balls all over, I always want to touch and feel, I know good wool when I see it.
Of course, my mind wonders back to the adventure I took on in my younger years, starting up a wool store and going bankrupt on it.
Wool stores are now a mixed blessing. I love to go in them, but it also reminds me of my worst days in life...
After the bankruptcy, I paid of debts for years, and if Mr Wonderful had not found me, I’d still be paying of debts.
Saved from a life of money problems... It is one of the reasons I am so happy now, as I am able to help people out at times with money, if they need it, as I know how it feels to have none...
But lets go back to TZZZe Monkie

I knitted the darn thing, and had an extremely hard time putting the face together. But I managed.

TZZZe Monkie is knitted, has arms, legs, now working on the little sweater it needs, and then I will be done.
I have gone back to a knitting frenzie...

I knitted a jumper last week, but that one might be a disaster, as it seems really tiny... Plan B will be give it to Judith, my godchild, for one of her dolls.
It’s Saturday in Knaresborough, the town is busy, busy. Some tourists have arrived already. I am in holiday mood.

Knaresborough city council ordered a statue, Blind Jack, now comfortably sitting on the bench on the market place.
The pooch is obviously wondering why this guy looks so strange...

John Metcalf aka Blind Jack was a man of many trades, and lead a very successful life after he was blinded by small pox as a child.
Many of the roads around the area have been built by him, his blindness did not stop him. The bike like thing he holds is a measuring device, to survey land so he knew where to lead the roads. Besides being a famous road builder (many of his roads are today getting all the present traffic) he also played the violin, and took part in the battle of Culloden, where the Scots were hacked in the pan.
A man of many trades indeed...

I leave Knaresborough after having had tea in the smallest candy shop in the world, and drove home passing a forest with blue bells.
I bet you guys thought that I was never going to get to bluebells...

Blue bell time is in full swing... You can see the purple carpets in small woodland area’s, and you can smell them.
There is something with the color purple in nature. It’s very attractive. Above photograph is taken on Clint bank, in Birstwith.
I came up to a saying, and can totally relate. It comes out of the novel “The color purple”, turned into a movie with Whoopie Goldberg.

“I think it pisses God off if you walk by the color purple in a field somewhere and don’t notice it.”

I must have made God happy on saturday, when I dropped the car at the side of the road, and taking a small walk in the purple carpet.

As usual, I was not properly dressed for forest walks, and got stung by nettles more then once. One has to suffer for photography...
Back home, I went on working on the monkie, a sunny saturday, wool and blue bells, how much better can life get?

I know, not a lot... Well, you could end up having your car washed by some CUTE firemen... But that is another story!

Chicken Paradise

That is how a small chicken flock must feel... O, sorry, I believe they are not living in flocks, but in ??? Groups? Community? Getto’s???
I have a friend with a big garden, and knowledge of chickens, guinea fowl, growing veggies, growing fruits. The perfect country life style girl, who also happens to be one of my shooting buddies.
On occasion, we meet and go somewhere to shoot. Camera shoot it is... Don’t get me wrong. I am NOT the person to go and kill living things.
Except for the lost ant or insect that I accidently crush...
That friend went to a chicken sale a couple of days ago, and bought a miserable looking group of chickens.

They have been saved from a life laying eggs, production, crammed in getto like conditions, with not enough space, no emotional stimulation, no day or night... It is animal abuse on a big scale.

If they stop laying, they are done with their little life. Of no use anymore, and then can go. Lucky for a couple of them, my friend needed chickens and passed along the sale.

The chickens still have no idea what happened to them. They are now running free, in a real free range. They have a large outside pen, and can choose if they want to be in or out, they have grainy stuff to eat, and fresh water.

And if they want to go for a stroll in the garden, the coop has a service entrance, so they can leave and come back when they want.

They pretty much look like any normal chicken should, but on a closer look, they are scruffy.
As they keep the birds in hellish conditions, animal behaviour drops to non existent. They are frustrated, bored to death little birds, and they try to establish a more comfortable living space by picking on the ones next to them.

It means that when they come out of the battery, and are lucky enough to be picked up by people like my friend Madeline, they look awfull, with bodies with no feathers. It brings tears to my eyes.

I have since a long time gone for the most expensive eggs, that say organic and free range, and I was trusting that the eggs I bought were laid in a happy nest.

Not so...

It is disgusting... Again I wonder why humans are so inhumane to animals and other people. Humandom sucks...
The way some of us treat animals is beyond words.

I am put off to eat chicken, and I wonder if I can buy eggs that really come from happy chickens.
I am sure that the small group of birds now meets in the evening, when they “go on stick” as they litterally say in Belgium, bedtime in other words... and can’t stop raving of the heaven they have gone to. They think they have died and gone to chicken heaven.

They will have a happy life now, and will die a natural death of old age, having had good chicken food and lots of free space to roam.

If there would be a newspaper for chickens, this would be a head line: Six chickens saved from concentration camp and taken into recovery program.
They will need psychological assistance, as they all are obviously seriously traumatised by their life in the camp.

Utterly sad if you ask me...

And to end this entry on a positive note, I have a new bunny baby outside, a grey one. Tiny, tiny, eating all the grass it can nibble off, and it looks happy....

A wild one, but not looking like his brownish wild siblings. It looks royal... the blue is not common in wild rabbits. So I am sure it has a story...
Maybe...

Swaledale is buzzing...

With life. New life, old life, life in all forms and formats. First of all, it is a really beautiful area, and it does pay to go back over and over again. It is never the same as the last time. Times change, the sun moves in all directions, it has not once bored me in the ten years that I visit this dale.
By now, I know where the most gorgeous spots are, and this little krinkly winkly road is one of my spots.

The tops of the hills are still winter brown, the dales are sprouting fresh grass, it smells like summer. Little white dots give the sheep away, and I am amazed at how many lambs we see already.

Often, the farmers with sheep higher on the hills start lambing later in the year, so the tiny ones get the most of summer to grow strong and fierce.
But now, as we slowly descend from the high tops, we spot lambs.

When almost down, a farmer is working to get his sheep out in the pasture. Swaledale ewes, pregnant, colored dot on the backs, a black dotted face and skinny legs. Farmers nowadays all have quads, so they can zoom back and forth between hill sides and home.

If too much cars are piling up, the farmer whistles his secret code to the dog, who in his turn makes the sheep go off the road onto the grass.
We can pass. Although I don’t mind waiting on the side of the road till they are passed. It is such a lovely sight, so dynamic, full of live and movement.
If you want to hurry to your destination, avoid the back roads in Arkengarth- and Swaledale. Stay on the A66...

The sheep look a bit confused. Lucky for them, the dog knows where this story is going, no panic is needed.

After the cars have gone, the dog puts the ewes back on the road, and off they go, to greener meadows. The dog is the life saver here.
Ferm animals, of extreme importance to the farmers, they know the value of a good dog. It makes life a lot easier to have a trained sheep collie.
Those dogs know what working is, and they are expert in their field. Litterally.

Doggie even has a weewee along the working path, the sheep don’t even notice that he is staying behind for two seconds.
Every good sheep dog knows that when mother Nature calls, he has to listen.

Mr Wonderful and myself enjoy this drive thoroughly, it is peaceful, calm, the clouds make different patterns on the hill flanks, a never ending game of light and shadow. I used to not see the light, and now I wonder how on earth I could ever not spot it.

We go closer in to the valley, direction Keld, with barns here and there in the open. A little bit of red from the roofs in an otherwise very brown and pastel landscape. The green has only been here for a couple of days, the first sun rays of the season make it all pop open.

The newborn lambs often use the doors for a bit of shelter, if they don’t have walls to hide behind. The wind can be very strong here, not to be underestimated. Sheep in the hills are sturdy animals.

The barns were in old time used to stock up food for winter, now they are mainly a pretty point in the landscape, a few of them are slowly decaying.
We should save them... See, this would be a good thing to do for the soldiers in training that I spoke about yesterday.
Why not have them rebuild and repair old Dales barns...

We are entering the valley, more traffic, we are not the only ones enjoying this nice spring day. A couple of bikers zooming through the hills, annoying sounds, and they are speeding too. Every year, sheep are killed by cars and bikes. Because people want to be somewhere five minutes earlier.

An extra charm in this scene are the walls surrounding every pasture. Hand made, stone by stone, bucked, topped, slanted...
older people around know how to build the walls, they have to be resistant to hard winds and harsh weather conditions.

We end up in Keld, a small Dales village, made out of the same stones as the walls. A non intrusive building style, matched to the color palette of the land.
The stones are quarried locally, it all fits together.
I will tell you about the small hamlet of Keld in a next entry... be prepared...

I don’t like Tan hill anymore...

And I mean it. I could be persuaded to see it in reverse, as to getting to like it again, but some things need to be done.
Mr Wonderful and me decided on lunch at Tan hill, yesterday, we took the high roads up to Reeth again. Little village in the heart of the North Yorkshire Dales, a road we have travelled on numerous occasions.
We just had hauled ourselves in the car, when all of a sudden a tiny creature appeared on our steps. The steps that lead from our driveway to the road, but we never use it.

A field mouse I suppose, alert like none, whiskers trembling, looking for food. And food there is, as our bird feeder had droppings all over the place.
The birds eat, but also drop a lot of seeds, and that is what the little guy is looking for.
I thought it was the start of a promising shooting day...

Our second meeting for the day was a hare. I actually saw two, one in the field next to the road and one on the road, and all I could do was snap it while Mr Wonderful was driving. Therefore no Alamy quality, but good enough for me and my own personal blog pictures. Huge rabbits, hares...
My grandmother had a saying about hares that is valid up to this date...

It’s good to want a hare, but you have to be able to catch it.

She was right, often we want different hares, but they are hard to catch. And it takes a certain wisdom to know which hares you can catch and which ones you can’t.

Soon enough we passed my little dream house. On the road between Masham and Leyburn, good on our way to the high moors.
A tiny cottage, but somehow it speaks to my imagination.

We cross the big road going from Leeming to Askrigg, the red flags are out, but the gates are open. It means the Army is shooting but no tanks around.
If tanks would be on the spot, the gates would be closed too.

I soon spot them, can jump out of the car, and hear a strong voice yelling at men to zig and zag. It’s Army allright, they need to know how to zig or zag, on the right moment and in the correct time frame.

It seems silly. They zigzag in patterns, and stop in front of a wooden poster with a soldier, the enemie to be sure, and then come back to their point of departure. I wonder if there would not be better things the soldiers could do to train. A question not bothering me very long as we soon enter the Yorkshire Dales.

Tiny backroads, swinging in bends down or up hill. I can see Reeth in the distance, we first have to drive down the whole side of the mountain we are on now. Mountain might be a too strong word, more then a hill and less then a mountain, what should we call it?

We pass Grinton Lodge, a youth hostel at the entrance of the Dales, hidden in a small forest. Where since last week, the trees are exploding too, old dried leaves are replaced with new fresh green shoots. Yeah, summer is a comin.

I know the spot rather well, so I know where to point and shoot, except for Mr Wonderful who only wants to stop on designated parking spaces.
So my blue door and window are snapped, but in flying by, another shot only good enough for blog, not for stock library... Darn it.
If I want to shoot for library stock, i have to be on my own, so I can drop the car where I see the nice view, and shoot it. Mr Wonderful is pretty good in stopping, but often, by the time he stops the car, the view is looooonnnngggg gone...

Reeth is just behind the next curve in the road, the top of the surrounding hills still in winter colors. A pale pastel brown.
The daffodils add a nice yellow color spot to the picture.

We pass Reeth and go straight into Arkengarthdale, one of the Dales that make the collection of the North Yorkshire Dales. I love it here.
This is James Herriot country from the tv series. In reality, James Herriot worked on Sutton Bank, in the surrounding of Thirsk, not here in the upper Dales.
They only filmed here. It’s all Creatures great and small scenery. With a bit of imagination, I swear I could see Siegfried asking for a ride...

The weather is changing, more clouds, hard conditions to shoot, as the contrast is too big. we have arrived at Tan Hill, highest pub in England.
And things are changing here. I don’t like the Tan Hill it is becoming now. It used to be very remote, alone on the top of the hill, with its own generator, water source, and a shamble phone line.

Now, on arrival, and looking back in the direction of Reeth, where we came from, I see that the whirlygig has gone. The stack with a ram’s head, cut out of wood, used to in earlier times hang on criminals has gone.
When I ask inside, they tell me that bad weather took it down. I’m thinking, hec, that thing has been standing here in lots of bad weather before and it never came down...
It follows the sad state I find Tan Hill in now. Sure, business is good. The place is packed.

But I miss the atmosphere it used to have. The previous owner, Madge, had postcards recieved from all over the world pinned on the beams, that was one feature the new owners took off. I see now that they are trying to fill the beams back up, but the world postcards were nicer then the footballer I see now, and the rosette.

Another feature gone is the always burning fire. Sure, the fire is ready to be started, paper balls are ready, all it needs is a match, but we arrived at two in the afternoon, so that fire should have been going for hours already. Winter or summer, Madge had a fire going... And a dog next to it.
No dog in sight...

The ram’s head now lies in a corner in the side room, waiting on repair, yet for some reason I doubt it that it will get repaired. I might be too pessimistic.
Let’s hope I am wrong.

The head belongs on the pole, where it has been for ages and ages. A landmark gone...

The scoop function of the whirlygig is having a slow death in the back, and I can’t help but wondering what storm blew those scoops off...
As they were made to last and to catch a lot of wind, even on Tan Hill, on top of the Moors.

The wind scoops are now in the company of two lambs, and it breaks my heart. There is so much excellent grazing land around here, and those two lambs are cooped up in a sort of back yard without grass, waiting on food.
What happened with Tan, the tame sheep that kept entertaining visitors for Tan Hill. It did not run away, it knew where it’s home was.
And any sheep person will tell you that lambs and sheep know where they live, they will not venture in unknown terrritory. So what is the use of keeping those two small ones behind lock???
To make a long story very short, Tan Hill Cafe is no longer what it used to be.
They get more people in, but they have lost some of the charms they had, charms that meant Tan Hill cafe, like the flesh eating parrot, the fee pot for a rinkling mobile phone, the guest books, the world wide post cards, the fire...

I want the old Tan Hill Inn back... Where has Madge gone???? We want her back!!!!

A day in Whitby

Which I had forgotten to write about. We went to the well known spot at the East English Coast on my birthday in March. A frisky day, a strong breeze, but a little bit of sun.

That is all I ask for, does not have to be much, a blue sky looks so much more summery. We find a parking spot, a miracle. Main reason to not to go Whitby on weekends, as it is run under by tourists. I live here, so I am not a tourist. She said...
The Grand Turk is present on the quay, dividing its time between Scarborough and Whitby. A reconstruction of a 18th century sailing ship.
When sea trade started picking up, taking slaves out of Africa to the West and South America’s, bringing back sugar, coffee, spices to enrichen merchants in Holland and England.

The figure head is a Turk, with heavy moustaches. I like the bright colors. Always have been a sucker for bright colors.

Plenty of the colors around Whitby. The seals are omnipresent too, and while I am snapping them, an old guy sitting on a bench starts complaining to me about not feeding the “Damn birds”.

Hmmm, excuse me, I am not feeding them, I am photographing them.

The little old guy keeps muttering, I sigh in silence and leave. It is the first time ever that I am in Whitby with water actually coming up to the far point of the harbor. Most of the times I have been there, the boats were lying sadly on their side, in the mud.

An extremely pleasing scene for our eyes. Little fishing boats, boats going in and out for lobster, I think that the days when the Whitby sailors set out to catch wales are now offcially over. It is amazing that they fought the huge wales with their tiny boats, at risk of loosing life and limbs.

Part of the attraction of Whitby also lies in the colors used on houses and roofs. On a sunny day, the red is screaming.

A number of the East England Coastal villages have that color scheme. Painted houses with red roofs. Love it!

You can recognize the older fishing vessels on the rust of the boats. Pleasure boats and tourist boats are usually better kept up.
Fishermen are having a hard time now, due to fishing quota, and the stock of fish in our oceans getting killed by overfishing.
I feel for both parties, I feel bad for the fish, but I also feel bad for the fishermen who only want to feed their families and picked a job like their fathers before them.

And of course, wherever you go along Brittain’s coasts, there are gulls. Seagulls, herring gulls, gulls tout court.
Big birds, and hungry. The ones in Whitby behave more or less. They just park themselves on a point where they think they will have a good view, and if you approach them slowly, you can go in pretty close.

Their main goal in life is FOOD. Just like sheep, the only advantage gulls have is that they can fly. Sturdy birds, heavy paws, but they fly very elegantly, carried on wind streams. They keep amazing me with their acrobatic flights.

Funny to see them up in the air, landing gear nicely put along the body. Really pretty flyers I would say.
It’s a fresh day, but we have our wind breakers on, and will venture to the end of the pier.

High tide is coming in, a rough sea, getting rougher by the minute. The power of water, with wave heads foaming.
At the end of the pier, the water crashes with violence onto the breakers, it’s what the piers were built for. To break the force of the water, slamming in to the piers instead of the beach.

By the time we have walked out to the end of the pier, the sea has become more violent even, high tide is coming in fast now.
And I can’t believe they actually have to put up a sign to warn people. Who would be foolish enough to jump in the water at this spot?

Another sign of the Nanny State, Brittain pampering and warning people for the most silly things first. A child knows that waves crashing like that are dangerous and must be in deep water. That is where they get their power.

Some very nice waves building up. I could stand there for hours and just watch. A steady roll, coming up, down, curling over, crash.
I am not sure if these would be good surfer waves. And my son is not here to try them out.
The wind is starting to get to us, so we head back into town, ready for a cuppa before going home.

Whitby is also known for the legend of Count Dracula, who landed here. At the abbey. On the other side of the water.
Whitby has an original Edgar Allan Poe Society, and together with the Dracula bloody stories, they make for a thriving dressed up scene.
The Society has special outings, re-inacting 1870-periodic clothes, a wonderful spectacle.

A last picture of lobster pots and fishing nets... A day in Whitby is always a filled day.

Going home now!

The curse of the bunnies...

Although for me it is not a curse. For a lot of people it is. I guess that if you are planting a vegetable garden, the bunnies would be curses. Not in my “front” garden. It’s mess right now. Our landlord usually takes care of the garden, but they have been busy doing other things, so it all is a bit out of normal order.
Fresh green grass, just what mini rabbits need.

They are EXTREMELY skiddish, the minute they spot you they skoot away in the safety of their nest under the big tree next to my drive way.
The weird borders you see around some of the photographs is me hiding partially behind the wood frames of windows and doors, to avoid them spotting me.

It is a fact: they like green. In all shades and tints. Green is GOOD. In rabbit language.
I often wonder if the whole world would be eating plants, if we then would be able to have societies where no living thing is eaten.
Maybe a too simplistic thought. I’m famous for those.

I am lucky, I look out the window, seated behind my computer screen, and I see the real country life stepping in. Magic.
In some of the photographs, you have to look twice to see that there are more bunnies out. They blend in with the surrounding so much that often you overlook them.

Funny creatures, mini rabbits. They start to appear on a sunny day, usually somewhere about April, you keep seeing them over summer, and in fall, the landscape goes back to bunnieless. I miss them when they are underground. Doing whatever a bunnie does underground. Having parties?
Wrecking the house while mom and dad are on a trip? Trusting their teenage bunnies to behave...
Let me tell you, never trust a teenage bunnie. Party party is their middle name.

Many a bunnie parent came back to find the carrot stash completely gone, puke all over the floor, and teenage bunnie crying in its room afraid of the second coming of the parents. Life can be hectic for a teenage bunnie. Raging hormones that create havoc...
BTW, above photograph has 3 teen bunnies. Find them...

Now and then, they hear something out of tune, this is when they stand on their tiny back paws to listen more carefully.
Very very alert, those minnies...

The mini’s have their agenda, a day filled with eating or sleeping. Only two possibilities. Either they are munching, or when not munching, they are snoring to get refreshed energy for the next munching do.

And one of them has discovered the banquet... The small blue flowers (I think that in Belgium we call them forget-me-nots) are a feast.
By the time Mini Bunnie has finished his meal, there will be a bit less blue. But that is OK... I like the concept of sharing, and then, we have to remember as humans that the rabbits were here first...

They shared their world with us, so I think it is only fair that we share our green with them... Let’s face it, there is more then enough green, and it comes back every year anyway...

I like having wabbits in my garden... It’s nature coming to my front door...

Talk later!

Pups size 38...

Really, as big as my shoe. I met them yesterday. Twins, litterbuddies. Two. Cuteness beyond words. I am easy to fall in love, so yes, those two captured my heart too.

For now they reside at the Shar pei home, but they are looking for a new house. So if you wanted a Boston Terrier your whole life but never got one, now is your chance. I was going to take care of one, but Mr Wonderful has valid arguments to not do it. Such as we have two cats already, and if we move to the states, 3 animals flying over is a hell of a lot more expensive then two.

And then there is also our landlord, we are not supposed to have pets, but we have two cats already, Mr wonderful arguments that adding a dog, how small it is, might be breaking the line too far. (I for instance think that for the rent we pay for our little bungalow, we should be able to have a zoo inside if we wanted...)

I am at Rookery Barn to help Annette with some forms for the Jacobs, we finish that, and then it is time to snap some jumping Bostons...
High energy, but for a short period of time, they explode and then need a certain nap. I am trying to capture them when they are in full swing.

They are curious, the two of them. Tiny beasties, I do like them a little bit more then the frenchies. They have a straighter body, and are less wide.
A nice thing to see is that they live in a crate, when not being handled by visitors or kids, and when they go out in the garden, it is poo and pee time.
They are house trained already at eight weeks. Which is amazing. That part was what bothered me the most in getting a pup.
You have to wipe a lot of pee and poo before they learn how and where to listen to the call of nature.

The two Boston Terrier pups are masters in jumping and flying low. The most acrobatic jumps I have ever seen in pups. They are lean, no extra fat to carry around, my camera is almost too slow to snap them. And that camera of mine is fast when it comes to focussing. It’s just that those two are so darn quick.

It’s hit and miss to focus on them. And I don’t see enough to focus without my autofocus in camera. Bless whoever invented that feature...

After the crazy jumps, it’s wrestling time. Roly-poly over the grass, under each other, on top, sidewards, name it and they perform it.
Dangerous sounds can be heard, they wrestle with a passion.

Extremely hard to tell which one is winning, as they are so alike, and in the heat of battle, they roll over every half second.
I am prone to seasickness and come close.

They do have different head markings, so the head is where to look. One of them has a black patch on top of the head, the other has white going all the way. They do look like mini gentlemen, dressed up for the opera. Neatly in black and white.

It looks like the patched one is the looser, the winner is full of attitude, I won, and we know it...

It’s a puppies life, no time to loose, the days are short, and the missions to go for plenty. When the wrestling game is over, and the winner declared, they look for other stuff to do.

Like leaning in to each other and see who falls over the fastestzzzzz... Clown pups. Entertaining. Who needs television if you have two of those geeks running around?

They have moved their playing field closer to me, and it would not be a pup if it would not bite my laces. And this is the point where I see that they are a good size 38, maybe 39... I like that feature. They are a lot smaller then the shar pei pups.

The ball belonging to the princess is bigger then the pups. It’s a big world, they have growing to do. Not now please, more playing needs to be done, they can always grow while sleeping.

I need to go home, photographing the pups has been a major activity this week. I have spent a lot of time at Rookery Barn, sipping tea, watching the pups, having fun, my kitchen needs a mop desperately, and laundry is grinning...
Our garden has been changed in a baby rabbit playground. Yep, spring is here, and here to stay. Although with the strong North-Eastern winds coming straight from Russia to England, we shivver, winter coats still needed. A little bit too early to pack them till next winter.

Some rabbit tales tomorrow... Talk later! Have a great weekend all...

Pups galore...

Puppy day yesterday. Went over to the farm, to have some quality time with pups and kids and parents. Not to mention the Jacobs and the fake Jacob.
When I park my car on the drive, the little one comes running to show me the horse in their meadow.

A handfull two year old, who knows what she wants and goes for it. Lucky kid... It as allowed to go play outside and climb a fence.
Not an easy thing in Brittain, also known as the Nanny State. Where health and safety rules rule the roost.
Not in this house, kids can be kids.

I am amazed at how fast she gets onto that fence, her little finger pointing at all the things she sees. Again, lucky kid... A pair of wellies, and she is allowed to get dirty. The good life.

The Jacob watch her, ready to move if necessary, packed in wool. They do look a bit overdressed. Remember that for a lot of sheep, it is all fur.
They look rather skinny if you see them naked. After sheering that is.

And we have an undercover agent inbetween. He thinks he is Jacob, he acts like a Jacob, and nobody dares tell him he is in fact an alpaca.
It would destroy his self confidence. An acute identity crisis would be the result. Don’t want to be responsible for that one, so I pretend I see him as a Jacob too.
As usual, pups galore in Rookery Barn, that is the name of the house, pups everywhere. 3 Lilacs left, and one of the blue pups came back for a week as the owners are away.

They are running like crazy now, chubby things, all skin, tails high, running to the end of the garden and back. The pups at Rainbodragon are good pups.
Socialized to the maximum, as they run in the working of a house with kids.

They don’t look bothered at all when they are picked up and carried, funny how Princess holds them, they are pretty heavy pups by now, she manages.
They go where she goes. On the swing, on the bench, nothing is better company then a relaxed chubby shar pei puppy.

They hang in her embrace as long as she can hold them, they do slide down, without a wimper or a blink, kid friendly dogs.

The little one has two brothers, but they do what boys do, computer games and other boys stuff, it’s good that she gets some pup friendship.

Mom comes outside, and takes the pup of the swing, and little princess is not happy. Her face changes from happy to thunder.

The pup is contemplating his faith. It’s all good in his book. I love their small wrinkled faces. They have a lot of skin to fill up. Funny creatures.
The contemplating life is only good for so long. Time to catch up with the other pups, and go and explore the garden.

The lilacs have grown a lot, 3 weeks ago they fitted on a hand, not so anymore. They grow with the speed of lightning. Of course, all pups are adorable, but the shar pei ones have that little bit of extra cuteness.

They know Annette, she is their guardian angel, and wherever she goes, the bunch follows.
All I need to snap them is Annette walking up and down, all I have to do is press the button.

Here they come, the attack of the killer pups...The blue ones were born fourteen days earlier, and look at the difference in size.

Gaming and running, it all goes in a very relaxed mood. No high toned squeeking with shar pei pups. They do bark, but it’s not a high pitch.
It comes from deep in their tummy. And we also have Casey, the Frenchie. Who probably will have pups of her own in 9 weeks.
I wonder what that will give. Casey is a French bulldog, small but sturdy, the pups will maybe be 5 cm each. Looking forward to that one.

After a while outside, we are all frozen, the sun does not get through the cloud cover, there is a chill in the air. Time to go inside, pups go in the dens with the moms. Dad is playing a game with the boys. Annette and me are having tea, and the little one is having a nap.
Peace and rest in the house...

I love my North Yorkshire life, and would not know what I love more, the people or the animals.
It’s all good, all good...

Hitting the road off the A59...

It was a bit of a foggy day yesterday, but I had high hopes of the sun burning through. She did not... Same for today, fog in the morning, hoping to see the sun, but no sun gets through the thick cloud pack.

Stopped at Markenfield to see the farmer, he told me that he wanted to call me when he left them out, but did not find my card.
Buggers... I need to print my phone number in big on A4 paper and glue it down in his little office building on site. He comforted me saying that they did not bolt around like mad, instead they went straight to grazing. I will be better prepared next year! It’s a promise.

Did not stay that long on Markenfield as I needed a drive to Embsay, I left the cows behind and went on my way.

The A59 runs all the way from Harrogate to Skipton, and Embsay is somewhere in the middle. I pass that road over Skipton Pass on occasion, and am always surprised at the beauty of that bleak spot. The pass is dangerous driving in foggy and wintery weather. In this time of year, with the days getting longer, en warmer temps, the pass is a bit easier to take. And it is not a pass over the Rocky Mountains. It’s far more small scaled.

I decide to take a road off the A59, on to Beamsley, a small one lane road that I never took before. Soon enough I am in the middle of nowhere.
The sounds of the A59 don’t reach as high as I drove up, all I hear is silence and Vincente Fernandez in the car. A girl needs some mariachi to get by...
I need to redo it on a clear day, as the hills are now covered with fog, I can hardly see the moors on the other side of the A59. All that is showing are vague contours.

I pass the small hamlet of Beamsley, and meet up with two horses. A brown black eyed one, very friendly, sniffing my camera from top to bottom, before starting on my ears, and a white one. With delicate features.

The white one is a bit more skiddish. I wonder how it would feel like to ride a horse. I have never done it, might be awkward, and who knows, I could end up taped up in gypsum after a try. I don’t think that fibro and horses are a good combination. I talk to the two for a while, normal horse stuff, like when did you have new irons? Do you like that bate they got you on the fair? Does it relax you when Mr Diddle brushes you, or do you prefer Mrs Doubtfire, with the soft touch... Not much things horses really talk about.

I wave goodbye and head higher up. The fog seems to become thicker by the minute. I take a few piccies, I see people walking towards Currer Hall.
Better them then me. You have to be a good hiker to do those hills. They are on the steep side, and you also need good footwear and compass. Or at least a map. Which would be of no use to me, supposed I would want to hike, as I can not read them...

I turn around, as I decided that it would be better to see where the tiny road ends up on a more clear day. If the fog gets thicker, I might get lost.
Down, down, back to the A59. And I notice a meadow with what else, sheep and lambs.

The lambs are tiny, some of them still have the umbilical cord attached. Sturdy little ones, good in the flesh, even if only a couple of days old.
They look at me with curious eyes. I love lambs.

The lamb hurries to be next to mom, you never know when the next human will harm you. The mom is relaxed, she knows better. It’s unbelievable how many different sheep there are. Every time I think I will know them apart, I discover a new brand, mule something... The farmers are on an ever lasting quest to produce the perfect sheep, with perfect meat capacity, good carcass, and good wool.

The lambs in this meadow have the rubber band around the tail, it means that blood will stop flowing to the top of it, and it will fall off at the spot where the rubber has been tied. The lamb is on its way to the milk supply. The moms in the meadow have good “sacks”. That is what a sheep boob is called by the local farmers.

Another little one pops up from lying down position, and has question marks in his eyes. Don’t worry about me, BahTom, I am only that daft Belgian photographer going round to put every single lamb in North Yorkshire on a flash card. For posterity...

He decides to take the certain over the uncertain, and heads off for mom 04. Dash is the right word. They can get to supersonic speed in a couple of seconds. Fierce runners, the little lambs.

They jump and fly. Faster then my camera can focus, the result is a blurry lamb. Hurrying to get to safety, on mom’s side.
I turn off at the Bolton Abbey roundabout, on my direct path to Embsay, and I see the little steam engine tjsooing by.

The kids are off school for Easter, and the tourist season 2009 is pulling itself into gear. I spot a few Belgian and Dutch license plates in traffic.
The steam cloud gives the location of the engine away, even if the train is half hidden in dips.

A meeting with a couple of Swaledales is in order, as they are curiously standing next to the chicken wire. I think it is a sheep council meeting.
I love the swaledales. Their lambs are totally adorable, with small black heads, and a clean white fur. The grownups go off white, to cream color.
They only keep the black head and black spots on the legs.

It is fantastic to follow the curve of the horns, they are two year old ewes, possibly pregnant, but I can’t see a colored dot on their pelt, so it is possible that they are last year’s lambs, yearlings, who don’t have babies yet.

It’s easy to think they are all the same, but the position of the horns and the way they curl make it clear that they are in fact very different.
They must be waiting on food, normally they don’t pose, they try to get away from humans as fast as their legs can carry them.
This lot is glued to the wire, looking at me with inquisitive eyes.

I wave goodbye to the sheep too, and start my engine back up for the last little bit to the scrap store.
On my way back I see the farmer who owns the sheep. I know him, I snapped him in december, when he was moving sheep with his son and daughter in law. A weathered face, having done the sheep his whole life. Hands that show me hard work, long days and short nights.

He has put out some Blue Faced Leicesters. (Say Lesters). Yearlings too, they will have a wool coat that reaches their hooves before the first shave, after that shave, the fur will never become that long again. A curious lot. Ready to pop back out of the meadow. I am standing in their way, they hesitate.

The farmer tells me that they are mules, a crossbreed between swaledale and another breed, I forgot what the second one is.
No sheep wants to acknowledge that he or she is a mule, a pure bred is nicer. Sounds more posh.
They like it when you address them with : Mrs Blue Faced Leicester (say Lester), may I ask you some questions?

I’m in for a surprise, since they overheard me talking Mule with the farmer, they all run off to deeper meadows. I need to redo my visit to them, and watch my language next time. I think they also heard me say that they look more like camels then sheep. The farmer thought it was pretty funny, they obviously didn’t.

Sigh, I need more acute sheep psychology lessons...

Talk later!