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Friday Sheep Blogging

Black-faced lamb at Chatsworth

On Sunday we drove up to the Peak District to Chatsworth House, home of the 10th Duke of Devonshire. I don't think he was home, but plenty of people were visiting. And many of them had brought their dogs, probably because the Duke and Duchess are dog people. I saw lots of dog portraits in their house, and a few photos of their prize winning gun dogs. I even saw a gold collar belonging to one of His Grace's ancestors, the sixth duke. 

Chatsworth was built (mainly) in the 17th century, by the then Earl of Devonshire, who'd fallen out of favor with the Catholic James II. But as luck would have it, he supported the right team in the World Cup—err, the battle for the throne of England, which went to The Netherlands—err, William of Orange. As a supporter, the Earl was rewarded with a Dukedom, which is a lot better than a trophy. Then he set to work collecting art and having famous artists, like James Thornhill, paint his digs.

Which is how come future Dukes can charge admission to Chatsworth. There's plenty of baubles there to see, including a nice collection of Delft porcelain. The State Apartments were prepared for a royal visit from King William and Queen Mary which, sadly, never happened. 

But of course, the priceless artwork, the ageless antiques, the splendid ceilings were all just a backdrop for the sheep. Hundreds of sheep grazed in a pasture beyond the overflow carpark, unfazed by the humans picking their way through the feces-filled fields. Don't look up, not even to admire the view of the estate, without securing foothold in unstained ground.

A lamb and her mum, gazing at the ducal estate. 

Chatsworth is about 150 miles north of London, off the M1. It's open during the summer season, and again during Christmas. There's plenty to do there, in addition to visiting the sheep, so plan to spend several hours. And if you bring a picnic lunch, be sure to bring a blanket. 

Friday Cow Blogging

My cows come running when I show up at the fence with a bowl of apples. Of course, I'm always glad there's a fence, and a hedge of brambles, between us. Cows weigh around a thousand pounds—and that's before they're fully grown and pregnant, as they almost always are. It's not unheard of for people to be trampled by them, especially if they don't follow the simple common-sense rules explained here: 

1. Never get between a cow and its calf. Cows are protective creatures and will defend their young if they feel there is a threat. Standing or walking between a cow and its calves is easily avoided by avoiding walking through the middle of a herd of cows if young calves are present. Cows often make this easier for you by moving away from approaching walkers, as long as they see you in good time.

Very good advice, and easy to follow. You should also not let your dog off lead around cows, even if your dog has no more interest in cows than mine, who found it strange I'd toss lovely apples to strange cows when she was perfectly capable of eating them herself. 

On the other hand, if the cows are already angry at you for some reason—perhaps they smelled the steak on your breath, or heard you speak disparagingly of the herd—then you should let your dog off lead to fend for herself. She can get away from them much easier than you imagine. (Of course if she's a small terrier, you'd better pick her up and run like hell—they'll be after you both then.)

(Thanks to @Travelwriticus for the link above. If you're not on Twitter, you're probably missing out on many valuable tips, regarding cows and other creatures.)

In other news, I learned today (again, via Twitter) that BBC4 will be airing a new sitcom filmed in the Chilterns, about a group of ramblers with leadership issues. It's called "The Great Outdoors and airs Tuesday. Be sure and watch, for a glimpse of the land I regularly trample. 

Not sure there'll be any cows, but it's a safe bet.

Friday Swan Blogging

Betty and the babies 

Last weekend we went to the village of Whittington to see the castle there. (That's the sort of thing you do on weekends here in England; drive to Shropshire to see a castle. There are quite a lot of castles still hanging round, so it's best if you try to see one every weekend.) 

As soon as we arrived, we pulled out our sandwiches and went over to the moat to have a picnic, another typically English thing to do. (Although the American in me insisted on having peanut butter and jelly, not something you'd find on an English picnic menu.) After a bit I noticed a swan family swimming toward us: "Look, Daughter Number One, swan babies!" 

She gave me one of those looks I've gotten used to from her, the "You're crazy, Mom!" look. But this time I just smirked. "See the babies?" I repeated, knowing she couldn't believe those large birds were actually goslings. Five Ugly Ducklings, swimming along with their mum and dad, almost the size of geese. 

We watched the swans, toured the castle (which doesn't take long—there are only a few towers and the outer bailey left), and then stopped in the gift shop, where the ancient volunteer regaled us with the history of the castle. It's near the border of Wales, positioned, like many castles built in the twelfth century, to guard against attacks from the Welsh—and not always successfully. When we mentioned the swans, we learned their names are Billy and Betty, and every year they have goslings—these latest were born in May. Each year the goslings are rounded up an rehomed, since there's not enough room at the castle for that many swans. 

Billy is a particularly large swan. He's pretty aggressive, too—we watched him snap as a toddler got too close. The display of temper didn't seem to put the toddler off; he was right back at the side of the pond a minute later. 

Pretty sure the kid was Welsh.

Dad snatches the kid back after Billy loses it.

Billy swims back under the bridge, having successfully saved the castle from another Welsh invasion.

Whittington Castle in Shropshire, protecting against Welsh invasion since 1138. 

(I suppose if the Welsh had been more successful at invading, Billy would have been named Llewellyn.)

Friday Cow Blogging

What a view!

Yesterday we tackled Turville Heath, aka "Seven Hills (from Hell)". My hiking group had done it in previous years, after issuing dire warnings to anyone who may be less than fit, but I always managed to be absent from this particular hike. And as hike leader, I decided not to schedule it—the legends were enough to put me off.

But the new hike leaders decided it was high time we tacked the Seven Hills. 

Hill Number Three was tough, but Hill Number Seven almost did me in—I seriously thought, for a half second, that I may not make it up to the top of the ridge. I stopped, caught my breath, and trudged up, with no lasting damage other than sunburn. 

Ah, the joys of hiking the Chilterns. Did I mention the views? And, of course, the cows. 

We saw several herds, but this lone cow, standing apart from her herd, was most striking. She made getting to the top of Hill Number Two worth it.