wamurancountrylife - Tumblr blog

wamurancountrylife · 4 years

Text

Amor Vincit Omnia, love conquers all things

G’day Dear reader,

I know it’s not been long since our last update, but I’ve wanted to bring you up to speed with the developments in our chicken flock.

It’s always interesting, to watch the feathered ones when we disturb the social hierarchy. If we add a few extra girls to the harem, they fight ferociously to work out who gets first dig at the scrap bucket. If something happens and a new boy chook arrives on the scene, there’s turmoil for days. Some chicken Sheila’s try to gain favour with the new lad, and some stick close to their known and trusted knight in shinning feathers. Also, the ruler of the roost now must re-negotiate his authority, so days of jousting between suitors begins.

We’ve watched this process a few times, and to the chooks, it’s a serious issue. We told the story last year of a dear friend returning an egg after its chromosomes weren’t what he wanted… that upset the flock for a while. Another time, when a good friend and neighbour had to downsize his poultry project, we gleefully accepted his purebred prized pets and added them to our menagerie. And recently when a dear relative had to re-home her entire flock, we once again threw open the door to the poultry palace and laid out the welcome mat.

This hierarchy thing never quite unfolds how we expect either. These chickens aren’t kind to each other dear human. If you think they put the kettle on and invite the newcomer over for coffee when the dust from the delivery van settles, you’re delusional. It appears tolerance is a trait that’s yet to be taught in chicken school. Things were going along nicely a few months back. The immigrants had settled in. The rooster roster had been sorted, as we hadn’t had to run after them trying to prevent chicken murder…

And that brings me to the point dear reader. I now understand why women who say “I’ll never have any more” when Princess Penelope is born, a few years later turn and look loving into hubby’s eyes and whisper “ Penelope could do with a play friend” I know because I’ve now done it. I looked at my adoring wifey-poo and said, “we should raise another brood”. Now if you haven’t noticed dear reader, the Bride is “The Rock” in this household. I’m the one that races of filled with caffeine and optimism, in search of a liter of milk and a loaf of bread, only to return with some oranges, some chocolate, a new pair of pliers because they were on special, and a great idea for recycling used bicycle parts… I think that’s why the Cook still loves me, I keep her stuck between panic and dread, and in that way, she hasn’t got time to realise that life’ d be quieter without me…

Now I’ve probably just gone and upset the whingers again by calling the misses “The Cook”, So in an attempt to redeem myself before the thought police come screaming down the interweb at me, I better clarify things. Here at The Rustic Resort, we diligently practice what in the Business world is called “Segregation of duties”, and for good reason. You see, as good as the Wonder Wife is, I just can’t seem to get her interested in using the chain saw. Not only does she find it scary, she can’t start it and can’t lift it above her waist. She also has this uncanny ability to list a dozen things that are urgent and must be done immediately every time I try to strap her into the tractor and send her off to terrorise the grass. But to be fair dear reader, it’s a two-way street. When I’m cooking, I struggle to understand if a dish needs more salt, more chili, or if I need to hide it at the bottom of the compost bin and quickly call Uber Eats before anyone finds out that I just abused a hundred dollars’ worth of ingredients, and now even the dog won’t eat it. I’m a bit like that with the laundry also. I know we have a washing machine, and I have no problem with stuffing my grease-soaked shorts and smelly socks into it, along with The Brides frocks, but I can’t find where to add the petrol and apparently “more is not better” when it comes to soap…

So, if I’ve gone and upset anyone that’s been to university, by calling my beloved “The Cook”, well I’m not partial to doing dishes either…

Anyway, back to the chickens dear reader. If playing hop scotch over fresh chicken poo while juggling bags full of groceries isn’t enough, and if three Roosters trying out for Australia’s Got Talent at 2am every morning isn’t enough… The chickens have taken to molting like it’s a contest. I’m worried that any day now, I’ll walk outside after the news bulletins finish telling me what I’m going to die from, to find a flock of naked chickens sun-baking in the back yard. There were so many feathers out there yesterday I thought the misses must have run over them with the lawn mower.

So, for me to look at The Bride all misty eyed, and tell her how I wanted more of the feathered things…I’m sorry but that must have been the wine talking… I know they recycle grasshoppers and caterpillars into eggs, and eggs can be used to make Cheesecake. But according to the health guru on the tele the other night, Cheesecake’s also going to kill me.

It’s a bit of a worry dear reader, I can’t shake the hand of friends and strangers anymore for fear of one of us dying. I used to give close friends a hug, but now I get looked at like I’m toxic if I pass by someone closely at Bunnings. If I leave the house, I could kill half the population of Australia, and if I eat anything that provides comfort in these times of turmoil, I’ll likely wake up dead. Between the Chinese, and their propensity to share new and interesting afflictions on humanity, and the people on the Tele pointing out that breathing is now more hazardous that not breathing, it’s good to have something to take our minds of all this chaos.

And that’s where Chickens come in dear reader… while I’ve had a bit of a rant above on how annoying they can be, and they will turn your garden upside down ever second day (in search of the earth worms you’re trying to encourage), and they will leave poo everywhere… … … especially on the path outside the front door…

But they are endearing little creatures… their clucking and chirping’s have a calming effect. My beloved has a couple that will sit on her lap for a scratch. The mirth and comfort provided by a dozen chickens is greater that an episode of friends. We’ve seen them grab a bone from the dog and race off, leaving our Pound Hound bewildered in front of an empty food bowl, and if you’re really in need of cheering up, I defy anyone to not crack a smile when watching a plump chicken run towards you for a handout.

So yes, dear reader, I’m crap at foraging for bread and milk, and I’m no better in the laundry… and The Misses can’t start the chainsaw and fears the tractor… But we’re emotive little things and we feel better when we have chickens in our life… … … So, let me see, where’s that egg incubator stored?

Check Out Our Face book Page

#Wamuran Country Life #Chicken Therapy

0 notes

wamurancountrylife · 4 years

Text

Changing of the guard

G’day again dear reader. It’s time to put your slippers on, and to pop a straw into your favourite bottle of grange, while we bring a little bit of the country into your warm and cosy life…

Now if our little disclaimer in the last update didn’t ward of those with poorly developed humour receptors, then let us have another crack at giving you fair warning… If you are slighted easily and do not yet know how to differentiate between humour and horror, if you are of the type that easily finds fault and blames others for your inability to move on in life, we strongly suggest you stop reading now, and go and annoy someone that also has poorly developed humour receptors. Then hopefully in you tormenting each other, we will have done our little bit in alleviating unnecessary suffering in the rest of the world.

(Please note this silent pause as I reach for a sip of a cheap but hearty red wine).

Ahh, that’s better… Now, this country life isn’t all cheese and crackers. In our last update, we brought you up to speed with our angst filled journey from novice farmer to aspiring wealthy cattle barons. (at present we’re still in the “aspiring” phase of this little project, but if we aim low in life and reach our target, was it really a success?).

We’ve had a few changes in other aspects of our farming life. Now at times we’ve all faced the bitterness of disappointment. I had a brand-new power tool self-immolate once on the very day I unwrapped it and plugged it in. That was a bit of a bummer… I’ve also been into supermarkets recently trying to buy dunny rolls… having to face the misses at home and explain that “Times were tough and we’ll have to change our ways” in the face of this tribulation, was also a disappointment… But having to face the difficult decision that Bob the boy goat would have to go, was up there in the “Uncomfortable Conversation” stakes.

If he’d have not taken to chasing my beloved around the paddock, when she came to deliver food, we may have been more considerate. And if he’d not wanted to compete with me for the right to rule the kingdom, we’d also have been a tad more contemplative. And if he’d been happy to not want to impregnate his daughters and sisters, we also would have had no trouble in continuing with a symbiotic relationship. As we said in January of last year, he did stink like road kill, but having raised boys, we could have overlooked this… if only he was willing to compromise on the other issues.

But farming is farming, and so a few months ago, with deep regret, we advertised our prized, hairy, smelly, cantankerous “Sheik from Scrubby Creek” of a boy goat for sale. We’d never imagined that there’d be a demand for a critter that fitted the above description, but girl goats tend to have quite different priorities than us humans. Bob’s ability to procreate must have been his saving grace, and as my beloved leans over to top up my glass of wine again, I can confirm that Bob’s even happier than a pig in… well, you know what I mean. He’s got an entirely new harem of Sheila’s to impress.

Now that the grass is lush, the feed bills have subsided, and the girls have let them selves go, er… put some condition on again… we realised we were missing the afternoon pats and cuddles with the young’uns of the herd. The Bride and I did some brainstorming on what we needed in a new buck, but it’s not easy playing cupid for a family of goats. I wanted a beast with a good stature and a pleasant nature. The miss’s, her list was a bit longer… He had to be young so he’d get used to us (Note, this was girl talk for “love us”), He had to not be aggressive, he had to not stink, he had to have (Sorry dear reader… but I tuned out at this point… … selective hearing and all… I thought I’d try that delegating trick again, so if wifey-poo felt the need to meet the parents of the boy goat, there was probably no way I was going to stop her anyway). We had some false starts at this stage of the program. A couple of times Romeo was in such demand that he was sold before the add was even posted. Other times I’d hear rumblings from the behind the dim glow of the i-pad, “this one’s ok, but… …”. I guess I should take heart dear reader, if the misses was that selective with the boyfriend for her goat flock, she must have been really really selective when it came to her own life… that must mean I’m either a pretty good catch, or she’s learnt a lot since we met and tightened up on the criteria a tad.

Well, let me introduce you to Duke…

I’m feeling a tad intimidated right about now…

Check Out Our Face book Page

#WamuranCountryLife #Selective Hearing #How to select a good Goat for breeding #how to deal with disappointment

0 notes

wamurancountrylife · 4 years

Text

The Blog is Back…

Welcome back dear reader. We apologise for the incredibly long intermission - and hope that you found other ways to entertain yourselves in our absence. We’ve been inundated from all over the place with calls for updates and requests to continue with our short stories. Not once, but twice we had comments about our lack of updates… so like waiving taxpayer handouts at election time, that was all we needed to be persuaded to wind up the computer and fumble furiously again with the keyboard.

Before we proceed, in a vague attempt to protect the easily offended and overly sensitive, please read the following disclaimer. The below blog is bound to contain information that will offend and challenge the sensitive in our society. If you’re prone to not seeing the humour in things, and love to feel aggrieved and slighted when no such intention was there, please read no further. It will cause you and us less pain if you simply leave this page now.

Now, back to the important stuff… There’s nothing like a crisis to focus your attention. So, with that in mind, please grab yourself a glass of Chardonnay or a nip or Scotch, sit back - and enjoy an update from The Rustic Resort. (Another advantage of the tipple while reading, is its health benefits re the Corona Virus. While we haven’t yet fully determined if the alcohol helps with the virus, it certainly helps with the social isolation that now accompanies it). When we look back at our blog dear audient, I can see it’s just over a year since we last foisted our dialogue upon you, so I guess the posh amongst us, would call this a sabbatical of sorts.

Well it’s been an emotive time, and we’ve ridden the highs and the lows of the stock market again. After sending our whole herd of three steers to be re-purposed as food, I sent the bride off to the livestock auctions for a new flock. Now Wifey-poo and I had been having some tense conversations about this. Wonder wife wanted to get two or three young calves (probably so she could name then & give them hugs and cuddles). I was more enthusiastic (yes dear reader, I’d taken up drinking coffee again!), and I wanted the bride to buy five or six of the things.

So, the big morning of the country livestock auction arrived. The misses put on her best gum boots, armed herself with a sense of purpose, kissed me on the cheek and then disappeared in a cloud of spinning wheels and dust. With me having done my bit, the delegating… I trundled of to work, peaceful in the knowledge that the cow thing would be sorted, and that our grass would once again be turned into manure and methane.

Well these auction things are a bit tricky it seems… It’s not often that the Bride pesters me while I’m at work, err… … phones me with exciting or important news while I’m doing my best to earn a quid. So, to receive a highly animated phone call from her, with lots of squeals and laughter in the background had me perplexed. As Wifey-poo calmed down, I began to get snippets of what had gone on. She told me how they were all beautiful. She told me of the excitement of it all. Apparently, there was one calf that looked spectacular… so when the auctioneer pointed to the young Ferdinand – and asked, “How much am I bid”, The bride threw caution to the wind and started waiving our credit card around. Apparently, the bidding was hotly contested, with some experienced and hardened farmers vying with the misses for the lot the auctioneer had before him. Well the Miss’s was beside herself with emotion. The crafty cattle barons had missed out and the city chick turned country girl had the winning bid… And then the penny dropped dear reader… You see, the miss’s thought she’d been bidding on Ferdinand, she didn’t realise it was a pen lot, and that she was now the proud surrogate mum to thirteen sturdy young calves.

Now - had the spring rains eventuated, our investment would have earnt us a nice little packet. I had imagined the moist soil with rich lush grass, and a herd of bovines doing their best to impersonate a footy player at an all you can eat buffet.

There was a slight problem with this however dear audient. It didn’t rain… In fact, on the odd occurrence when it tried, the sun came out again even hotter, and vaporised any foliage that thought it could survive. While it was dry on our little patch of paradise, it was nothing compared to the parched and sunburnt areas that have struggled for so long with drought. (We only had an inkling, into what these hardened rural folks were, and in some areas “still are” experiencing). We began by looking for clouds, reading the weather reports, and watching for signs of divinity. The grass turned to stalks, and the stalks turned to stubble. We started to look for bales of hay, to keep our livestock living… This it appears, is an essential part of the farming process. On further investigation, if your livestock becomes dead stock, its value decreases massively! We started to call neighbours, and we trolled the classifieds for stock feed. Finally, we had success, and after agreeing to meet the merchant at an undisclosed location… on the side of the road… with a brown paper bag filled with moolah… we were loaded up with over a ton of freshy cut and bailed lawn clippings. Such was our relief, we dashed home, unloaded, and went back for seconds (probably in the same way that the urbanites are now treating the toilet paper aisles in the supermarkets! )

At this point dear reader, that realisation of the importance of primary school mathematical studies hit home. You know the thought, we’ve all had them… “When am I ever going to use this?” Well when the herd eats a month’s wages in a fortnight, and your secret stash of the green stuff is being turned into cow poo at the rate of a round bail every five days, it’s good to know when you must call the bank manager and invite him over for a fresh steak dinner!

At some point between anxiety and desperation, the request for divinity was eventually answered. When the rains came, they came frequently. Our herd of mini-moo’s munched their way through the stockpile of fodder, giving the paddocks a wonderful chance to rebound. Famines and feasts are two sides of the same coin, and here in Australia our poets and early exploders have been leaving us with prose about this subject ever since they first set foot on this great land. So, for us to see in a matter of months, our paddocks go from brown, to green, to lush… has been breath-taking. And while I’m not one for looking in the mouth of gift horses, I am getting a bit concerned… It’s been quite a while since Sunday School, but from memory, after the Fire and the Floods, comes the plague of Locusts…

But back to the present dear reader… our backyard has become so tropical that we struggle to find the cows amongst the grass…

Does anyone know if duct tape will hold GPS trackers onto cows?

Check Out Our Face book Page

#wamurancountrylife #auctionsmarts Mathematicsforfarmers

0 notes

wamurancountrylife · 5 years

Text

A difficult Father/Son relationship

(function(d, s, id) { var js, fjs = d.getElementsByTagName(s)[0]; if (d.getElementById(id)) return; js = d.createElement(s); js.id = id; js.src = 'https://connect.facebook.net/en_US/sdk.js#xfbml=1&version=v3.2'; fjs.parentNode.insertBefore(js, fjs); }(document, 'script', 'facebook-jssdk'));

We’ve just had the Wamuran Country Life “World Series Wrestling” competition dear reader. Thankfully it was won again by me… but the challenge is getting harder each year. Father Son relationships can be things of beauty, or a perpetual struggle. It often depends on the maturity of the parent and strength of the family unit. But what happens when the rambunctious teenager is a goat?

You see, Bob the boy goat, having been nursed back to health from a paralysis tick as a young’un; likes to come up for a pat and a scratch. It all starts out friendly enough, a bit like a family reunion with the uncouth and alcohol imbued uncle that no one likes to talk about. But after a few pats Bob decides that I don’t smell as nice as he does, and seeing that he cares about my relationship with my beloved – he proceeds to try to share his glorious and odorous pheromones with me. Now while the goat Sheila’s seem to quite like the smell of rotten socks, I can assure you that my wonder wife does not…So the jousting begins!

I push away our rather pungent and increasingly voluminous man goat, he thinks it’s a game and pushes back. I stand my ground, like a grumpy parking attendant, and bob pushes harder. At this point, I can “hear” the testosterone being released into Bob’s blood stream. It’s almost a subtle fizzing noise, like opening a bottle of coke on a warm day. This is rapidly followed by the glazing over of Bob’s eyes.

Bob pushes me, I push him back. Bob starts to throw his antlers around (Yes dear reader, his head adornment long ago extended past the range of horns, it’s now more like a set of horns from a water buffalo than a humble goat). In fear of my capacity to breed in the future, I grab Bob’s antlers and start to direct them away from my tender and delicate loin. Bob becomes disgruntled that I’ve interfered with his freedom, and engages four wheel drive.

Now it’s game on! It’s a fight to the death dear reader… with Bob in one corner, eyes glazed and looking to assert his alpha dominance, and me in the other corner wishing I still had the cricket box I used to own from my days of backyard cricket. Wonder Wife witnessed one of the wrestling matches recently, and was caught up in a flood of competing emotions. She wanted me to stop hurting Bob, she wanted Bob to stop hurting me, she wanted the dust to settle and for the horror of what she was witnessing to go away… but she was also laughing… quite loudly… and quite unsympathetically… The wrestle ended, (or so far it has), with me pinning Bobs head back against his torso and bob calling out the goat equivalent of “Enough”. After his surrender I let him up, and he trots off happy and un-harmed… firm in his belief that Dad (Me) is still the boss.

We recently moved Bob to a more distant paddock, to allow a bigger air gap between his manhood and the girls that were taunting him from the other side of the fence. But Bob found that he could lift the fence and wiggle under it to resume his courtship duties.

So one afternoon, after having nailed the fence down with 18ince steel spikes, we once again grabbed a bucket of feed - and led Bob along the three hundred meters of track to his new and distant safe haven. After re-installing Bob in his paddock, I went to work, just on dusk, securing the last few meters of fence. Bob meandered over to start his normal pattern… you know dear reader… “Can I have a pat?”. He then wanted to make me smell as good as him. After a few moments I thought I had persuaded Bob to leave me alone and I put my head down past my knees to continue securing the perimeter.

AT this point I was surprised to see Bob’s antlers appear between my legs.

My surprise increased as he picked me up of the ground with his neck. This surprise was rapidly replaced by other more emotive experiences, as Bob proceeded to toss me left and right like a kid with a stuffed toy at Christmas time.

After my dismount, Bob and I had a passionate conversation.

And we’ve since supplied him with a small harem of goat girls to romance. He still comes up for a pat, but respect was earnt on that afternoon just before dusk dear reader… and on that day, our relationship changed forever.

https://youcamp.com/view/the-rustic-resort

Check Out Our Face book Page

#father Son Relationships #how to tame a goat

0 notes

wamurancountrylife · 6 years

Text

Spring

Spring is upon us dear reader, and as I start to write this, our first thunderstorm of the year is rumbling overhead. The storm is a nice gentile one. It started with a few flashes of light and some crashing and bashing, and then settled down and gave us some steady rain for half an hour. The steady drizzle was a blessing, as it’s been rather dry recently. The paddocks at present, remind me of the time as a young adult, when I tried to grow a beard…all that materialised was a weedy looking stubble…

Skittish, the well endowed goat that my beloved made the sports bra for, has had her kids. Three cute and cuddly little goaties.

Unfortunately, she still managed to get mastitis. We tried warm compresses, we tried rubbing healing salve into her goat breasts… We also had a strict regime of milking her out to help with the infection… But do you know what gave her the most relief? The image below should give a clue…

We also have another two expectant goat mums, so there should be plenty of cuddles at The Rustic Resort in the next few months.

One of our chickens was so determined to experience motherhood, that she started to sit on plastic eggs. We tried to reason with her, telling her it’s a plastic egg, and that the last thing we need is more plastic killing the planet, but she kept going back and trying to hatch the thing. After unsuccessfully trying to change her mind we finally relented. We gathered up some eggs and tucked them in under her plumage. Mother hen had insisted on sitting in a box near the tool shed, but with a friendly carpet snake doing the rounds every night, we knew we had to move mum to a safer location. I set up the chicken nursery, installed a posh straw lined nesting box, I then added some privacy screens, so the other chickens couldn’t taunt mother hen while she sat, percolating a fresh batch of chicks. But her determination to succeed even surprised me. At dusk I gathered the fertile eggs from under her bum. Then I picked up our stubborn little feathery mum, and carried her the twenty meters to her new chicken abode. As I gently lowered our prized poultry into her luxurious nest, she ever so slightly relaxed… and out from under one of her wings rolled another egg she’d been holding onto. After a trouble free incubation period, we’re glad to proclaim a 100% survival rate.

And another sign of spring is the vigour with which couples are prepared to share their affection for each other. A few weeks ago some good friends came up to visit. They loved being at The Rustic Resort so much that they sabotaged their own car just so they could stay the night. Much mirth ensued… and after a healthy dinner, complemented with a handful of grapes… well, grape juice… well alright then… … …fermented grape juice… the “Out of Towners” slunk of for the evening to the “Get Tanked Guest Room”. Now,I know we live in the bush, and the clean country air and the ambiance of the Rustic Resort can have a stirring effect on the soul… Especially for those not accustomed to the healthy lifestyle we live up here. My beloved and I have acclimatised to living in the countryside, in the same way that alpine climbers must get used to the thinner atmosphere when climbing at great heights. So how do guests cope with all the clean fresh country goodness?

Well the next day our accidental guests looked decidedly worse for wear, and they tell us it was not from the fermented grape juice… But I tell you, they must have gone at it pretty vigorously… they even managed to break the bed,

Check Out Our Face book Page

#Love is in the air #who broke the bed #wamuran country life

0 notes

wamurancountrylife · 6 years

Text

The Chicken or The Egg

(function(d, s, id) { var js, fjs = d.getElementsByTagName(s)[0]; if (d.getElementById(id)) return; js = d.createElement(s); js.id = id; js.src = 'https://connect.facebook.net/en_GB/sdk.js#xfbml=1&version=v3.1'; fjs.parentNode.insertBefore(js, fjs); }(document, 'script', 'facebook-jssdk'));

You’ve all heard the question, what came first, the chicken or the egg? Well we know the answer dear reader, it’s the egg… always was and always will be! We know because recently we had a good friend return one of our eggs…

It’s been a while since we updated you on our poultry herd. I’ve been meaning to tell you about them, but after Brad Clooney, the incredibly good looking rooster was devoured by a fox, my heart wasn’t in it. We mentioned in March that not only had we been feeding the fox population, but also the resident reptiles. (Click here to be teleported to the march story)

Well since then, after checking with the neighbours, it would appear that foxy-woxy has left the community. So in a state of exuberance, we allowed a few hens from up the road to immigrate. We accepted some others that had out stayed their welcome in suburbia. And not content with that, wifey-poo raced off with a hand full of cash, and purchased a small flock of retired battery hens… I suspect in the hope that any future foxes would look at the sparsely feathered fowls and decide to dine elsewhere…

So, back to this chicken and egg story. In the past we’ve provided a few friends with fertilised eggs from our rooster romanced chickens. The success rate’s been impressive dear audient. Out of a dozen eggs we normally get a dozen chicks… and from the dozen chicks it more often turns out that we get nine fresh new roosters and three chickens.

Well one of our dearest friends called up the other day wanting to know if we were home, so he could return one of the eggs he’d received from us. It turned out he wasn’t really that happy with this particular egg and had decided it was best if we could take it back. It had been a while dear reader… I was a bit surprised, but rather than disappoint someone that’s been an inspiration, I felt the least I could do was hear him out.

It appears our egg had the wrong Chromosomes. And it had gained a considerable amount of weight since we last saw it… a couple of kilos in fact... And now that it was all grown up… the residents in the street were not coping very well with the pre-dawn serenades. So let me introduce you to our “Adult Egg”… “Chicky Babe” the Teenage Rooster.

Now if you think we were astonished to receive our egg back, you should have seen the surprised reaction from his dad when junior returned. Rooster dad had gotten used to having the harem to himself. He’d put on a few pounds, he’d stopped throwing his leg over the ladies as often, and generally started to look like he’d hit the lounge with the TV remote and a few beers every evening.

Now that a young-un’s back on the scene, the girls are starting to consider their newfound options. Only this morning I saw a few of them promenading along the lower fire trail with egg boy, and already a few of the sheilas have taken to snuggling up with the newcomer.

There’s competition in the camp dear reader, and it looks like Alpha chook’s hitting the treadmill and doing a few push-ups.

Come to think of it… I’ve put on a few kilos… and my sandy coloured sideburns are gaining a slivery tinge.

Sigh… does anyone know a good barber… … … The misses tells me my eyebrows are due for another trim…

Check Out Our Face book Page

…

#How to raise Roosters Chicken Raising Wamuran Country Life Wamuran Bushy Eyebrows

0 notes

wamurancountrylife · 6 years

Text

My wife the goat whisperer…

I’m up for a good conversation these days dear reader. This still surprises those that knew me in my more youthful years. Growing up on a farm - being able to hold detailed and lengthy discussions wasn’t deemed a core life skill… So while chatting with some good people on the waterfront earlier this week it dawned on me, that I’ve gotten quite verbose in my adulthood.

My beloved however, never being one to be outdone - has gone one better. Yes dear audient, my bride has learnt to speak goat.

It turns out she’s the pied piper of the paddock… Need the goaties walked off into some new pasture? Wonder Wife meanders down the hill towards the gate, and calls out Baaa… Baaa… Within a few minutes there’s a herd of herbivores trotting merrily along after her as they disappear over the ridge. When I try it, the little buggers look up at me like my French teacher used to when I was in grade eight at high school… Bewilderment would be the expression on her face dear faithful reader, Bewilderment!

Now in my last update, I mentioned that Bob the Buck (Formerly Bob the Boy Goat), had jumped the fence and spent a day romancing the girls. For some of the single goat ladies this wasn’t a problem, but for others it was strictly against our policy. In the Sheilas Paddock we had Bob’s sister, his mum, and an assortment of rather excitable adolescents that were yet to experience puberty. So the look I got from the missus that afternoon wasn’t one of “Hi Honey, have a beer and tell me about your day”. Instead it was more a “This is your fault and you’re sleeping on the lounge till the problem’s fixed” kind of look.

Well it took a while for us to work out who’d been up for a bit of hanky panky behind the hay shed dear reader. It seemed that every afternoon my bride would be checking udders, noting the condition of all the goats, and scowling at me from inside the goat pen. But after a while, the frost began to melt and on some days I could even hear sighs of relief drifting up the hill. It turned out that the youngens had been spared the ignominy of a childhood pregnancy. The sister’s morals were still intact and generally no one that was not suitable for matrimonial commitments was compromised.

There was however still an issue.

There was still one goat we had planned to never breed from again.

Skittish is the one that had goat breasts so big they dragged on the ground. Skittish was the one that tried to be the prime minister while also bearing child. Skittish is the one that had to be the strongest, the fastest, and the bravest. So last time when she gave birth to two healthy little goat puppies, her udder got badly damaged. The kids couldn’t reach down to the nippley bits very well and Skits wouldn’t take it easy while tromping around our gently sloping mountainside paddocks. In the end, one side of her udder detached. Then shortly after that it became infected and developed mastitis. So for a month we had to milk that side morning and night, while bottle feeding one of the twins in an attempt to ease the burden on the milk production equipment. The image below was her goat breasts while all this was happening.

Well you guessed it dear reader. Skittish is one of the goats that Bob had a romantic interlude with. And now months afterwards, months after having declared she was not to ever again experience the loving embrace of Bob, or any other potential suitor… Skittish shows the signs of being a “mother in waiting”. Her belly is rotund, her eating habits have changed, and she’s got an udder that once again is nearing the undergrowth.

Australians have a rich lineage of overcoming adversary dear audient. We invented the Hills Hoist cloths line, we invented the Black Box Flight Recorder, we invented the Electronic Pacemaker, the Victa Lawn Mower, the bionic Ear, Plastic Money, the Electric Drill, and we’ve now invented “Lingerie for Goats”.

Yes, my beloved has risen to the challenge. Wonder Wife, with the help of another crafty country girl, has created the herbivore equivalent of the sports bra.

And as for Bob… He could have been remembered as Bob the builders pet. He could have been remembered as Bob the farm mascot. He could have been remembered as Bob the handsome goat…

Instead…

Just One Goat… all they remember is just … one goat… … …

Check Out Our Face book Page

0 notes

wamurancountrylife · 6 years

Text

Cloudy, with a chance of Fornication

Life on the farm is never dull dear reader, and often it’s educational… but never dull.

We had good rains this year, and thankfully this helped keep the grass up to our tribe of herbivores. The fencing’s progressing well, with the next paddock now being trampled down by a flock of ravenous goats. Before the paddock was fully fenced, my beloved regularly let the throng out to free-range for an hour. Then she’d herd them back into the safety of their normal haunt. The new paddock had three separate patches of pumpkins in it, and in these little outings the tribe of goats would regularly wander through the pumpkins, sniffing the leaves and eating the weeds from amongst the vines. This was heaven for us, free-ranging assistant farm hands! How clever are we…

On the day I finished enclosing the new paddock, we flung the gate open and let the mob run free. They ignored it. Seemed life was so good at home there was no need to move out. I hear some teenagers express the same sentiment?

After a few days they began doing small excursions into the new territory. A couple of weeks later, and our planned expansion was working exquisitely… I would occasionally drive down the hill and admire the strong healthy pumpkin vines. The same rain that saw to the vigorous grass growth was nurturing our cucurbit crop . Then it happened, on Wednesday I admired the runners on one of the newer pumpkin patches. On Thursday not a leaf was left. No vines, no leaves, just the odd fully grown and now naked pumpkin sitting in the middle of the paddock. Either sometime between 5pm Wednesday and 5pm Thursday an alien space craft landed and stole every living trace of our pumpkin vines, or on this day the goats decided they liked vegetables after all.

The goats are all healthy. Bob the boy goat has grown into Bob the Buck. Bob’s become a bit more stubborn with his new found adulthood. While he’ll still come up for a friendly scratch, any interaction now commands attention and respect. There was a time when a gentile push would deter our young buck. Now you need a firm stance and a willingness to tackle like Jonathon Thurston, if you want to get between Bob and a bucket of feed. He’s got a set of horns that’d put a bulbar on a road train to shame. He’s filled out and fattened up… and if you don’t think that’s enough, he stinks like three day old road kill. Yep, change of cloths and three hot showers later and you’ll still be reminded of him every time you raise your hands to your face. It reminds me of the kids on camping weekends… … …

The girl goats are all doing well. A bit to well, in some regards… Having finally weaned the last lot of offspring, the buggers have started taking turns at teasing Bob the Buck…

I now see what it must be like for rock stars and celebrities. Hordes of adoring fans clambering for attention. The more amorous girls are out there taking turns in parading up and down the fence beside Bob’s paddock, calling out Baaa, Baaaaaa… We Love you Bob…. We Looove you Bobbbbb. I’m sure they’re only doing it to tease him… watching him snort and grunt as they get him all worked up, while they continue calling out…Bob… … … We Love You Boobbbbbbb… After a few days of it, they get bored and leave him alone. But before long another one of the girls starts prancing up and down the fence waving her tail and calling his name. It’s like a scene from an early Tom Jones concert.

We regularly give our goats a bit of extra sustenance dear reader, even when the grass is high and good eating. A bit of chaff with some minerals or soaked grain mixed through. It lets them know we care, and keeps them used to being handled for when we need to trim their hooves. Every afternoon between four and five o’clock, the herd meanders back to the homestead and looks expectantly over the fence at us.

Well, yesterday afternoon, when I got home, I was surprised to see a rather large and contented Bob, laying down between his adoring groupies and the feed drums. Hmmm… It seems the sturdy fence is adequate for Bob the Boy goat, but not adequate enough for Bob the Randy goat… and come spring, at least one of the lady goats is going to be participating in Motherhood.

Bugger….We’re now anticipating more hoofed friends peering expectantly over the fence at us… … … And with the aliens stealing our pumpkin patches… It’ll be spicy ruminant curries as winter sets in, instead of the eagerly anticipated pumpkin soup. (And if the aliens didn’t eat our pumpkins, revenge won’t be sweet this year, it will be spicy instead).

Check Out Our Face book Page

0 notes

wamurancountrylife · 6 years

Text

Mooving Along

(function(d, s, id) { var js, fjs = d.getElementsByTagName(s)[0]; if (d.getElementById(id)) return; js = d.createElement(s); js.id = id; js.src = 'https://connect.facebook.net/en_GB/sdk.js#xfbml=1&version=v2.12'; fjs.parentNode.insertBefore(js, fjs); }(document, 'script', 'facebook-jssdk'));

We’ve become entrepreneurial dear reader…

It’s not enough just to sit back and watch our chicken and snake population look for equilibrium, or to marvel at how well our goat flock is munching its way through our Kids inheritance... We went and invested in the stock market again… In times of prosperity, it’s hard to not get swept up in the euphoria and excitement of it all. All the talk in recent times of bear markets and bull markets, yields and return ratios… It had us feeling like we were missing out. We considered going to one of those fancy investment advisors, or of looking for a stock broker, but when a friend said he simply buys direct and saves the overheads we figured he must be onto something.

Throwing caution to the wind, we told him to include us in any future deals. We did our due diligence (or so I thought)… Don’t invest in any hedge funds, you never know when your fancy hedge could dry and wither, or worse, go up in smoke. I’d heard of IPO’s, but none of the books I’ve got at home could tell me anything about them. We read about not putting all your eggs in one basket, but the chooks lay a fresh lot every day so I couldn’t see what the problem was with that bit of advice. So we sent our trusted friend off with a fist full of money, and told him that we wanted good quality stock… Oh… and we didn’t want any of those junk bonds either.

Well dear reader, apparently the bull market was going gangbusters… Our friend returned with a trailer load of them…

Now a herd of cows might not be your first thought when it comes to thinking of investing. And all investments can have their ups and downs. Our “mini moo” herd had a hard time of it at first. They were bottle fed for the first couple of months, and a dodgy batch of milk formula nearly did them all in. Who’d have guessed that the very stuff you’re feeding them, to keep ‘em alive, is the stuff that’s making them so weak they can hardly stand. A huge thanks to Paul and his family is due here, for I’m sure that more than one of these cows, owes its existence to his perseverance and tenacity.

Anyway, over time their health was restored, and at least with this stock we can watch it grow!

Another thing I’ve noticed, having raised chickens, and goats, and now cows… is these things take eating seriously. For a goat, eating is a hobby. They nibble a bit of grass, then taste a few shrubs, then they move and nibble a bit from your rose garden before laying down and contemplating life. Our cows, they leave the barn before daylight. From dawn to dusk they can be spotted anywhere out in the paddock slowly eating their way up and down the hill. Then, just before it gets so dark you can’t see your own hand, they meander back up to the homestead. My initial research said one cow would eat as much as four sheep or goats do. From what I can see I think they meant if you run out of grass, one cow will eat four sheep or goats.

Now I’ve had my fair share of adventure dear reader. I’ve raced sailing yachts and sailed across oceans. I’ve climbed cliff faces and vertical mountain sides, where finger holds were the only thing stopping gravity from providing my early demise. I took up cross country mountain bike riding many years ago, with a passion verging on irrational… and I’ve even upset my wife on the odd occasion and lived to tell the tale… but if you want to know what fear truly is… if you want to expose yourself to the possibility of pain and trauma… try running barefoot through our paddock with three, four hundred kilo steers chasing after you,

Not chasing you because they hate you, not chasing you to keep you away… but chasing you because they want a hug!

Well… back to this stock market stuff and investing… Apparently the big money is when you can float things on the stock market, and It’s been a bit wet up here recently…

Does anyone know how to put together one of those share market floats… and more importantly, how do you launch it?

Check Out Our Face book Page

#Stock Market Investing #Bull Market #Cow Hugs #How to put all your eggs in one basket and still sleep well at night

0 notes

wamurancountrylife · 6 years

Text

Update from the Resort.

It’s been a while dear reader, and we appreciate the many requests for updates and news.

(function(d, s, id) { var js, fjs = d.getElementsByTagName(s)[0]; if (d.getElementById(id)) return; js = d.createElement(s); js.id = id; js.src = 'https://connect.facebook.net/en_GB/sdk.js#xfbml=1&version=v2.12'; fjs.parentNode.insertBefore(js, fjs); }(document, 'script', 'facebook-jssdk'));

We’ve had a bit of rain recently, and it’s as wet as a Shag up here at the Rustic Resort… So it’s the perfect opportunity for me to sit down, pour myself a glass of wine, and tell you what’s been happening on the farm. Now, before I give you the update on the flock, I can hear our overseas readers asking what a Shag is and why it’s wet… so as a good Aussie bloke, I feel It’s my duty to enlighten our offshore friends.

In Australia, lots of words can have two meanings…Shag Is the common name for a bird called a Cormorant… And it’s also the thing that a man and a woman do in the bed room, when they want to express how much they really really like each other. The cormorant’s a water bird, so it’s pretty easy to see how things could get as wet as a Shag… As for the other meaning… well, here in Australia in summer, it can get really hot and humid, so if the man and the woman are shagging, and one of them is having trouble finding that happy moment… then they’re likely to find themselves as wet as a Cormorant by the time they’ve finished expressing their feelings... … …So now that I’ve explained how much rain we’ve had this summer, I should update our regular readers on the status of our herd of chickens.

Now it’s not been an easy time for the chooks, and we’ve realised we’re rather short on English Gentry up here at Wamuran Heights… The sight of horses and hounds, trouncing through the countryside in search of foxes, would see the chickens lining the streets to show their appreciation. You see, our chook population was decimated by a ravenous carnivore. The poultry flocks on all the neighbouring properties have also been pruned to near extinction, and our own flock was decimated not once, but three times. If you know of any English Nobility that could offer to hold a hunt for us it would be appreciated. We’d even chough up an offer of tea and scones to reward the successful expedition…

After the carnage, our “Spotty Hen” did the right thing and began to sit on a clutch of eggs… so in support, we stuffed all the other girls cackle-berries under her bum to boost the numbers. It didn’t go well dear reader! After a few false starts Spotty hatched six fresh and healthy chooklets. The problem was, Mr Python found out and started treating the nesting box as his personal buffet.

So we plugged the holes to keep out Mr Snake, and in the dark of night… we slipped a half a dozen fresh chicks from another farm under Spottys plumage. This worked fantastically. Come dawn, muma chook was proudly strutting around the countryside showing off her brood to anyone that cared to notice… Problem was, that night… another hungry serpent raided the roost and again wiped out most of the flock. Now I don’t give up easily dear reader! I went out and purchased another clutch of very expensive three day old chooklets, and once again snuck them under muma chooks bum in the dark of night. But this time, I set up a brooder box inside the screened off deck attached to the Luxury Donga.

Success… or so we thought!

But no, a python found its way into our lounge room, and at two in the morning we were woken to find chickens scurrying around and Mr Python with one half way down his throat. Did someone hang a neon sign out the front that said come on in, all the chicken you can eat? Next day, I nailed a lid on the brooder box, and fixed the flap on the dog door… And two nights later… … … while I was away earning enough money to pay for all the chickens we’ve been feeding to the local wild life, another carpet snake made it’s way inside, in an effort to reduce our chook population. This time however it couldn’t get to them, but rather than give up, it settled for coiling up on the lid of the nesting box, waiting for the canteen to open up in the morning.

Wifeypoo was very surprised when she woke up… and she did extremely well under trying circumstances. Armed with nothing more than a broom, kitchen tongs, and a love of poultry… she gave the teenage Carpet Python a good talking too.

The word is, that there’s a place up the road with a snake problem, after my beloved and the reptile went for a long drive into the countryside.

I’d tell you about or flock of goats also… but it’s getting late dear reader… … my glass is empty…. … … and it’s still raining… … …so it’s still as wet as a Shag outside.

Check Out Our Face book Page

#Wet as a Shag #What so snakes like to eat #how to train your wife to catch snakes

0 notes

wamurancountrylife · 7 years

Text

Population Explosion

(function(d, s, id) { var js, fjs = d.getElementsByTagName(s)[0]; if (d.getElementById(id)) return; js = d.createElement(s); js.id = id; js.src = "//connect.facebook.net/en_US/sdk.js#xfbml=1&version=v2.10"; fjs.parentNode.insertBefore(js, fjs); }(document, 'script', 'facebook-jssdk'));

We have clear responsibilities at The Rustic Resort. My wife is in charge of the house, the bank accounts, the animal husbandry… and the shopping. Me, I’m in charge of construction, maintenance, killing things that shouldn’t be walking across the ceiling at night, heavy lifting, and removal of anything stinky from the property.

Now this may not be your ideal system, but for us it works. The problem is; my wife often goes to work and leaves me alone for long periods. We both have dreams and aspirations of retirement. Of sitting back sipping chardonnay while we work on getting the undersides of our toes suntanned… but the reality is quite different. The reality is a juggling act with full time work, a flock of livestock that looks at us with high expectations, and a “to do” list that sees me brushing my teeth next in the year 2768.

I’ve said many times that I’m new to this livestock caper, the pineapple farms I was raised on were far simpler in comparison. At present we have two paddocks fenced, and another five kilometres of posts and wire to layout before we get close to full capacity. Stage two of our fencing is expected to start early next year, so anyone wanting to toss in their gym membership and tramp around the side of a mountain dragging telegraph poles and roles barbed wire is welcome to join in.

You’ll be happy to hear the goat flock is doing spectacularly well. So well in fact, that they doubled their population. But I don’t deal well with the whole birthing thing dear reader… Now many people describe watching a birth, as the most miraculous thing they ever witnessed. I couldn’t even watch the birth of my own children. I’m sorry, but standing there while someone I love screams in pain while trying to excrete something the size of a rockmelon, through an orifice the size of an egg - just doesn’t seem like a fun Sunday afternoon. So, when one of our goat flock decided at 8pm on Wednesday night… while the misses was away trying to pay for their food bill… that “Now” was a good time to experience motherhood… it left me with no option but to play goat doctor.

I’m still not enamoured with the process dear reader, but our local turkey slayer had experience in this area of life. Armed with a mobile phone, a towel, and goat with a head at each end… I decided it was time to get involved…

The turkey slayer was terrific, she advised me on how to gently pull the goatlet down instead of back… to work with the muma, and time my assistance with her contractions. Her calm voice was reassuring, so with clear instructions I ended the phone call, inspected the two headed goat, and then promptly called back. This happened a few times dear reader.

The Two headed goat was stuck fast… it couldn’t sit, couldn’t walk, and certainly didn’t seem to want to eat. On a closer inspection, the end with the smaller head also had an extra leg. I touched it… nothing happened. I gently tried to pull on the tiny leg… still nothing happened. I was worried if I pulled any harder I might end up with a drumstick in my hand. My instincts were to race up to the shed and grab a chain block and the tyre levers. It looked like Muma’s nether regions were intend on strangling whatever it was that was causing all that pain.

I can tell you dear reader, I’ll be glad when the misses gets back and takes over this midwife thing. I would have happily hooked the tractor to the front, and tied the second head to a tree if it wasn’t so hard to grab a hold of.

That night two things happened. The two headed goat survived, and became a mother with two perfect healthy goatlets… and I got to appreciate that I only have to lift heavy stuff and kill things that crawl across the ceiling at night.

Click Here to read our updated Donations page

Check Out Our Face book Page

#goat midwife #you have to be kidding #I'm only good for lifting heavy things #two headed goat #goat puppies

0 notes

wamurancountrylife · 7 years

Text

Our Breeding Program

(function(d, s, id) { var js, fjs = d.getElementsByTagName(s)[0]; if (d.getElementById(id)) return; js = d.createElement(s); js.id = id; js.src = "//connect.facebook.net/en_US/sdk.js#xfbml=1&version=v2.9"; fjs.parentNode.insertBefore(js, fjs); }(document, 'script', 'facebook-jssdk'));

Breeding quality livestock isn’t easy dear reader. In years gone by, the upper class of our world knew the importance of blood lines and heritage. Members of Monarchies and Aristocracies had to ensure they shagged the right people, or risk tainting the royal blood.

With our third generation of Roosters now chasing the feathered folk around, we see first hand the importance of good bloodlines. The influence of our first rooster “Boy Chook”, in the stature and strength of his descendants is clear. Boy Chook sired “Speckled Rooster”… And in one single clutch of eggs, “Speckled Rooster” sired nine new roosters. (The image below is “Boy Chook”)

Now the upside of us not having TV, is having lots of time to reflect. One of the benefits of all this rooster raising, was the ability to observe Rooster Dad and his son’s. The Alpha Male’s imperative. He’s the Leader, the protector of his harem. He takes them on forays, and he keeps the young-uns’ in line. If the young upstart corners a hen, and tries to throw his leg over… Alpha chook races over to protect the modesty of his concubine. If the young-un keeps pestering the ladies, he gets rounded up by angry Alpha Dude.

In our society, in years gone by… If the friendly Police Sergent noticed one of the lads getting into mischief, and a serious conversation was needed - a size 10 boot would be inserted “where the sun don’t shine”. In most cases… this was all that was needed to assist in redirecting the journey from rambunctious teenager to young adult. It seems in this day and age, that we’ve lost our Alpha Male. I think we need more good roosters…

But I’ve become distracted dear reader… I was telling you about the importance of breeding. You see, I’ve also been observing our flock of Goats. Two girls in our initial herd came to us knocked up. We never got to meet their suitor, and to this day we have no idea of his ethnic or religious background… But from one of our two party girls, came “Bob the Boy Goat”. Now having helped raise my own boys, I know how important it is for kids to have a good role model. And with no male goats around, I was worried that Bob wouldn’t get the kind of up-bringing a young adolescent boy goat needs. It turns out that I’ve let our young buck down. His mums were “Good Time Gals”… out purely to enjoy themselves and with little regard for the consequences. Well, as they say… the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree!

You see dear reader, We separated Bob from the herd when he was five months old. We wanted to make certain that he could have a safe and stable upbringing, free from having to worry about responsibilities. We wanted Bob to be a proud goat, a gentile goat… yes, even a noble goat.

Instead… … … we got this… … …

Well, from “Good Time Mum”, comes “Good Time Bob”.

We would like to introduce you to some of his eight perfectly healthy and happy offspring... Goat Puppies, Sired before he’d even started shaving!

The twins below are only a couple of hours old

Oh well, at least Bob’s not on welfare or doing drugs…

Click Here to read our updated Donations page

Check Out Our Face book Page

#Bob has good goat seeds #Goat Puppies #Where are all the good roosters

0 notes

wamurancountrylife · 7 years

Text

Embracing the Ridiculous

(function(d, s, id) { var js, fjs = d.getElementsByTagName(s)[0]; if (d.getElementById(id)) return; js = d.createElement(s); js.id = id; js.src = "//connect.facebook.net/en_US/sdk.js#xfbml=1&version=v2.9"; fjs.parentNode.insertBefore(js, fjs); }(document, 'script', 'facebook-jssdk'));

It’s our yearly celebration dear reader… the time of year when we rejoice in our neighbours’ tolerance, our existence, and we pay thanks to those that have helped or supported us along the way.

This year we kicked things off with the inaugural Wamuran Country Life “Politically Incorrect Games”. A raucous set of activities devised to help alleviate the mental suffering imposed upon us by our elected officials and biased bureaucrats. The outcome was a healing experience for all those present The curative outcome was so strong, that some guests even had religious experiences. More than once, I overheard exclamations of “Oh God” or “Dear Lord”.

Guests were instructed to assemble in teams, and they then participated in a range of challenges, designed to assist everyday Aussies in making sense of the modern world we now find ourselves in. We starting things off by learning how to deal with someone that’s “Full of Shit”. A big thanks here to the manufacturers of Sorbent toilet paper.

Next up, was a training activity to assist in safeguarding our community. Called “Spot the Jihadist”, our teams were sent off in search of Chocolate extremist effigies hiding around the resort. Never before have I witnessed so many people so determined to safeguard our way of life. While no one was injured, I can report that all terror threats were located and devoured. It’s nice to know that should we come under attack from Cadbury, my friends are now well equipped to defend us.

I would also like to thank the Dieticians association for holding the desert judging finals at our humble bush bash. Here our contestants can be seen making the most of an offering from our esteemed local bakery. We felt the enthusiasm they showed for the humble carrot cake would make any dessert chef proud.

Both of our team events, “Holler Like a hillbilly” and “The Retard Relay” were keenly contested. The perpetual trophy for the grand finale… “The Insult Hurling Competition” went to Mr Matt from Brisbane. I’d love to share his thoughts with the rest of you, but I was laughing so much I can’t remember half of what the contestants were shouting out. My thanks to the three judges who made the final decision, as without them I fear we could have had a lynching.

Our entertainment this year was supplied by Julian and Tenile from the Jazz Music Institute in Brisbane. Later, as the evening continued, we gathered around a series of small camp fires to share stories and red cordial. And a big thankyou to everyone for making this years Bush Bash truly the best one ever. The food was astonishing. Greg’s Lemon Meringue Pie was truly the best I’ve ever tasted, and the heart felt offering from Leslie was so good I didn’t need breakfast the next day.

Unfortunately the marshmallow toasting that we planned had to be abandoned for safety reasons. It seems the free eyebrow singe that went with it was too much for the revellers. A couple camping on the beach at Moreton Island rang the next day to thank us for the free light show, and to ask if we could do it again the next night as it was getting a bit cool over there.

My beloved even opened up her private petting zoo, much to the enjoyment of our friends and guests. We may have to increase our security measures for the next gathering… some of the livestock were at severe risk of abduction.

Rest assured dear reader, planning has already begun for next years event!

Click Here to read our updated Donations page

Check Out Our Face book Page

#Politically Incorrect Games #Now That's a Bonfire #Wamuran Country Life #My Wife has a Petting Zoo

0 notes

wamurancountrylife · 7 years

Text

How to tell if your partner’s cut out for country living

(function(d, s, id) { var js, fjs = d.getElementsByTagName(s)[0]; if (d.getElementById(id)) return; js = d.createElement(s); js.id = id; js.src = "//connect.facebook.net/en_US/sdk.js#xfbml=1&version=v2.9"; fjs.parentNode.insertBefore(js, fjs); }(document, 'script', 'facebook-jssdk'));

Now my Beloved’s pretty special. A true life partner, with grace, dignity and style… So when I dragged her away from city life and forced her to buy her first pair of gum boots, I wasn’t quite certain if she would adapt or if I’d have to learn to cook for myself again. The enthusiasm wifeypoo has for our adventures quite often surprises me dear reader. Well I can now say, most certainly… that my Bride’s become a country chick. Normally a bloke wanting to impress a Sheila, will race off and buy some chocolates or flowers. If he’s been acting like a jerk, or looking to make a bigger impression, he’ll be giving the credit card a workout at the jewellery store. So what did I do? I brought my bride a Ute.

What convinced me that Schatzi felt at home at our Rustic Resort, wasn’t the appreciation she showed for her Ute… but was instead, what she did with it. Now I’m not for one second going to comment on the passion with which she now roars around the farm. Steering wheel clasped firmly, as though holding the reigns of a feisty stallion… It makes me smile dear reader... Some people drive as though the vehicle is a delicate thing, and the wheels may fall off at any moment. Wonder Wife takes her Ute by the scruff of its neck, and together they look like a rodeo rider astride a wild bull, bucking and leaping around our mountain tracks – in a manner that causes even Ziegfreid to occasionally decide to run instead of ride in the back.

Another of wifeypoo’s pastimes is the local Wamuran community art classes. And recently she had the entire class up at the resort for a field trip and a lunch outing. I probably shouldn’t have been surprised…

I guess you could say she’s adapted pretty well to this country life?

Click Here to read our updated Donations page

Check Out Our Face book Page

#Chicken Truck #Girls Ute #My Wife the Rally Driver #Wamuran Country Life

0 notes

wamurancountrylife · 7 years

Text

To work, or not to work…

(function(d, s, id) { var js, fjs = d.getElementsByTagName(s)[0]; if (d.getElementById(id)) return; js = d.createElement(s); js.id = id; js.src = "//connect.facebook.net/en_US/sdk.js#xfbml=1&version=v2.8"; fjs.parentNode.insertBefore(js, fjs); }(document, 'script', 'facebook-jssdk'));

I get fed well. I often gloat that I’m a lucky man, and I’m not shy about telling you why. I have a wonderful bride that spent the first portion of her working life as a pastry chef… And tonight, once again I had to suffer my way through a banquet of nutritious and delicious food. But as good as the food here at the Rustic Resort is, I’ve been a bit distracted dear reader.

Recently I was offered a young Boer Buck to add to our flock of goats. He’s a healthy buck from a different bloodline, and it was put to me that he had no work, and he needed some room to roam along with some females to woo. Well this got me thinking dear reader. When should Bob the boy goat be put to work? How old does a goat need to be, before stepping up and accepting adult responsibilities. This work thing’s not just limited to goats. All throughout the livestock industry there’s an acceptance that the bull needs to work. That he needs to breed with his brood and sire offspring. Our roosters seemed to like the task! At one point they worked so much, the backs of the hens either had a rooster attached, or at the very least, the fresh foot prints from one.

Now I’m not an expert in this livestock stuff. Bob the Boy Goat certainly seems to have the fishing tackle for the job. And the whole reason he was banished to his own paddock was to prevent him sowing seeds in pastures… that were… ammm… not yet mature enough to have goat seed sowed in them…

So I asked Professor Google for some help dear reader. I learnt that a three year old buck, can satisfy a herd of up to forty sheilas. I also learnt the importance of keeping the Buck well fed. It seems that when he’s out and working, he can lose as much as twenty kilos trying to keep all those sheilas happy and contented. Google also told me that while he could do the job as early as four months old, it was best to let him have his first year in freedom, without the strenuous task of making sure the harem was satisfied and feeling the love. It turns out you don’t just throw the little buggers in the paddock and let them sort it out for themselves. It seems sex education goaty style is more complicated than I thought. Now I like to think I’m not old fashioned, but life can get busy and complicated with just me and the missus. I’m buggered if I’d want another thirty breasted folk hanging around hoping for some cuddles and a bit of action.

But back to this work thing… My recollection of the modern dating rituals for us humans is now starting to make more sense. The bloke has to impress the Sheila. This could be by spending every other moment in a gym trying to look like Arnold Schwarzenegger, or by having a fatter wallet that the other guy, or a louder car. And it’s different for each Sheila… so you’re never going to know if you have to spend more time in the gym, or more time at the exhaust shop… Then having managed to catch her eye, our poor unsuspecting bloke now has to pretend he no longer farts. He’s also now going to pretend he always gets his hair cut that way and that he always shaves twice a day, even when he’s not hoping to get lucky. It’s no wonder the livestock industry calls it as it is… it’s work… nothing more and nothing less.

For Bob the Boy Goat, all we have to do is feed him “quality rations” during the breeding season, to keep him in good shape. Once again the penny’s dropped dear reader. For anyone that’s not met me, I’m a skinny bugger… I never could hold the weight on, regardless of how much bacon or ice cream I scoffed down.

Anyway, enough of my ranting. As for me dear reader, it’s late… and I’m well fed… so I’m off to … …err…. … to do some work…

Click Here to read our updated Donations page

Check Out Our Face book Page

#When to put a buck to work #All in a days work #Why am I so skinny #Wamuran Country Life

0 notes

wamurancountrylife · 7 years

Text

Technology, and a plea for help

(function(d, s, id) { var js, fjs = d.getElementsByTagName(s)[0]; if (d.getElementById(id)) return; js = d.createElement(s); js.id = id; js.src = "//connect.facebook.net/en_US/sdk.js#xfbml=1&version=v2.8"; fjs.parentNode.insertBefore(js, fjs); }(document, 'script', 'facebook-jssdk'));

I just purchased a new pair of work boots.

They’re the latest fashion, zippers up the sides, oil resistant soles, steel caps… so if my bride steps on my toes I won’t wince. But the shoes are going through that awkward… “Getting to know you” stage with my feet. The communication’s been a bit stilted… awkward even. It’s the end of day two as I write this dear reader. At the moment my feet feel like the father that just met the new son-in-law for the 1st time, and now they sit across the bar from each other in silence… Dad peering at sons seventeen piercings, son watching the pulsing veins on Dad’s neck.

So as I sit with my feet up, I started to reflect on technology and all its advancements…

I don’t get much help at The Rustic Resort. And my beloved’s not shy on telling me why. I have this habit of working for an hour and half longer than anyone else thinks in reasonable. (my beloved tells me it’s three hours, but I think she’s soft) So as the day progresses, my helper’s mood tends to go from happy, to contented, to fatigued… then they get quiet… and then after it gets dark and they leave, I never see them again. Well I found some help the other day that I didn’t offend. The bride was away again helping to pay for my farming habit, so as daylight filled the sky, I laid out my plans for the days work. My helper was to cut the steel posts to length while I welded the plates onto them. If my help got ahead, it could swap jobs and cut some more steel plates. It was terrific dear reader. We worked in harmony, cutting welding, making stuff. It didn’t seem to matter how bad my jokes were, or what time we stopped.

You see …my help was a mechanical hacksaw, and in 1968 this was the latest technology. I went to lunch, and this thing just keep going. If they had this kind of mechanical mastery back then, what do they have now?

This motor is a Southern Cross Diesel engine.

These things were the draft horse of the mechanical age. This thing’s got more metal in it that a car. Before we moved to our Rustic Resort, it used to turn a water pump on the dam, where it would pump water through a 100mm underground pipe to the top of our resort halfway up the mountainside. The motor is a three cylinder YBF series, and it’s from the same era as our Ruggedly Handsome Truck. These motors were sturdy, reliable… and would just about run forever. We’d love to see one back on the dam, chugging away on those hot summer days, irrigating the brides prized tamarillo plants and pushing water up for the flock of goats.

This motor now belongs to my mate Lew, the good looking digger driver from down on the coast. Well, Lew and I would love to see the old girl restored to running condition. To hear the steady note from the old slow revving stationary engine echo across the hills again would bring a smile to our faces, and quite possibly a tear to the eye. But for us to get her up and running as good as the old hacksaw, we need a few bits… and the big one, the hardest one to get… is the injector pump. So if any of our dear readers has a similar old girl in bits in the back of your shed, or if grandpa has one of these that he’s willing to part with, drop us a note so we can coax her back to life.

But now, back to my feet and those good looking boots. After my quiet reflection Dear Reader, I’ve figured it out. These new boots of mine, the ones that would rather my feet change shape, instead of them comforting and cradling my feet - are the shoe equivalent of those new petrol powered water pumps... They rev harder, wear out sooner, and you need a phd degree to fix em when the warning light comes on…

So… does anyone know where I can buy some old boots?

Click Here to read our updated Donations page

Check Out Our Face book Page

#Cool Old Shit #Southern Cross YFB Diesel Motor #These Boots Were Made For Walking #Any Home Remedies for sore feet #Wamuran Country Life

0 notes

wamurancountrylife · 7 years

Text

Our Confused Livestock…

(function(d, s, id) { var js, fjs = d.getElementsByTagName(s)[0]; if (d.getElementById(id)) return; js = d.createElement(s); js.id = id; js.src = "//connect.facebook.net/en_US/sdk.js#xfbml=1&version=v2.8"; fjs.parentNode.insertBefore(js, fjs); }(document, 'script', 'facebook-jssdk'));

We’re doing something wrong dear reader… Our livestock keeps getting confused.

It all started with “Chook”, the slightly confused Cockatiel. Having mastered the great nursery rhyme from 1853, “Pop Goes the Weasel”…Wonder Wife had a crack at teaching our house pet the all time classic… the theme to “The Adams Family”. Chook took to this with great enthusiasm, but then every evening we got a ballad from our little companion that blurred the two together… terribly. Then while away on holidays our Neighbour, pet sitting for us, taught the little cherub a new and even more interesting whistle. So now our little rodent sized rooster simply waits for us to be on the phone before impressing the listener with his avant-garde musical skills.

Zigfreid the Chicken Herder isn’t any better. He’s not just infatuated with his flock of teenage roosters down the hill. He’s also at various times been enamoured with the goats, the Speckled Rooster, our Black hens, the generator, the Chainsaw, and Pushy the Bulldozer. He particularly likes the chainsaw and The Ruggedly Handsome Truck… It’s a hard life being a farm dog, but when you have to decide between shouting at the Chainsaw and rounding up goats - life can get busy. Ziggy’s latest pastime however, apart from being a parent to a bunch of teenage roosters - is rounding up Bob the Boy Goat and Henry the Goat Gelding.

And our herd of Roosters down the hill aren’t any better. They think Zigfreid is a black furry chicken parent. The chickens at the top of the hill think my Wonder Wife is the fairy god mother, and they’ve also been known to snatch the dog bones from Ziggy and run off with them… leaving a bewildered and confused big black dog looking into and empty food bowl.

Bob the Boy Goat thinks he’s a farm dog. When I work in his paddock, he wanders over and checks out what I’m up to, and then often curls up in the shade beside the toolbox for a nap. Bob likes to hang out on the slasher, he likes having his back scratched… and here, he’s overseeing my work from the back of The Ruggedly Handsome Truck.

But it’s not always fun and games managing our herd dear reader; you see, we had to separate our flock of goats. I don’t like to intervene in family matters… and the decision to relocate Bob and Henry didn’t come easy. But there’s a reason Bob was banished…

Trying to massage his sisters ovaries just isn’t right… … ever… …

Post Scrip. After the move, Bob also tried to massage Henry the goat geldings ovaries, and he doesn’t have any… sigh…. Oh well

Click Here to read our updated Donations page

Check Out Our Face book Page

#Goats make great pets #Chickens steal dog bone #Ruggedly Handsome Truck #Bob the Boy Goat #Wamuran Country Life

0 notes