My Stables Roof .....

  I need to clear a bottle neck here. I mean, this is Old news! Only, it ~ and what's followed it ~ has become so all encompassing in my life that I've barely been able to think of, much less write of, anything else.

  So, let me tell and show ye about my stables roof. Then I can intersperse with a few more odds and sods, bringing us bang up to date.

  I bought this stable from Pat. Only, it wasn't a stable then. It was an eight cow cow shed and pen. Stone built and asbestos roofed. Long since disused. It, at first, had a Hay Barn (What you may know as a " Dutch Barn ") on one side. A storm tore that down years ago.

  So, there's Donks and Rosie, tucked in there at night. Full time in the winters. Barricaded into the back half. Free access to the pen.

Ye know; I genuinely can't even remember how I tried to keep them back there, before Pat came along and did some wizardry with welding. Next thing, I had a sound gate and a double bay divided for them to feed in.

  Only remaining problem was the roof. The barn collapsing had fractured the asbestos. A winter or twos more Tin Tester gales had done the roof no more good. 

  My horses were now getting water pissed onto their heads and hay.  I was struggling to keep their stored hay out of the leaking areas. Timbers was rotting like pears. Another winter and the whole fucking lot could collapse.

  This was what I was looking at:

  Left of centre, ye can see where the roof's started caving in, look. And see that beam laying there? Encouraging the rain to join it ~ on my horses backs! What's a man to do?

  Off it fucking came then! Was gonna come off anyway. Pat ensured it came off the right way! Then, we made all that abby go away .....

  Days later ~ during good weather ~ I got up to find a team of maniacs on my land! WTF....?! Humping. Hammering. Hefting. 

And then, the old and rotten timbers of my stable roof had been replaced with expertly grafted, brand new, tanalised  stuff!

   In all honesty, I went out there, really just to see what they were up to. Thought I'd better offer them tea, or something.

  You ever actually seen a gang of Irishmen Work?!? It was fucking Scary!!!

  I, obviously, found myself roped into lending someone a hand, helping pass a sheet up, here and there. I was thinking how nice it'd all be, in a few days, when it was finished.

  Like rabid fucking locusts, they were! I've never seen anything like it! Look!

  And did all this clamouring, shouting, banging and bashing faze my horses, as it went off over their heads? 

  What do You think?! Donks couldn't give a fuck about Anything. And Rosie Horse is a perfect example of a Gypsy Cob! " WW3 Above My Head? ..... Fuck It! I see hay! "

   Anyway, yeah; Whole fucking roof was put on in a Morning! Guys I'd never even heard of just turned up out of no where. Then vanished, before I'd even had a chance to ask who they were. Where they'd come from. What they'd like to drink!

   They left me with this:

  In A Morning!!!  I'm still totally aghast. 

  Plasticised steel, that is. Green! I could have had white and saved myself a third of the cost. What, and laid out a fucking great white flag? Like; " Hey! Look! I'm Here! Come check me out! "  Fuck that! No. My green roof melds into the back ground. Worth every extra penny.

  And, for the eagle eyed among ye? Yes, that's a clear plastic skylight, over the far, top end of the roof. Horses now live and feed in dry, bright, daylit space!

There's so much more to add. Much more been done for the horses. More yet to be done. I just don't want this to become a horse oriented Blog. 

  Who fancies a bit of Trail Cam footage next?  

Sometimes It's Nice To Be Nice .....

  Even to a Courier ....!

  I just bought myself a Trail Cam, see. From england. So, I also sent for an SD Card for it, within Eire. I bought the batteries, in town, the other day. All I need now is the camera.

  Sat here this afternoon. Minding my own business. Phone rings. " Hullo, Ditch? This is some or other couriers firm. Where are you? "

  Now, I've had a decade of this now. You lot dealing with the Royal Mail just love to knock them, if a letter doesn't turn up or ~ god forbid ~ a package doesn't arrive on the hour.

  Let me tell ye; You just fucking wait till Uncle Ian gets his way ~ and ye've just handed him a vote of confidence to go for it! ~ You too will see what it's like living in the postal equivalent of a third world shit hole.

  So, anyway, I explain to this guy that I live out along the road between the middle of no where and that town with the population of about forty. And, I'm .....

  Oh, fuck it. Look; Come out of there, for x miles. I'll come up to the road and try to flag ye down .....

  Off I go and spend nearly an hour looking like geriatric, rural rough trade, standing around on the roadside, nodding at passing motors.

  Finally figuring it should have taken him ten fucking minutes, I ring him back. Answering machine! 

  Well, that's it, isn't it? There's me, storming back down the track, mood getting blacker with every step ~ and there's a Lot of them involved too.

  Come in here and I'm trying to check the senders get out policies. Like, this thing's liable to be sent back to them, marked as " Undeliverable ~ No Such Address ". Despite my SD Card coming today. By Postman. He finds my fucking address!

  Then, I've thought about the Councillors I helped vote in. Might ....? No. Frankly. I voted for them. They got their 'Job' ~ and get paid for it. Experience has shown though; Actually ask them to fucking DO anything ....?!?

  An Post ~ the Irish Post Office? Just like any other state sponsored outfit; They just talk down to ye like ye a cunt.  They know ye impotent and their very tone of voice rubs ye face in it. 

  What the Fuck to do ....? And then the phone rings. It's the courier again. " Hullo? Ditch? Is there any chance I could deliver this tomorrow ....? "

  And I just switched off. I went into 'Talking to some poor cunt who's been screaming around half of Eire, all day. No sat nav. No road names. Not even numbers on the houses in the towns ..... Trying to find strangers and buying his own petrol to do it, on minimum wage or below.' mode.

  I no longer take it out on these poor bastards. They have to do it, or lose their dole. Catch twenty two. 

  When I told him that that would be no problem, ye could almost Feel the weight lift off him. " I've still got to get back to the depot, in Sligo, see? And, I've been up since 05:30 this morning. I'm so tired ..... "

  Poor bastard! At Least thirteen fucking hours then!!! And he's no youngster. Tell by his voice. I said he should ring me back, tomorrow. I'd talk him in. He'd never find my turn off otherwise.

  When I threw in my usual; " Liam Neeson couldn't fucking find me! " He laughed so hard I thought he would cry. It's not That fucking funny, of course. Poor fucker was releasing the stress. Someone understood and wasn't screaming at him down the phone.

It was nice.