Splitting up

There is a difference between Mark going off to the farm to split logs and me going to the farm to split logs.

The difference is that at the end of the day, when Mark is windswept with sore shoulders, he comes back home and somebody very helpful has washed up the pots, swept the kitchen, made some biscuits for him to have with his cup of tea, and hung up the washing.

This is quite a significant difference.

I rushed off to the farm as soon as I had finished the morning jobs, because the weather forecast is not looking very promising for the next few days, and if it snows we will not be able to get along the track to the farm.

It would be most frustrating to have no firewood because it was all sitting in a snowdrift.

Both dogs came with me, which relieved us from the inquisitive sheep. Sheep are sensible enough to know a reckless idiot when they see one, and they all sloped off to the other end of the field, which was in any case where their stack of hay had been left.

Roger Poopy charged about throwing a stick for himself and then rushing after it.

His father lay in the grass and watched him, resignedly.

I dragged the logs out and bashed them into submission with the log splitter.

It is a nice thing to do.

Obviously it is not a nice thing to do in the sense that watching a film with a glass of good wine and a takeaway Chinese is a nice thing to do. If that is your only definition of a good time then splitting logs on a windswept fell side in February is a bit of a non-starter.

All the same, it is satisfying to know that your house is being warmed by your own efforts.

All the logs we are burning now have been split by me. They are piled up next to the fire and stacked tidily in the yard.

It is hard work, because they seem to have been especially knotty sort of trees, and knots do not split very easily. Also they are not quite dry, which means that sometimes the axe gets stuck when you hit them, and has got to be knocked out again using a handy half-brick.

I am going to bring the chainsaw if I can tomorrow, which will help a bit.

I slung another stack into the boot of the car and rushed off home, where I had washing to hang up and a list of things that were still in the Co-op but needed really to be in our fridge, and by the time I had done all of that it was two o’clock and time for breakfast.

I might make my trousers loose again if this carries on.

After that I had to rush about a bit more, because Elspeth was coming across so that we could go for a walk down to the lake, and I wanted to dust things and hoover first, what a virtuous housewife I am. Actually the creative project in Oliver’s bedroom seemed to have left a trail of debris all the way through the house, from sawdusty footprints and abandoned dust sheets on the stairs, to tins of paint dumped in the conservatory.

I hurled the lot into the dustbin and was just hoovering the stairs when Elspeth pulled up outside.

We walked down to the lake, and talked about sailing whilst the dogs rushed about and sniffed the keen wind.

It was an ace walk, but blustery and cold. The lake had little white tops on the ripples, and the chill bit my fingers.

I was not sorry to get home.

Now that I have sat down in front of the computer I seem to have developed some unexpected aches. It seems to have been a busy day.

I might just go to bed.