You know that feeling in any sport we’ve ever been privy to, where the whistle/finish line/end is in sight?
That rush of urgency, boost of energy, an inexplicable surge of collective exhilarating dig-down-deepness? It doesn’t matter whether you’re sitting alongside The Bean Counter at Anfield (23 December 2000, Liverpool 4 v Arsenal 0, The Bean Counter was still voiceless on Christmas Day) or shifting from foot to frozen foot down at Soccer Park on a frosty Saturday; you even feel it sprawled on the sofa in front of the roaring woodburner watching a bunch of guys biking through the summery French countryside. Well, this week, for the first time ever, we felt it right here in our own backyard and there wasn’t a referee, competitor, commentator or lycra-clad individual (thankfully) in sight.
This week, for the first time ever, we FELT Spring.
Suddenly, in the chicken coop, all the ladies are strutting about with a definite sense of purpose as if they’ve just woken up after a long and very satisfying slumber, or had a couple of double shot espressos. Well, all except Kiki, the silky, who is hell bent on incubating some eggs but is not that particular about whose eggs they are. Initially we tried to follow all those learned folk’s instructions on how to extract the eggs from under her.
Take it from us: she may be little, but she can strike like a cobra! After witnessing her taking a hunk out of the timidly wielded NBC (nesting box cleaner – okay, it’s an old spatula but it does the job admirably) we retreated, defeated, only to observe her taking a five minute intermission around eleven am each day to visit the Grandpa Feeder and stretch her little chickeny legs. No, we don’t don camouflage gear and facepaint to undertake these nesting box raids (which she greets with a slightly befuddled “now, where did I leave them?” air on her return), but one of us was heard to be humming the theme to The Professionals.
Out in the goat paddock, all is vibrant and fun.
Ruby and Otis move through their days in fits and starts leaping, running and cartwheeling with hooves entangled one moment, crashed out in a slumbering heap of goatie cuteness the next.
Geraldine approaches it all with exasperated tolerance, power eating to keep up with their dietary demands.
While Auntie Leia tuts at the kids behaviour from afar…
and tries not to feel too left out.
The garden is bursting into life. The garlic is progressing nicely, in uniform lines so foreign to the Homestead way of doing things,
the nectarine tree is blossoming promise
and the Homestead’s share of the tulip bulbs given to brighten up the spirits (and gardens) of New Brighton are appearing despite (according, again, to those opinionated learned folks) the lateness of their planting.
Before we embarked on this way of life, Spring meant lighter mornings and pretty trees, later lighting of the wood burner and different vegetables becoming available in the shops. We didn’t know it was a feeling.
Here on the Homestead, every moment is fizzing with excitement; buzzing with urgency. As we go about our daily doings we can feel it, we’re part of it.
Spring is in the Air!