Another One Of Those Days

Our last remaining kunekune pig died a few days ago, at the age of fifteen. Nellybert are no longer pigkeepers. We won’t be getting any more because, if we did, and they lived out their natural span, we’d both be over 80 by then.

Rusty had been on his own since October, when his sister and lifelong companion, Lily, died.

Back in 2010, I gave in to the fad for keeping a pet pig. Bert wasn’t as enthusiastic, but we had the space, the time, and the money, so he relented. I’d done my research and knew pigs like company, so we got two - a brother and sister we named Rusty and Lily.

They were the cutest piglets

Right from the start it was clear that eating was their prime enjoyment. 

This picture looks gory but fear not - Rusty and Lily are tucking into a big feed of boiled beetroot. That expains the red puddles.

And they got fat. 

Rusty was more prone to ill health than his sister. In his first year, he caught a virulent strain of pneumonia, and the vet doubted he would survive. She gave him antibiotics anyway, and, although he loathed injections, he pulled through.

Five years later, Rusty fell ill again, and we called a vet to the house. He was one of the old-fashioned, no-nonsense sort. After examining Rusty, he pronounced him “foundered.” I wondered aloud if it might help to give the pig a little of the poitín we happened to have in the house. The vet fixed me with a look and said,

“Drink that poitín yourself, and tie a blanket round that pig. Then get him under an infra-red lamp.

Rusty lay under his lamp, cosy in his little warm corner. We brought him grapes, as is the custom for the poorly, along with strawberries and other delicious fruits. We fed him warm liquids, and before long he was on the mend.

And so life with the pigs continued. They went to the fields, they ate sweet grass, they wallowed in mud, they got lots of fruit and vegetable treats. They had a nice life.

And after a good feed, no better way to spend the afternoon - beside the dunghill, soaking up the sun.

There was the occasional home invasion. It wasn't encouraged. 

As they grew older, they slowed down and showed the signs of age. Both had trouble with their teeth, a common issue for kunekunes. For Lily, it was a constant battle, kept at bay with antibiotics. Rusty remained unaffected until the final weeks of his life. When Lily died in October, we worried Rusty would find life lonely without his lifelong companion, even though she had always bullied him.

He coped, staying closer to home. We got to know him better, and he became great friends with Hannah. He knew the sound of her car and would come to the orchard gate to get the fruit she brought for him.

This is one of the last pictures taken of Rusty, in the overgrown orchard - a favourite spot in his final months. He and Lily had always loved the orchard when the apples began to fall. It’s sad that he missed the apples this year.

Rusty died on August 6, 2025.

Remembering Matty On Her Birthday

I used to think my mother would live to be over 90, but it was not to be. She did have what’s often described as a good innings, a cricketing term, I believe. She was almost 85 when she died, which was a decent stretch by any measure.

Today would have been her 99th birthday. We’d have been holding out for one more year and a telegram from the King, but it wasn’t to be.

Still, to mark Matty’s birthday, here’s a wee story about a jaunt we once took to Portglenone. One of the things I’ve missed most since she died are those runs out in the car. She was the best craic as a travelling companion and never, ever criticised my driving. 

This was posted in 2008. Three years before Matty died.

Matty and Hannah and I took a trip to Our Lady of Bethlehem Abbey today. I wanted to get a Mass Card for a friend of ours whose father died earlier this week. I don't understand the etiquette of Mass cards, so I decided to take Matty who knows all the ins and outs.

Matty usually goes to Antrim with her favourite sister-in-law on Saturday mornings, so I phoned first.

You not out with Maud this morning?

No. I told her I just didn't trust my legs today.

Bert and I discussed this over our porridge.

Says she just doesn't trust her legs to go out shopping with Maud.

Why not?

Maybe she's afraid they'll go shoplifting or slope off to score some weed. Or maybe they'll slip into a betting shop and blow the pension on the Grand National.

Happily, she felt that her legs were trustworthy enough to go on a jaunt with Hannah and Nelly.

The Abbey is, like all repositories of rosary beads, Mass cards and religious paraphernalia, a weird and wonderful place. You go in. The first thing that you see is a miniature set of a priest's Mass vestments. You wonder why? Who'd want that? There are shelves and shelves of religious pictures and statues, there are rosary beads galore, there are stands and stands of pre-signed Mass cards. A monk is sitting in the corner to bless the holy stuff you buy for it's no use if it's not blessed. There is Status Quo playing 'Whatever You Want' on the sound system. Whether this was the monk's choice or the delightful young shop assistant's choice, I do not know. Probably the monk, as he was 50+.

I quickly chose my Mass card; a bargain at two quid. Meanwhile, Matty gets heavily involved in a conversation with the shop assistant on the possibilities of buying a book on the life of Saint Anne but said saint being slightly obscure, none was to be found. Matty reports that Anne is the patron saint of grandmothers. With Jesus as her grandchild, she would be, wouldn't she?


I experienced Matty's untrustworthy leg in one of Portglenone's charity shops. She does this genuflection thing with it. She says the strength just leaves her leg for a moment. I tried distraction as a cure and pointed her in the direction of a shelf of brand-new shoes. No shoes were purchased - she just bought another beige skirt.

Mum with her last dog, Jess. They are sitting on a bridge at the top of the Drumkeeran Road. It's not there now as the road was widened when the 'line' became a dual carriageway. I believe Matty might be wearing a beige skirt. If it's not beige, it's dusty pink, which is practically the same thing.

 I really miss her. We all do.

A Lot Going On Back Then

Twenty years ago, there was a lot going on.

I was working, and Bert had a job too. We were in the middle of fixing up this house while also trying to sell our old one. On top of that, we somehow managed to maintain a lively social life. And far more people were commenting on my blog back then - blogging was quite the thing in 2005. Everyone had one. Now it’s just me and Ganching, keeping it going.

At the time, Bert was growing and selling climbing plants, mostly clematis, which were especially popular with the local garden centres. There were so many independent centres back then, not like today, where the big chains dominate.

Some of the customers we sold to back then were real characters - like this fellow,

So this garden centre man phones up and says,

"Have yez any of that clematis Garibaldi'?.
"We have indeed."
"Keep me a whole big pile of them. I'll be up with the trailer tonight.

Well, I knew he meant 'Sieboldii' but as you know, the customer is always right.

I was telling Bert about it, and he said,

"Oh I know that wee boy. He was up with his trailer one night loading up with clematis and he says to me, 'Can you sell them oul clematis?' and I says to him that I could sell them to a band playing and he says to me as he loads them on thick, 'Thats funny for I cannae sell them atall.'"

Clematis Florida 'Sieboldii'

Plans Afoot

 For years, a pair of spotted flycatchers raised brood after brood in a nest above our front door. The nest was perfect, overlooking an expanse of grass which provided plenty of insect life, and sheltered by two tangled climbing roses.

Spotted Flycatcher 2020

This year, they returned to the old nest as usual and spent a day or two making repairs. But it wasn’t as well protected as before, for one of the roses, left unpruned last season, had fallen forward, leaving the nest exposed. The flycatchers changed their minds and found a new site.

We still don’t know exactly where their new nest is. Maybe in a tangle of holly near the big shed, for they are still on the land, catching insects, raising their brood. I’m glad they are still with us.

Now that the nest has been abandoned, we have removed the falling rose. The front door looks very bare but I will replace it with another rose, and this time I will put more thought into it. So, it’s off to the garden centre tomorrow afternoon,  just Vee and me.

The very bare front door

A Change Of Plan

An opium poppy sport that self-seeded. I love these surprises.

Last night, I had decided that I would take the train to Belfast. Knowing it was going to be a hot day, I gave some thought to what I should wear, especially when it came to choosing the right footwear. Warm weather calls for sandals but tramping pavements calls for something tougher. So I dubbined my Blundstones. So what if there's a heatwave.

This morning, I decided not to go. It was already too warm at eight o'clock. Instead, I went to Tesco and the Oxfam shop in Ballymena and was home before midday. The remainder of the day I spent outside, watering, weeding, deadheading, planting, potting on and more watering. And I wore sandals.

Much of the day was also spent keeping an eye on Rusty. He’s not well. The antibiotics gave him a lift for about a week, but he’s in decline again - sleeping more, eating and drinking less. The heat is hard on him. He had to be checked often, moved to the shade, and encouraged to sip water. He’s an old boy now. Kune kune pigs usually live 12 to 15 years, and Rusty turned 15 back in April.

 

There will be no journeys abroad tomorrow apart from picking up milk and the Saturday Guardian early morning. For it is Orangeman's Day and this year one of the parades will be in Cullybackey. We'll be home all day listening to the sound of distant (Lambeg) drums.

Here We Go Again

My plan to use this blog as an aide-mémoire hasn’t progressed as well as I’d hoped. It’s been twelve days since my last post, and although nothing particularly exciting has happened - no riots, no house fires - it’s still been a longer gap than I intended.

So what did happen?

Still snail-watching.

Went to Portrush on a day out with Bert, Hannah and the big girls. They did not use all their Currie's tokens. Either I bought too many or they are tired of scary rides. Come to think of it, there's a definite air of ennui about them lately.

Watching a lot of teevee. Dept Q was a big favourite.

Became aware of a band called Bob Vylan.

Wondered why an old man dying of old age is such a big deal for the BBC.

Today was good, except for one thing.

I met an old work friend for coffee. That was good.

In the afternoon, Bert and I worked together in the garden. That was nice. We achieved a lot, dug up half of the papaver orientale and created a new area for planting. Displaced a lot of snails. Bert is very keen to replant but I want to wait a while. Snails are territorial, and when they return to their feeding grounds, which they will, they'll demolish anything new and tender. The big rough poppies could stand that, but my seed-grown agastaches might not. We'll wait a while until the snails move on. Fingers crossed that they do.

The not-so-good thing that happened?

I was just leaving the small polytunnel after watering the tomatoes when my foot caught in a clump of ox-eye daisies and down I went. My first thought being, 

Here we bloody well go again!

Hand out to save myself. Didn't work. It wasn't too bad. The ground around that polytunnel is soft and spongy, even more so since I left a hose running there for about 16 hours on Sunday evening. As I lay there, a bit winded, a brown butterfly flew past. I identified it as a Meadow Brown. And I knew that I was OK.

My left hand is a bit achey but it didn't prevent me from picking several pounds of strawberries and raspberries.

Tomorrow - more gardening, drive Hannah to the airport and on Friday I might go to Belfast.

Slither Again

 This is a summer activity.

Most evenings - especially damp ones with a light mizzle of rain - I step outside to see what the molluscs are up to. I must look like a crazy woman: torch in hand, stepping so carefully, peering into every corner.

It’s strange to realise that I’ve gone from being a person revolted by slugs and snails to someone who’s maybe just a little bit obsessed with them.

The obsession began a few summers ago and has only grown since.

Last year, I started marking some garden snails with dots of correction fluid. Then I felt bad about it - was I interfering, harming them somehow? But this year, I’ve found quite a few of my marked snails still going strong, and still inhabiting the same corners of the garden as before.

This one has decided tansy is not to its taste.

In the dark, I have to be so careful where I tread - there’s nothing more awful than accidentally crushing the shell of a garden snail. If that happens - and it rarely does, because I watch my step -the snail faces a prolonged and painful death. It’s kinder, then, to end things quickly and stamp out its life. Maybe I’m a little bit (a lot?) mad, because doing that to a snail makes me really sad. Even though they devoured all my cosmos seedlings and have done great harm to my Vancouver lupins*.

Young garden snail. At this stage, its shell is very delicate. My 'dangerous' size sixes are only for comparison. 

*I’ve had the Vancouver lupins (Lupinus polyphyllus ) ever since I visited Eamon in his home city in 2013. I collected the original seeds in the grounds of the University of British Columbia.

This is what my Vancouver lupins were like six years ago.

And this is what they are like now.