Moving On (Again)

On Wednesday I left Kangaroobie, sadly I have to say as it was a fantastic week there that ticked all the boxes: great company, great scenery, and great food. Tuesday was especially fun as I played 'The Game of Life or Death' three times with different groups of kids. The Game is basically a combination of hide and seek and tag played in an area of bushland, with a few complications as each kid is assigned the role of either herbivore, carnivore, or disease. I played as a human, which meant I was armed with a Super Soaker and got to run around drenching ten year olds. Brilliant. I thought it would be a bit unfair if I just charged about brandishing my weapon, so instead I took a stealthy approach and by my third game of the day I had perfected my ambush technique - crouching silently amongst the vegetation then jumping out in front of unsuspecting victims and dousing them with water.

From Kangaroobie I took a bus (on which I was one of only two passengers) to Apollo Bay, a scenic town on the Great Ocean Road where I stopped for 24 hours on my way back to Melbourne. From here, I took an eight mile walk along the Great Ocean Walk to Shelly Beach and back. I started out strolling on the beach and was wondering if there was actually a trail at all when I reached my first 'Decision Point'. These points were marked by signposts warning you that the beach route could be dangerous in certain wave and tidal conditions, instructing you to take the inland track instead. The sign ended with 'You must decide on the best option'. I couldn't help but read this sentence in a wise old Gandalf style voice. Naturally, the wording of the sign made taking the inland track sound like the wimpy option, so I opted to continue along the beach at every Decision Point on the way out. This decision proved to be entirely safe, but made the walk rather taxing as I was either going through sand or clambering over rock pools the entire way. It was a good effort to reach Shelly Beach and I rewarded myself handsomely in the shape of three heavenly dark chocolate Tim-Tams. On the way back I did take the inland track whenever possible in the interest of variety, and this was also a good decision as from higher up I was afforded some great views of the coastline, such as the one pictured below.

I had been greatly looking forward to my one night stay at the Apollo Bay YHA as it possesses a 97% rating on hostelworld.com - the highest I have ever seen. Upon arrival, I quickly realised why it is so well received. The place is immaculate, clean as a hotel. The two kitchens are stylish and well equipped and the rooms and beds comfortable. The hostel boasts a herb garden from which you are welcome to garnish your dinner, a myriad of eco friendly features, and a roof deck with spectacular views of the bay and surrounding hillside. Unfortunately, the Apollo Bay YHA was dreadfully boring and made me question whether the 'Y' in 'YHA' actually stands for 'Youth'. The only other users of the kitchen while I was cooking and scoffing my hamburgers were a deeply middle aged German woman and a posh, retired British couple, one of whom had to briefly leave her glass of red wine to fetch her hearing aid. A predominantly cloudy day had given way to a gorgeous sunny evening, so after dinner I headed up to the roof deck, expecting to find it rammed with happy travellers savouring the late sunshine with some drinks and the stunning views. There wasn't a soul up there.  Oh well, I'll enjoy this idyllic spot by myself with a book and a beer. My lack of rooftop companions gave me that feeling I often get of completely failing to understand the behaviour of fellow members of my species. It's a sensation I get every time I hear music on the radio and I felt it almost constantly while walking around Chicago. Where was everybody? Looking out, I could see that the town was now shaded, with the exception of this roof deck. It was the best place to be in Apollo Bay at that time! What could all the other guests possibly be doing that was better? Furthering my bafflement were the few people who wandered up, wowed at the scene, took a few pictures, then retreated back down the stairs one minute after arriving. How come these folk weren't compelled to stay and see out the sunset? Why didn't they return with a beer, a book, or a buddy? Maybe I just like sunny evenings and good views more than most people. Maybe it's a good thing I'm travelling alone.

Once the sun was gone and the orange-purple glow dissipated, I went back inside hoping to find some people hanging out in the common areas or a movie underway in the TV room. Nope. There was barely anyone around and the only occupants of the TV room were two girls lying sound asleep on the sofas. By 9.30 I had finished my book (the seventh of my trip) and had little option but to get an early night.

A bus took me away from Apollo Bay and back to Melbourne, for the third time since I originally left the city. This morning I emerged from the dingy and savagely unhomely Nomad's International Backpackers Hostel to a beautiful Melbourne morning. My walk alongside the Yarra River and back along Bourke Street felt like a victory lap, as my time in Victoria had been a brilliant adventure:

It started with five classic days of tennis watching at the Australian Open, with the heatwave only making it more memorable. During that week I resided at the Corkman Hostel, an out of the way place above an Irish pub. The mattresses were way too soft and the beds hazardous - while I was there one chap was lying on a top bunk when the cross bars gave way, sending both bed parts and backpacker crashing down onto the snoozing Irishman below. However, it was a charming hostel with a great atmosphere thanks to its small size and fun, friendly guests. I look back on my stay there very fondly. Next I lived in luxury for a great week with a super nice family in Bendigo, where I felt a little spoiled as all I did in exchange for the wonderful hospitality I was shown was a couple of hours of house/garden work each day. From there I headed to the dairy farm in Northern Victoria for an interesting three weeks. It was a challenging time as I was on my own in the middle of nowhere, in forty degree heat, working long days with a lot to learn, and lacking any real freedom. Furthermore, I fell ill for a few days with food poisoning. Overall it was a brilliant experience though, ending on a high note with my mostly successful stint in charge of the farm. Also, I will now forever be able to say "I was an Australian dairy farmer for three weeks". After heading back to Melbourne and stopping for an amusing day in Geelong, I hit the Great Ocean Road for perhaps the most scenic section of my adventure so far.

Next I will be continuing my clockwise circumnavigation of Australia as I am flying to Perth today. The plan is to explore Western Australia's capital and stay with a family there, before heading inland for another farm stay. Stay tuned.

Kangaroobie

It seems to me that the most amazing places are not found in guidebooks but by accident and exploration. This adage has proved true many times on our family holidays, when we've frequently found ourselves far away from the tourist hotspots, enjoying the kind of views you never want to leave. And there have also been examples on this trip, such as the stunning cliffs of the Royal National Park near Bundeena, so close to the legions of  backpackers holed up in Sydney, but unvisited by all of them. Yesterday, a run took me to one of these special places.

From Geelong, I took a bus on Wednesday along the Great Ocean Road to my current location close to the Twelve Apostles. The Great Ocean Road hugs the South coast for 150 miles, taking a driver from Melbourne in the direction of Adelaide. The Road is regarded as a 'must' for any traveller to the area. A public bus was admittedly not the best way to enjoy it (that would probably be hiring a campervan and making many stops over several days), but although the journey was a nonstop display of pretty sea views, I didn't wish the bus would stop at every turn so I could take pictures like the literature would have me believe, and I actually thought the coastline didn't hold a candle to that of Cornwall. With a slightly sore neck from so much looking left, I eventually alighted at the Twelve Apostles, a honeypot sight swarming with camera yielding tourists. The Apostles are limestone  stacks eroded by the sea to the extent that only eight remain. They were fairly impressive, but their wonder was of course diminished immeasurably by the crowds and I would have been mightily disappointingly had the purpose of my journey been solely to see them.

My final destination, Kangaroobie, was five minutes away and I will be helping out for a week here. Kangaroobie is a 2,500 acre working beef farm and camp for school kids situated in a beautiful, moorland-esque area with views overlooking a lazily meandering river and out to the sea. It's a tranquil spot completely off the radar of the Twelve Apostles throngs. It was pretty random how I  ended up at Kangaroobie - while staying with the family in Bendigo whom I found through the website helpx, I met a friendly artist while dropping off one of the families' girls at a birthday party. During our brief conversation this man suggested I contact his friend at Kangaroobie about staying and helping there. I sent off an email thinking it was a long shot, but received a positive response and here I am!

The camp is really fun. Shortly after arriving I watched the farm activity and was embarrassed to discover that twelve year olds seem to know more about pigs than I do. Then on Thursday we hiked to the beach, crossing a river by raft en route. The weather was cloudy, windy, and a little chilly, entirely reminiscent of a British seaside day, but that didn't stop a great game of beach cricket breaking out. One youngster was a resolute defender of the ball, fending off a series of hostile deliveries from me with a very straight bat. His stubborn refusal to surrender his wicket and complete lack of interest in hitting any big shots would have restored Geoffrey Boycott's hope in the future of cricket. However, with the clan of fielders surrounding the batsman growing impatient, I finally ruled him out in the interest of the game, despite my bowl stopping in the sand well short of the stumps.

Much to my sweet tooth's delight, the food here is just fantastic. Bits of cake and flapjack, referred to at the camp as 'slices' are temptingly available all day, while my Friday lunch of leftover steak and leftover chocolate pudding will live long in the memory.

However, the food hasn't been the highlight of my first few days at Kangaroobie, as yesterday I went on an 11.5km run that was breathtaking in every sense of the word. After a flat 2km following the river peacefully through the valley, I turned uphill and was buoyed along by the increasing volume of the waves as I neared the cliff top. Upon arrival I was greeted by a majestic sight, that improved further when I jogged over to a rocky cliff top outcrop. Here was a special spot. From left to right was a spectacular vista: cliffs of various bold shades of green sloping steeply down to a deserted beach unmarked by footprints, then there was the white swell of the waves rolling methodically in from a shipless ocean that appeared progressively blue as it went out. It was a magnificent moment made so much greater by my isolation and the fact that I had run there. It was a moment for feeling small besides the expanse and relentlessness of the sea. It was  a moment that I couldn't capture in polaroid as I didn't have my camera, making it hard to turn away and commence the long slog back. The route home took me across wetlands and through the miniscule Princetown and never ceased to be scenic. It was a tough run, but one of the best I have been on.

A view from Kangaroobie

Geelong

What is Geelong? Is it a pink trousered South African golfer? A piece of curling equipment? An unpalatably strong Dutch cheese? Actually, it's the name of Victoria's second biggest city, although at just over 200,000 inhabitants it's a distant second to Melbourne's three million plus. I decided to stay a night in Geelong on my way to stay and help at a farm/kids camp on the Great Ocean Road.

- On a perfect day of mid-20s temperatures and unimpeded sunshine, I set off to explore Geelong 'Ali style': donning running shoes and roaming around with no planned route, taking photographs, listening to music, stopping at nice sitting spots, busting out impromptu ab workouts on suitable patches of grass, and generally sauntering about without a care in the world. What I found was another example of how spoilt Australia is with amiable places, especially desirable seaside locales. Geelong, like Cronulla where I spent a magnificent month, is not bigged up by any Aussies and barely features in guidebooks, yet its waterfront is marvellous. A sandy beach, calm bay waters, a path ideal for running, a Children's pool, a designated swimming area with diving boards, a marina crammed with boats, a sunny picnic area, and a Ferris wheel that I opted against riding as I would have been the only rider, which would have been a bit sad for all involved.

- I also found a series of these wooden people sculptures dotted along the waterfront, one of which is pictured below. I really liked these wooden chaps, as the faces of the characters were just so full of life.

- While strolling through Eastern Park, my Weezer playlist was interrupted by the voracious squawking of thousands of birds. Tilting my head skywards, I saw that the noise makers were not birds but bats, hanging from the tree branches with the density of starlings. Examining an unsurprisingly shit smattered information board, I discovered that these creatures were not bats but flying foxes, and this was a colony of them. Wow, there were a lot of these winged mammals. Some were swarming between trees, most were just hanging around, all of them seemed to be emitting raucous cries. I had to stop for a while to gaze upwards and take it all in. It was quite something.

- I was perusing the truly dire selection of books in the Red Cross store when I came across a light hearted cricket tome by old Aussie batsman Doug Walters, which I acquired for $1. Later on, sitting by the sea, I flicked it open and found that it was signed by none other than Doug Walters himself! "Best Wishes, Doug Walters, June 1989" the biro scribble read.

- While labouring on the farm, I promised myself that I would get fish and chips in Geelong. True to my word, I undertook an unwelcome 1.6 mile round trip to fetch the fish at the end of a long day of walking. The customer lacking chippie must have seen the hunger in my eyes and rewarded me with the biggest portion of chips I've ever seen. No scraps were left.

- I was hoping my stay in Geelong would feature some evening banter at the hostel, but soon after arriving at the Irish Murphy's Pub and Backpackers Hostel I realised that this wouldn't be happening - I was possibly the only guest. It was a stark contrast to the 300 person United Backpackers Hostel I stayed in the night before in Melbourne.  Melbourne is crawling with backpackers, most of whom reside in these giant 10-person dorm megahostels with their 24 hour receptions and branded key cards. Meanwhile, Irish Murphy's is the only hostel in Geelong. Given the lack of company, I thought I may as well head downstairs from the hostel to the pub, where some live music was underway. I settled down with an excellent pint of I.G.P. Australian Cloudy Ale in the decently populated main room and found out that the event was a Geelong Folk Music Club open mic night. The performers, all individual guitar strumming singer-songwriters, ranged from just below average to just above average. There was nobody I fancied mingling with, but it at least provided a nice atmosphere to write this blog post. It was a day where I was thankful that I enjoy my own company so much. It was a strangely unique day with a sort of 'out of season' feel, but it was certainly an enjoyable and memorable day.

Geelong waterfront

In Charge of the Farm

Illustration by Andy Dubbin

This weekend, my host farmer went to Melbourne for a night, leaving me in charge of the farm. This meant, rather stressfully, that this plucky Brit would have to handle two milkings and feed the animals completely unsupervised. I'm sure right now you're amusing yourself by imagining a series of disasters occurring while I was in charge: cows escaping and plodding off towards Melbourne, the dairy exploding, or as illustrated by my college roommate Andy, a cow's udder falling off.

It felt like my three weeks on the farm had been leading up this moment, with everything up until now being preparation for being in charge. In that way, it was a lot like studying for exams, preparing for interviews, or practicing for a big tennis match. Indeed, the night before I lay down to sleep with thoughts of the next day, as I would before those events. Whereas in the past it has been 'is my second serve ready?', it was now 'can I remember how to wash the vat?' and instead of going through the changes to economic graphs that result from an increase in the money supply, I was contemplating the series of gate openings and closings that would guide the cows from the paddock to the dairy and then out to the feeding area.

I wasn't completely alone, as a Novak Djokovic resembling French helper had recently arrived. He is a willing worker and is always desperate to help, but he only milked for the first time on Friday and then he made the catastrophic error of failing to direct the milk of a cow spray painted red into a separate bucket. Luckily, on this occasion the marked cow was not on antibiotics so the entire vat of milk did not have to be thrown away. My new partner wasn't filling me with confidence, but I was pleased to have him alongside me nonetheless.

The farmer left around lunchtime on Saturday, so we all milked together in the morning, then for the  afternoon session it was just the Anglo-French duo. The first task was to fetch the cows. Although they were grazing in one of the closer paddocks, we took a quad bike out. The gate was opened and the cows soon traipsed off on their pilgrimage to the dairy. One animal was a little slow to get moving, but a toot of the bike horn and she was off to join her long line of companions. So far so good.
Next, I had to adjust the right combination of switches and levers to prepare for the milking and send the dairy mechanism chugging into action. Minutes later we were ready; sporting gloves, aprons, and focussed expressions, we fist pumped and first row of cows entered the dairy.

It is important that the milking process is carried out as quickly as possible. With 140 cows to get through twice a day, going slowly would take up all your time. However, the real reason is that the machinery consumes large amounts of electricity, and electricity is one of a dairy farmer's biggest expenses. We started off at great speed and rattled through the first few rows of cows with no hiccups. It was almost going too well, as next I made a small error with closing a gate that led to one cow failing to be milked. It wasn't a big deal, but I was frustrated with myself as it was an easily avoidable mistake and I wanted the process to go as smoothly as the white stuff we were obtaining. Focus was quickly regained and there was no further incident.

After the milking was over and the pumps washed, the Frenchman hosed the dairy while I went to feed milk to the calves. I was beginning to relax after the stress of the milking when I discovered that the two male calves had disappeared. I stared into the pen where the pair of one-day-olds had been in the morning and found only the brown ground. The gate was still locked and tied, but the calves had vanished. I carefully examined the pen again, my eyes searching for hiding places that didn't exist. I turned away, put hands on hips and looked out across the farm, expecting the calves to somehow be there when I turned back. My eyes were telling me that the pen was completely empty, but my brain refused to believe them, although there was no two ways about it: the calves had escaped.

At this point, I should explain that dairy farmers seldom hold onto their male calves and instead sell them for veal five or six days into their life. Furthermore, the current veal market is very weak so male calves can be worth as little as $10. Nonetheless, the two escapees would have to be found. I decided to feed the other calves and the sheep before sending out the search party and thankfully they were fairly well behaved, although I did have to offer my fingers for one calf to suck on to stop her from stealing her pal's milk once she had finished her ration. 

We soon spotted three calves: two were lounging amongst the calving cows and one was sitting alone at the end of the ponies' paddock. Therefore it reasoned that the lone calf was one of the escapees, the other being one of the two with the cows, and that the remaining youngster was the female calf that was born on Friday. So we led the calf from the ponies back to its pen and marched off to grab the other rebel. Now I can't quickly tell whether a calf is male or female, but it didn't take long to realise that both the young whippersnappers in the calving cow's paddock had dicks. The Frenchman and I looked at eachother with the sort of 'What the...?' expressions that cross language barriers. This discovery meant that all three calves had escaped during my tenure. We reunited the female with her mother and hustled the lads back to their pen. I still had to teach the brats how to drink milk. This involved mounting the animal, shoving a feeding bottle in its salivary gob and raising and lowering its chin to create a sucking motion. I managed to get one of the dissidents to drink a fair amount but the other was simply making the bottle and my hand very sticky. That would have to do.

The Sunday morning sun peered out over the plains as we prepared for another milking. Again, we started off with great efficiency. Unfortunately, one cow seemed to have decided to play the role of the schoolboy who gives the substitute teacher a hard time. This beast led a row walking into the dairy, but then stopped in its tracks and refused to go any further, causing a massive cow jam. I sprayed the cow with water. It wouldn't budge. I shouted at the cow. No movement. I smacked the cow. Two steps forward and four step back. I folded my arms and looked unimpressed. No reaction. It was hopeless. No matter what we did the wretched animal would not proceed to its spot to be milked. Finally, after more cries of 'stupid cow' than an episode of Eastenders,  I climbed into the miscreant's path and managed to send it (and all the cows behind it) back the way it came. Shuffling the order so a different cow was at the front, I reopened the gate and we completed the milking.

The farmer returned after lunch on Sunday, but had plenty to catch up on around the farm, so I led the afternoon milking too and fed the calves after. This time there were no delays and the day even ended on a satisfying note - the two male calves were now drinking without my hand-under-chin assistance. Who knew that I could teach newborn cows to drink?

I left the farm on Monday, presenting another similarity to my weekend in  charge of the farm and an exam. After finishing an exam, you know that you will probably never use any of that painstakingly memorised information again and that it will soon be shunted from your brain to be replaced by song lyrics and tennis scorelines. Likewise, I may have milked my last cow and I certainly won't be raising and lowering the right levers at the right times to wash the pumps ever again. However, with education it is believed that from taking a class and studying for the exam one learns and develops from the process, even if it is often unclear how or why. The same can surely be said of my dairy farming experience, and I headed back across the barren, sun baked, spirit level flat plains of Northern Victoria feeling that I had somehow become a stronger person.

Album Review: Wavves - Afraid of Heights

Here is a brief interlude from farm talk, as I'm ready to review another of my 'travel albums' - 'Afraid of Heights' by Wavves.

Wavves are a rock band from San Diego whose most recent album 'Afraid of Heights' earned a place on my iPod as I loved their previous record, 'King of the Beach'. King of the Beach is full of infectious rock/punk songs that give off a 'I'm hanging about in the sun and I don't really care about anything' vibe. It is a lot of fun to listen to and whenever the sun is shining and the thermometer rising I don't hesitate to throw it on.

I was hoping Wavves would serve up more lively summer tunes on Afraid of Heights, especially as the first track is titled 'Sail to the Sun, but unfortunately it doesn't quite live up to its predecessor. That's not to say it isn't good - there are a myriad of short, punchy rock songs with big choruses on offer here. The aforementioned opener kicks things off at a blistering pace, 'Mystic' and 'Cop' are effective in their simplicity, and the chorus of 'That's On Me' - probably my favourite track on the disc - is immovably catchy.

There are two factors that let the album down. Firstly, I couldn't distinguish much of a theme or derive many feelings from the record. Many of the songs are decent, but it doesn't make me want to don sunglasses, swim shorts and bum around by the ocean like 'King of the Beach' did. Secondly, Wavves get experimental at times on this record and the result is two tracks that just don't work. 'Everything Is My Fault' is only two minutes long but drags on so bad it feels like five, and 'I Can't Dream' is uncomfortably whiny. I'm a stickler for listening to albums in their entirety, in order, but even I can't avoid scrambling for the 'next' button when the intros to these two songs come on.

Overall, Afraid of Heights contains plenty of enjoyable rock music, but if you want to check out Wavves I would recommend 'King of the Beach' over this.

6/10

A Day in the Life of Ali the Australian Dairy Farmer

I've been at the farm for over a week now and have established something resembling a daily routine, so I thought it might be interesting to read about my typical day on an Australian dairy farm.

- Wake up: 6.15am last week, 8.15am this week. The helpers here start at 7am one week and then 9am the next, so one week you're milking twice a day and the next week just once.

- Breakfast: Bewildering large according to my host. Eggs from the farm, toast, and cereal with milk straight from the dairy. My large, needy, and at times insatiable appetite, makes me the most difficult animal to feed on the farm.

- First milking: At around 7am.

- Washing the dairy. In the morning both the pit (the milking area) and the cows' entrance and exit areas have to be hosed. Every day I face the bewilderment of how much  shit the cows have managed to drop. Blasting the brown stuff  is a tedious task and actually requires a fair amount of energy as viciously waggling the hose greatly increases SSS (shit shifting speed). The job takes the best part of an hour, but I've found ways to make it more interesting, such as challenging myself to maximise my SSS and creating acronyms related to the task.

- Various tasks: It is usually 9-10am by the time the last of the shit has finally been washed away. The main part of the day is occupied with a variety of jobs, the most undesirable being shovelling out weeds and picking up sticks from the paddocks - laborious tasks under the sun but they need to be done. Other days we've rounded up cows from the other farms owned by my host, killed chickens (see previous post), and attended a clearing sale. A clearing sale is a closing-down-farm auctioning off all their equipment. Everything from ploughing machinery to a car to a decrepit netball hoop was sold. While watching the fast paced auctions, I had to be careful not to make any sudden movements, otherwise I might have accidentally bought an expensive piece of farm equipment! I wasn't the only attendee with no interest in buying anything - one elderly fellow was pointed out to me who apparently goes to every clearing sale despite being retired. "Go to clearing sales and funerals, that's all he does" I was told.

- Second milking: The cows produce an astonishing amount of milk and at about 3-3.30pm we need to milk them again.

- Washing the dairy. Thankfully, only the pit has to be hosed in the afternoon.

- Filling up the calves' water. A nice part of the day - with the rush of the milking and the majority of the day behind me, filling the calves' containers is relaxing as it can only be carried out at the leisurely speed of the hose.
By the time all this is done it is usually around 5.30pm. Sometimes there are a few more things to do, but if not it's time to unwind. I finish up hot, sweaty, smattered in cow shit, and tired from being on my feet all day, so showering and sitting down to relax (sometimes with a beer) at the end of the day feels amazing.

It's a long day and can be hard work, but you finish each day with a  real sense of accomplishment. When I worked as an insurance broker, I often left the office with a feeling of "just what did I do today?"  Here, at the very least, I've transferred hundreds of litres of tasty milk from cow to tank, and the milk company collect the tank every other day. Furthermore, I am learning a great deal about dairy farming every day, so this has been a very rewarding experience so far.

Blood On My Hands

WARNING:  VEGETARIANS MAY FIND THE FOLLOWING POST DISTURBING.

Sure, I've eliminated countless ants in my time. Yes, I've drowned wasps by luring them into jam and water filled jars. Admittedly, I've pinged elastic bands against daddy long legs helplessly stationed on desks, sending legs flying in all directions. But I have never killed an animal. Until Friday that is, when I was involved in the cold blooded murder of six innocent chickens.

My host farmer's mum decided that her chickens were being way too noisy, so requested that we do something about it. I expected the killing would be carried out with a degree of subtly, so I was surprised when the farmer emerged from the ute with a Midsomer Murders style axe! He nipped into the chicken pen, identified a couple of victims and snatched, then held the birds by the feet - one in each hand - and passed them to me. I positioned the unfortunate chicken so that its head rested on a log and the farmer delivered the blow. If at this point you're picturing chicken heads hurtling through the air, then you might be disappointed to learn that the axe was briefly held in place as the head was still intact, but only until I yanked back the legs leaving the poultry parted. The decapitated bird flapped around manically and it would have been fun to let it go and watch it charge around like a headless chicken. However, I quickly dropped it into a bucket of hot water to cease its movement and warm it up to ease the plucking process.

The plucking was tedious as chickens are covered in feathers from head to toe to wing and while some feathers could be pulled off in bunches, others had to be removed individually. After this was finally complete it was time for the gutting. I was just a spectator for this part, which involved breaking off the feet and reaching inside the chicken to pull out its inners. It was interesting to see all the organs laid bare and the cat certainly enjoyed this offering of offal.

You may think that my participation in the slaughtering of those six chickens and subsequent writing about it is cruel and distasteful, but I've eaten meat most days of my life and I am under no illusions about its origin, so personally I don't see a problem. Actually, I can't wait to eat them.