In my naivety I thought it would be simple matter of shooing her off the nest. But I had not realised how aggressive my flighty, noisy guinea fowl could be. She let rip with beak and talons and left me with a mauled hand. Exaggeration, but she has certainly made her mark. Mum Guinea Fowl has chosen to nest in a very vulnerable site. A passing fox would not be deterred by a few pecks and scratches, although he might break his teeth on those rock hard guinea fowl eggs. Later tonight John is going to try and put a coop round her which could be a tricky job. Meanwhile I expect the other guinea fowl will go off to look for another nest site. Curses. Once upon time when all the guinea fowl were young and innocent they would lay their eggs in the hen house. No such luck now. A tall bunch of nettles is the preferred option. And we have a lot of nettles. John has spent this week cleaning out the foldyard which housed the cattle over winter, their silage clamp and the big shed where the ewes lambed. Millie, our young Jack Russell was following proceedings intently. She was convinced that there might be a rat or two lurking in the muck and she was right. The rats usually congregate in the last patch to be cleaned out under a feed trough. As the fork lift elevates the feed trough, rats explode out of the straw. Heaven for a fast-moving terrier. Far more exciting than the budgie which was her first kill. Only three ewes are now left to lamb. They are living a life of luxury in the home paddock. All that grass to themselves as long they promise to pop out a pair of lambs each at some future date. Otherwise cull ewes, like cull tups, are fetching very good prices at market. Talking of which our first couple of bullocks from last year’s calves went to market this week. Prices were not as high as this time last year but all the farming comics predict an upward trend. Granddaughter Jessica went with me to pick up the cheque and have lunch at the mart. She put away a large plate of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding and then asked for a pork pie for afters. All that and not a spare ounce on her. Must be her metabolism I tell myself. That, or the fact that she is eight years old and I am just a fraction - or two - more.