down home on the farm

ain't nothing like farmwork to keep one firmly grounded between flitting about signing books and installing exhibitions. despite a sprinkle from the sky we're still doing daily feed runs and carting water to the cows.
they are truly delightful animals, with a well-organised social system...usually one of the adults sits in the sunshine, surrounded by babies while the others eat; even the bull takes his turn at minding the young ones when the mothers are off grazing.



today has the added entertainment of extracting a bogged sheep from one of the nearly empty dams. it's up to its neck in fine black mud (perfect for a bit of mud-dyeing!) and we have to crawl to it across a couple of sheets of corrugated iron so as not to be swallowed up by the quicksand-like goop.

where are Frank Hopkins and Hidalgo and a lassoo when you need 'em? Pegasus would have been welcome, too



perseverance wins, helped by much digging in mud with bare hands. scrubbing it off later in the day i discover that my legs have been screenprinted (using jeans as mesh) with black marks. we're reduced to washbowl baths (due to low rainwater) and the water takes on a disgusting smell from the mud. collapsing into my pillow i discover the scent is still firmly embedded.
all night i dream....of mud.