A Crofting Life

Get up in the morning, porridge for breakfast
Feed a dog and wash face,
Not keen on venturing out
To start another day of this crofting life

Rain against the window,
That is nothing new
Another soaking in the offing
This is the crofting life

Battle out the back door, wind hard to beat,
Made it to the Land Rover,
Temporary respite.
Ah, the crofting life

Drive the hundred yards to the byre
Reverse up to the door
Inside warm and cosy,
Not so bad, this crofting life

Turn on radio for company,
Cheery man flirting with traffic woman,
Playing songs and talking
Irrelevant to this crofting life

Cows outside awaiting, eager for their rations
But price of feed is through the roof
So hard to keep animals on the hoof (...ouch)
Oh, oh, oh, the crofting life

Cattle and sheep waiting outside of yard at byre,
Bull and bullock in other field
And six yearling calves in yet another field
This is the crofting life

Load buckets and bags in Land Rover
Drive short distance and feed the big boys
Next calves at Rita's and then back to byre
Ah, ah, the crofting life

Cows turn for feeding, sheep last of all
Call Suzie and Flora into yard for ease
Fill buckets and distribute
Another day in this crofting life

All things going smooth, with not a problem
Shoo Suzie and Flora out the back gate
Fill sheep troughs with feed,
A crofting life

Tie bales of hay to back of quad bike
Drive up to the old wall with clever cows a following
Make hay bundles in the shelter
For this is this crofting life

Just about finished for the morning
By now wide awake and hungry
Back to house at lunchtime
Oh, oh, the crofting life

Head to the forest for firewood,
Spend the afternoon a chopping
To the buzz of a chainsaw
Echoes of a crofting life



Repeat daily until Spring

Highland catttle merry-go-round

If you separate cattle from the main herd for some reason and then reintroduce them after a time there is nearly always a fight between two beasts of equal size to re-establish rank within the group. Also, sometimes a beast will just fancy the chance of attaining higher ranking by testing the beast next in line. This horn locking and pushing can be alarming in its ferocity, until one beast gives ground and backs off. Sometimes the status quo is maintained and other times it is changed.

Flora (image above) is a the bottom of the pecking order in the Romesdal fold and knows it. The other cattle will not tolerate her at the feeding rings and she stands on the periphery with a forlorn expression. We have tombstone style feeding rings designed to prevent bullying by horned cattle but the bullying persists. The Highlanders seem acutely aware of personal space and rank and when feeding will give way to a beast of higher rank and the higher ranking beast will do all in its power to prevent a beast of lower rank feeding, until she has had her fill and is content.

You would think they would get fed up interrupting their feeding at the rings by chased another beast away, but they don't. 'This is all mine, squirt,' they seem to be thinking 'and you can go take a hike'. And this is the point when human intervention in the shape of your truly steps in to redress the balance of power otherwise poor Flora would lose out and lose condition.

And then when watching cattle at the feeding rings a strange a confusion of rankings was noticed. At first I thought that there was a straight forward hierarchical structure with Morag at the top, I am not counting the bull as he lives separate from the main fold, and Flora at the bottom. But Highland cattle society is not so simple. We have two feeding rings with ten head spaces on each giving, in theory, room for twenty cattle to feed. However, it is obvious that with Romesdal cattle at least, issues of personal space and rank consciousness restrict the comfortable numbers to three or four per ring. Which is slightly galling from the human perspective.

As we have eight cows, not counting calves which sneak in to the rings and don't matter in terms of rank, two are in for a hard time, one being Flora the other Dolly. But Dolly though second bottom in rank, is much braver than Flora and by sheer persistence manages to get her fair share. And then the confusion in rank gave rise to an odd situation.

Skelper, Mairi and Seanag were going round a feeding ring in a circular motion. It was obvious that Skelper was giving way to Mairi who was giving way to Seanach who was giving way to Skelper who was giving way to Mairi who was giving way to Seanach.... ad nauseum, if you get the drift. As one beast stopped to take a mouthful of hay the one behind would give a dunt and the cattle were trapped on a carousel of an anomaly in ranking.

This sad situation only stopped when a cow of higher rank decided to switch feeding rings and scattered the circling beasts. In the age old refrain of frustrated stockmen, 'what can you do?'

Tupping the sheepies

This entry is dedicated to Geraldine Evans. Hello Geraldine.

We bought a 'tup' a few weeks back. The vet got him for us at the tup sale in Dingwall when he was buying the sheepstock club rams. A 'tup' is a ram, in case you are confused. I am usually confused with animal terminology. For instance, in the case of sheep, you can have ewe, ram, lamb, tup, wedder, shearling, hog and gimmer, not necessarily in that order. I mean, a sheep as a 'hog'? Never, I hear you say, a hog is pig. But don't take my word for it, Google.

The idea when breeding any sort of beast is for the stockman to determine when, where and with whom. The tup that we had bought for our little flock of mainly 'gimmers', was therefore put into a field with an old ram (kept for sentimental reasons and don't ask me ask the wife), a wedder and a young ram who had escaped the knife. The new tup would be introduced to his harem on the 28th November, or thereabouts, and all was rosey at the Romesdal croft.

A few days later working at the byre I noticed something odd about a sheep in the distance. It was nothing specific, it just looked odd. Gathering my trusty dog Jay (a bitch) off we went for a closer look at this strange sheep. As we neared it dawned on me that the sheep was 'odd' because it was obvious that it was a ram! And not one belonging to Romesdal.

Moreover, our little flock was nowhere to be seen and there was mystery as to how this strange beast got into the field in the first place. Anyway, I surmised that the flock was 'over the wall' as the gate had been left open to let them and the cattle come and go as they pleased. So, driving the strange ram in front of us, Jay and I heading in that direction.

It was a full on flabbergast when, on through the gate, I saw the flock and not one strange ram, but five! They all looked at home and was that a one smoking a cigar? As to how they got in in the first place that could wait, as the problem now was getting the blighters out.

The easiest way to do so was to the drive the lot of them, ewes, gimmers and rams back through the gate down to the yard, pen them and then separate. And with the invaluable help of Jay, that is what I did. As to ownership, that was easy, as they were clearly marked as Kingsburgh sheepstock club tups.

Sheep successfully penned and rams separated from the rest, the livestock trailer was backed up to the pen. The rams were shooed into the trailer for the short journey back to were they belonged, at Kinsburgh fank.

The best laid plans of man and dog scuppered and the prospect of early lambs to boot.

Such is life and what can you do?

PS As to how they got in amongst the flock, that remains a mystery, as a walk along the fence line revealed no breaks. They either jumped the fence, flew over the fence (unlikely) or some half-wit (not me) left a gate open for a while and then closed it.

Autumnal Skye

It has poured incessantly for the past four days and its feels as if the rainy season has arrived. The land is sodden and the Highland Cattle look permanently bedraggled. I'm waiting for a break in the weather to finish painting the outside of the house, one of many snaggy jobs to be done.

The Romesdal river is ferocious as it hurtles itself the short distance to the sea fueling a water cycle that would make any desert dweller green with envy... for a while.

Daylight fades about five in the afternoon and darkness rules until after seven the next morning and it is only early November. The hours of darkness will lengthen yet and the daylight fade correspondingly earlier in the run up to the longest night and the turn of the year.

The Highlanders are looking hungry and eying me keenly when I enter the fields. The winter feeding regime is but a week or so away and then it will be seven days a week in all weathers until the end of April next year.

But, hey, let's not anticipate and not be SAD just yet, and give an account of happenings since to last post.

Blackie was sold at the Portree and will not be jumping any more fences as he was 580 kilos of prime Highland beef. The beast will have entered the human food chain by now, no doubt. He had a good life. He was free range and well looked after and what more can you say, as life at Romesdal is as far from factory farming as we are from Timbuktu.

We had friends from Glasgow visiting and returned to compliment, which was very nice. Yvonne flew up from London and I caught the Uig to Glasgow bus just outside on the A87. We both like Glasgow having lived in that city for many years. Its like going home.

And then I had my first visit back to London since Calum died last January. Regular readers of this blog will already know that Yvonne works in London whilst I look after the croft on Skye.

I may have given the impression earlier in this blog that I don't particularly like London. Well, just to set the record straight, I must say that I do. A famous Englishman from the past once said (paraphrase) 'if you are tired of London then you are tired of life' and I agree. But not to work in and commute on the Underground every day, just to visit and soak up the cosmopolitan atmosphere.

The Kennington Tandoori is hard to beat for an Indian meal experience and one was had. Along with a play at the National Theatre, another Indian meal with friends in Ealing and night out at the pub with some old work mates. It was back home to Skye and the croft with new lease of life.

Rita and her family had been looking after Jay. And I had missed Jay, having been constant companion for so long. Yet the lure of the city proved too strong and off I jolly well went with nary a backward glance. But it was back to reality and it was in this period that Blackie was sold.

The Foot and Mouth outbreak in Southern England imposed countrywide movement restrictions on livestock and a temporary cessation of market activity, but now the ban had been lifted. The major township task to be done with regard to the sheep-stock club flock was gathering, grading and selling the seasons crop of lambs. And you may recall from 'The Gathering', this had also been done in July for the purpose of managing the health of the flock.

However, I thought I would miss out on this as Yvonne and I had booked a week's holiday in sunny Cairo. And sunny it was and warm too at temperatures of over 30 degrees. And as far from Skye as, well, Timbuktu or slightly less and with more people and I think more smog. The air was terrible. My eyes streamed all the time and a permanent, dirty, haze enveloped the city.

But it was also fascinating, of course, and we did the tour of mosques and museums and pyramids and the Sphinx and saw another culture amid a strange land, a gift from the river Nile. Cairo made London on our return look like a medium sized market town with clean air and back home on Skye the air was intoxicating (or was that the duty free whisky?).

And the Vet had not gathered the sheep from the hill and back only a day I was thrown into hill walking with a purpose and an excitable Jay, shedding lambs and dipping sheep and hardly a pause to take stock, until now.

And now I prepare for winter

The tale of the homesick Highland bullocks

The tale of the homesick Highland bullocks:

Once upon a time (not so long ago) in a place called Romesdal on an island known as Skye lived a fold of pedigree Highland cattle. These Romesdal Highlanders consisted of seven cows and their followers (offspring) and were a very close-knit community as most had known each other since birth.

(Image of Blackie with the hill and Romesdal glen in the background)

Now the man in charge (advised by his wife) deemed it sensible to separate the cattle into different fields according to size and sex and therefore kept three bullocks in the place known as 'over the wall'.

Moreover, the biggest bullock, known only as 'Blackie', was over two years of age and had become a bully to the younger heifers. So, along with his pals 'Brownie' and 'Dunnie' they were exiled from the main body of cattle and put 'over the wall'.

At first they were not too happy and bellowed at the gate (which had another gate tied to it so as Blackie couldn't jump over it as he was an accomplished fence jumper). To no avail, as the wall was high and the gate even higher and so after a while the three bullocks settled themselves down and munched and wandered the length and breath of 'over the wall' in seeming contentment.

(Image of Brownie looking windswept and interesting)

As the summer progressed and the sheep were gathered from the hill the man had the notion of giving 'over the wall' a rest from grazing cattle by putting the bullocks across the road an onto the hill, for which he had grazing rights, but had never exercised them. If that all makes sense?

The main obstacle, however, was the busy main road leading to the ferry terminal at UIg one way and the main Skye village of Portree the other way. You see, and this probably wont make much sense either, Kingsburgh township crofts in the main are sited below the road with the common grazings above the road. Therefore beasts coming and going from croft to common grazings have to be led across this main road.

As this was a first and the man failed to seek advice, the tried and tested method of trial and error was called into play. With a bucket of cobs as a lure the tactic was to lead the bullocks through a gate, across the road and through another gate and onto the hill.

Cars whizzed by as man, wife and bullocks waited at the gate by the road. The cattle were nervous but greedy. The traffic lulled and they decided to go for it and gates were opened. Dunnie came through and onto the road with the other two more reluctant but starting to follow gingerly.

Suddenly a line of vehicles approached from the direction of Uig, spooking Brownie who headed back into his own field. The traffic halted and the the mission was aborted by shooing the other two after him. A few days later a friend and neighbour suggested that very early on a Sunday morning, when there was no traffic, was a good time to cross the road with beasts.

He proved correct and the bullocks were moved across the road with ease the next Sunday morning.

Mission accomplished, as they say.

(Image of some Shorthorn/Highland cross yearling

heifers, for no other reason than I like it)

You may recall that the bullocks were very unhappy when first put 'over the wall' and wanted back to the main body of cattle but couldn't jump the high wall and the even higher gate. So it was no great feat of genius to predict that once the bullocks realised they were exiled even further away from their mommas, there would be wailings and gnashing of bovine teeth. And, oh my, were there wailings, or more precisely bellowings.

It was embarrassing. The darn beasts just stood at the gate demanding to be let back across the road and home. And all the neighbours, as they passed by in their vehicles going to Portree for shopping, had a grandstand view of these three, spoiled, brats of bullocks.

The man therefore (advised by his wife) decided to lead the bullocks far from prying eyes and take them on a journey to Madrigal, an abandoned village in the glen of the Romesdal river, in the hope that they would meet new friends and settle down for a few months of free grass and heather munching. And the plan seemed to work.

The bullocks duly followed the bucket and after an hour or so walking were abandoned by the man near the tumbled down ruins of Madrigal. They looked bemused, he thought, as he dived behind a tree and made good his escape along the line of a little stream, keeping low to avoid detection.

It was with a spring in his step and a whistle on his lips that he made his way home by a circuitous route lest the cattle follow him. He arrived in a triumphant mood but a seed of doubt impelled him to have a last look up the hill with the binoculars before a cup of tea and a piece of home-baked fruit loaf.

With binoculars raised he scanned the hill for sign of bullock and at first all seemed clear. Not a sign. Then a black dot of bovine head appeared on the skyline. And then another and yet a third, like Indians readying an attack. With a resigned sigh he went indoors to impart the bad news to his wife.

The bullocks were back.

A few days later the three bullocks jumped a fence into a neighbour's croft (the only croft above the road) directly across the road from the Romesdal croft. They had not only come home but had decided to come by way of our front gate just to rub it in.

The man's resolve to banish the bullocks collapsed. He gave a shout of encouragement and the three homesick beasts trotted through an open gate, across the main road and down the Mill road to be let into the field to join their mommas and siblings

There's a moral to this tale but I am not so sure what it is?

Bed and Breakfast at Romesdal, Isle of Skye

There is a school of thought in Kingsburgh (by the name of Hugh Mackay) that considers it a curse to live in a place which others consider idyllic.

You may have gathered by now that I am not much of a person for having a master plan being of the 'make it up as you go along' school of life and doing B&B is another case of something that just sort of happened. Calum died suddenly leaving me responsible for the croft, cattle and sheep (and Jay) and unable to spend months at a time in London working, which was in plan A, so one must adapt.

As for the B&B experience from the other side of the kitchen door, I enjoy it very much. The first couple were Italian, from Tuscany and the second couple were Polish. There have been more since then (as this is an update) including French, English and even Scottish and it looks very much like if you can't get out to meet the world then doing B&B seems to bring the world to your door.

Moreover, as a working croft and home to the Romesdal fold of pedigree Highland cattle our visitors, after a comfortable nights sleep, get to view the Highland cattle from the windows of the dining room as they tuck into a hearty breakfast, which will set them up for a hard days holidaying on this most beautiful of Scotland's islands.

Romesdal as a destination offers a warm welcome, a comfortable room and bed, exclusive use of a newly modernised bathroom with power shower and use of an upstairs lounge with stunning views to the South for chilling out by watching a little television or reading that book tucked into a corner of the holdall.

We are not your usual bed and breakfast with a pile 'em in mentality, offering only one double bedroom, and therefore you will enjoy a peaceful and unique experience staying in a family home, with the main business being breeding pedigree Highland cattle.

For anyone interested in a stay at Romesdal I can be contacted from the main Romesdal Highland Cattle home page

Next time: 'The tale of the homesick bullocks'

The Gathering

The ringing phone by the bedside table woke me from a deep sleep where I was in the midst of gathering sheep and lambs into a pen with the usual gang who pass for workers at Kingsburgh fank. (Only joshing guys)

(Images are John-Niall and the Vet, Hugh taking a break and inside Corrie Fuar)

Digression: a fank in this part of the world is a place where sheep are processed and by that I mean herded into pens, separated (shed), sheared of fleeces, dipped into a tank of organo-phosphate soup that kills ticks and other creepy crawlies, dosed with white gunk against worms, lambs vaccinated against diseases and tails docked and then all let go again to find their way back to their rightful place on the hill.

And if we didn't do the above then there would be no woolly jumpers, no leg-of-lamb not to mention the lamb used in curries, sheep would die of disease and the Sea Eagles would have to take up fishing again.

Anyway, the lambs where jumping and bleeting and the ewes were swirling about upset at being parted from the lambs, dogs were running hither and men were shouting when the phone woke me up. I think I was delirious.

It was Yvonne, of course, calling from London to share her news and views on the new day. But I was still dead-beat after spending the past two weeks, at first gathering the sheep from the hill and then working with them at the fank and she soon scooted off back to her duties bored no doubt by my lack of response.

I had worked for many years at Kingsburgh fank in my summer visits to Skye and was used to the routine and under no illusion as to the hard, dirty work that this entailed but this was my first season gathering.

Kingsburgh operates a 'sheep-stock club' whereby all the sheep on Kingsburgh common grazings are owned by a group of shareholders who each receive an annual dividend from sales. Yvonne and I inherited Calum's share on his death, hence the interest. But others work at the fank too, not just shareholders as some are elderly and some just don't have the time and you need to keep up the numbers. The vet is the chief oraganiser.

Kingsburgh common grazings, I may add, is a massive stretch of land much of it hill and bog populated by scattered groups of sheep (cheviot), and all the wildlife native to Skye from Golden and Sea Eagle to fox and deer and the rest down to the ubiquitous tick, patiently waiting on a sprig of heather to latch onto you and your dog and without your dog the sheep would remain on the hill.

Gathering sheep is very much like hill-walking, only with a purpose other than recreation and with a dog or three in tow. One dog good, two dogs better, three dogs better still and any more even better as long as you can afford to feed them and either rear them or buy them, and a good working dog is not cheap.

I have only one dog, Jay, and she had never gathered sheep from the hill either as Calum had given up this aspect of communal working in his mid sixties or early seventies. So we were both new kids on the hill and therefore subject to the usual banter and teasing, called 'ripping the pish' out of someone where I was brought up. And by the end of the gathering the pish had well and truly been ripped.

The gathering took place in three phases with a day for each phase: The 'Road', 'Romesdal'; and 'Corrie Fuar'.

The Road phase was relatively easy and entailed men and dogs climbing up above the sheep, spreading out in a loose line across the hill and driving the sheep down onto the old road, crossing the main road with them and onto the fank.

Romesdal was harder as you had to walk further to get into the large corrie at the head of the river Romesdal and then drive all the sheep back down to the road and onto the fank.

Corrie Fuar was downright dangerous and entailed an all day walk there and back across very rugged terrain gathering and pushing sheep as you went in a great circular motion to a backdrop of spectacular cliff edges and swirling mist. The first day we tried this gather we reached the very end of the corrie and were just about to begin the circular route back when the mist descended and the gather had to be aborted. It would be so easy to walk over a cliff edge in those sort of conditions.

We gathered again a few days later in beautifully clear weather as England drowned under torrential rain and returned safely with both sheep and a sun-burned noses.

It may be hard work. It may even be dangerous. It may even be lonely sometimes parted from the missus for weeks on end, but it sure beats working in an office in a human anthill of a place that goes by the name of London.