The Crofter has nearly been home a week and lo and behold, nothing in the ‘exciting/terrifying/‘no-one-will-believe-me’ category of crofting life has occurred. I don’t count the sudden pick up of the chicken’s egg laying as even remotely in the category. The Crofter has been manning the place with the Mini Crofter while I have been back at work this week. And judging how it’s going I’m wondering if I have an uncanny knack of causing whirlwinds (not personally but some people seem to have smoother rides than others, and those of us in nursing all know that if you’re on shift with certain colleagues you are in for a rough ride).
So, as the midnight oil slowly ticks away towards dawn, I am awake, a mind that’s refusing to close for the night and no amount of counting sheep, eggs or moles is doing the trick. The difference in the morning is yes, I’ll be tired but I’ll be indoors for ‘work’. And there lies what I miss. Crofting means outside, stiff breezes, torrential rain and all kinds of weather to help keep you awake and blow cobwebs away. Instead, it will be coffe and a distant hope that by Thursday I’ll be back outside…with the mattic flattening mounds along a previously dig ditch as I dream of the lawn mower coming back out. Until then, I’ll go back to counting sheep.
Birchwood Croft, Inverness-shire 