Month: September 2019

It’s not me that needs woken up when September ends, but my writing. I have been working, honest, I’m now just a month behind, so I’m on par with the overdue library books I recently discovered.

So, a few episodes ago; way back at the beginning of September, the Crofter returned home after a 32 day stint away. Believe me, I hit the wall on day 28. The last four days are killers. I often feel that I could do with a week off to recover. However, the to do list would get even longer and the time shorter. And besides, this time, I had shared the to do list with the lovely film crew who were coming back. Aye, back. I had wondered if I had done enough to drive them demented and they would decide there was little need to come back. But they did. Dirk and Sebastian were here the first time, but this time Babette was with them. What a fab team again. Easy going, not pushy in agendas and helpful with everything. Now, I am no Hollywood actress wannabe. Nor was drama high up my favourite subjects at school. In fact, it was one of my least favourites. Not that I would need to act for a documentary, it was just I am well aware that I may not be the most expressive in my speech. In fact, I’m good at the stereo typical dour Scottish approach. And this will potentially be aired for German TV (I say potentially, I still think of the film producers sitting in their office with head in hands at my wanderings and mutterings and deciding to scrap the bit on crofting). I wasn’t sentimental when sending off Hrossey. I had a kitchen in desperate need to being on a horders anonymous show (the chutney I made that day is only for home consumption, honest, I have varying standards). I shifted a bull with the sound of my youngest not being too happy (really hoping that didn’t get picked up) and, I had a microphone on while driving (let’s hope I didn’t make any sarcastic comments). I drove along the A9 with one of the kid’s sun visors stuck out the door. I hit a massive rock when I pulled over to wait for them. And the list does on. So, how they will work with it, I have no idea.

Having never been involved with a film crew, I am so glad of how they worked. Now, I’m not saying I will be putting myself forward for more filming, but if they ever wanted to return, I’d be happy for them to come back for the craic.

So next time you’re sat watching something on TV, have a wee thought for how many hours went into it. Camera, sound, production, the amount of hours is huge. Just wake me up after it’s been aired…

Thankfully, our usual delivery drivers around here know me…

“Have a parcel for you”, while overlooking the gate.

‘Fab, can you just stick it inside the pickup?’, head under cow trying to milk her out after she refuses to let her calf on.

“Hmm, are you happy for me to sign it for you? You look a bit busy.”

‘Certainly’ (head voice: I really don’t think your next delivery will be ecstatic to handle a signature machine covered in cow manure and udder cream).

For yes, two boys were securely plonked in car seats (they say boredom is the best way to ignite a child’s imagination, so, these two will be destined for being authors or film makers at this rate). Once pick up was positioned so they had good spectator seats, the cow sectioned off (think two attempts, there was a bull in the same field) and walked down to the handling area, I was able to start working.

Lead up to the event: An afternoon of noise from Gilly had me puzzled. Why did she keep mooing? Eventually I stood with the binoculars and watched her (told you they aren’t used to spy on neighbours…). Observations led to the realisation that she had a full udder, was nudging her calf up but then wouldn’t stand to let him feed. Oh whoop-ed-ee-do-dah. Well, it was going to have to wait till the morning.

So a early meander through the field with a bull was quickly aborted and I decided I’d entice her to the gate. So, after sorting the boys into their front row seats (well, front row but the Micro is still in a rear facing seat so his view was just of the headrest), and hence the delivery driver couldn’t get up to the house and had to join the party).

Now, the last time I had a cow in for something similar was back at calving when Breena went ballistic. I therefore wasn’t exuding confidence when ‘going under’ (if you ever see a football player dive after getting kicked in the shins, they need to come here and milk a wild one). So, just like jumping from a high dive, I held my breath and went for it.

Now, I’d love to say it was all calm and soothing. However, it didn’t start that way. Something wasn’t right (obviously) and she wasn’t wanting me touching her. A trick of the trade taught by Farmer Ian back when Breena was hormonally wild was adopted and soon, a more typical hand milking sessions was going. Other than I wasn’t sitting on a wooden stool; more crouching down ready to drop everything and run. But not crouching as if to start a 100m sprint, more a cross between a tai chi movement and I’d just met an intruder in the night. And because of that, I got an instant make up do. Yep, one tail swish in the face and I had lines under my eyes that were an Amy Winehouse wannabe look. Add a few dartings up and down with a buff on, causing a similar backcomb, beehive look for a small beehive was coming on nicely to match the eyeliner and little wonder the delivery man kept to the gate.

Well, I may not be able to sing but my cows think I should be a rockstar. Skip the black though, my waterproofs are green…