Month: May 2020

So the far side was recently ploughed. The far side (not the comic), is also referred to as the rough field. The hint is in the name. But what’s in a name? For it is less so now. OK, it’s not a lush green meadow with oddles of new grass, wild flowers and pretty butterflies dancing in the sunlight. But, it was a field of thick, deep rushes; old, open drains, buried fences, and a rough, and muddy road going through it.

Initially, the flail mower was taken to it. And repeated repeatedly as the reeds lost their strength and the mower could go lower and slowly creep further into the thick of it. The reeds were weakened, but were still holding the fort. And then a ‘Rush Management’ course was attended to and we held it to ransom. It’s full potential was suddenly seen so we upped the standards. A battle began (cue music from some epic film of warriors heading out at dawn to take back their land…). Well, more realistically, another coffee was swigged and the gloves and matic were embraced. Strategies were analysied (maybe looking more like a clip from Blackadder but we’ll skip that bit). Drains were inserted and then last year it was ploughed and seeded. The goal of an extra decent field was within our grasp.

And that goal? No it didn’t put out roots and give us that massive, lush meadow. No, the seeds got absolutely decimated by pigeons and probably pooped into someone else’s field and they ponder why they now have so many rogue turnips (we did plant turnips and not grass deliberately, it’s just harder to visualise a turnip field than lovely, long, lush grass). I don’t remember counting more than five piddily turnips at its maximum. In the end, for the winter, we got a good crop of thistles and it had unearth stone. Lots of stones.

Stones became the focus. They grew over winter. Little ones would appear. I’m sure they were looking at the reproductive cycle of rabbits. The de-stoning became a battle in itself. At first, with a fairly young micro Crofter and a mini crofter, the energy levels were not high. The sleep deprivation didn’t help with the va-va-voom. When rhe zip-a-de-do-da was there, it started off with several attempts being abandoned due to being completely midgiefied (anyone who has been to the Highlands will understand, and if the mid goes like you, well, abandon ship!). That problem eased right when we swiftly went to either too cold or too wet (superglue effect). I’m not coming up with lame excuses, honest. Each time the opportunity was seen, tried and soon retreated. Wet mud, frozen hands, stones cemented in. Multiple times, we would try to spend some time taking out stones. Because of the age of the mini crofters, usually only one of us went. Over time, and with help to watch the boys, several day trips were hosted. Spring appeared and the good weather was just perfect for stone picking. The boys slightly older. Trailer loads were removed before it had a bit of peace.

And then the man organised to plough it again was in contact, he would be back, and be back soon (see Rock Chick of the Century post).

The sudden thought of the field being seen with still some stones upped the tempo. And men may not be able to move mountains. But one woman can shift a fair few stones (within reason, I don’t see the point on getting people to throw objects at Olympics when there are achievable things with a purpose that you can utilise the energy for). Then two of us started at it. Two of us have shifted even more. The tractor and trailer were brought in on the action too. Mini Crofters were involved. Which sometimes paved the way for helping to get the work done, other times, less so.

Muck (from the byre which has been sitting there for quite a while) was spread before it got plough. Lime was spread a few days ago and then grass seed put in and rolled. None were just thrown out without reason. Soil test results showed us what was needed and calculated. Old clay drains were discovered which had over time become blocked, leading to the jungle. Since our initial attempted at getting on top of the rushes, we have seen more oyster catchers and curlews. There is also still the pheasants and pigeons but hopefully the grass will get going before they eat the seeds. And with that, we now wait for rain.

‘Honey, honey…’ ahh, ABBA. They have quite a few songs adaptable to the crofting lifestyle. But this one cuts the mustard for Dryope (she is a cow before you ask and no we didn’t name her). Just need to change the lyrics from ‘love’ to ‘milk’ and it fits the bill.

The dizzy thing in the song? Aye, have that too, thats’s just from standing back up again after trying to get the machine on her. And not only that, bending down low next to a cow takes a wee bit of courage, particularly if they show signs of wanting to bend it like Beckham rather than practicing to be one of those live statues on street corners. And with that concept, when it comes to the machine at the moment, I too look like I should be at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival (if it was on this year); but not as those live statues, but as a juggler. Because yes, don’t go putting a wee drop of milk into your tea without a bit of appreciation to the work that goes into getting that milk to you.

Now, big farmers will have a much better and efficient set up than us to start with. We just have a wee mini milker that we wheel out. Once everything is in place, toddle out to the field and it can vary. One day, they are queuing up. The next, oomph, they adhere to social distancing rules to the extreme. Never fear, once in, we can get it going. Except this is where I look like I’m practicing to be a stand up comedian learning to juggle. I can’t always get the machine to stay on the cow. Simple in theory. Basic really. Until you realise the pressure isn’t always right. And you need to get four hooked up while keeping a wee pin at the bottom pushed in to ensure the right pressure. Start at the back, swiftly pull the pressure pin, after getting the back two on, try and get the front ones on before the back ones fall off and hit the ground. Swift grab to catch them while trying to keep pressing the pressure button thingy and you end up where you started. So the two hands, five piece juggling set speeds even further up (so really, all wanna-be jugglers need to go work on a dairy farm). But speed still doesn’t always do it. Don’t get me wrong, some days I can get it on, sorted and stand back up without a hint of dizziness. Some days the statue, some days the pigeon as the saying goes.

Before the certain tut tutting comes from the firm traditionalists, I have been doing some hand milking too. Yep, I can satisfy both camps on that front. But it is a different skill and even then, some cows are easier to do it on then others. So it needs a bit of work too. One of ours is really good at kicking the bucket. Good equivalent to jump star exercises as you’re always thinking it (her leg) is coming (the kick) at you (and the dizzy thing isn’t there at all because for this you now have dead legs). But it gives us fresh milk (we are pasteurising it).

And so with that, maybe the milk juggling act with a hint of dizziness isn’t so bad. Add the occasional swish from the tail right across your cheeks and we’re onto a winner.

I’ve got the 7” shingles, the wrong lying outcome

The 12 pile broken mix

Just put them in the wheelbarrow, grab yourself a mallet

See what we can smash up

I want some slate scree and revamp, a dodgy little section

With a merry wee wish and bang

From slates for the roof to chippings galore

But still, the whole ones left over for sure.

Swing a mean machine

Want rid of the moss

We were bent down, hands down, little bit of sit down

Giving it a good wallop across

All the punters will say

And you’d be join in too

Blue, blue slate, could have bought from Wickes

But that wouldn’t recycle, reuse

So Deep Heat, don’t be a tease

Now I’m down on my knees

I’ve put the mallet back down

For some rest if you please

Please note, this is a countried (literally) version of Paul Heaton’s 7” Single. If only he were a Crofter, he could be singing about breaking up the old slate pile. He doesn’t know what he’s missing. The moss covered front garden patch has now been replaced with slate chippings and am just waiting for a new log shed to be built; I’ll just go add it to the to do list…

If Petula Clark had sung during the coronavrus…

When you’re alone and life is making you lonely,

You can always go downstairs.

When your fridge is a teaser, all the food in the freezer

Seems to help, I know, downstairs

Just listen to the WhatsApp of the friends in other cities

Linger on the iMac where the zoom call chats are witty

When can you booze?

The lights are much brighter there

You can forget all your troubles, forget all your cares,

So go downstairs

Things will be great when you’re downstairs

No finer sofa for sure, downstairs…

She obviously was not thinking the song would be adapted and not work for those who live in flats and bungalows…

The Crofter is home again. He got back having only been gone for five weeks. As he checked the orchard and polytunnel I was able to confirm: I had not needed the knacker man, no plants had died in his absence (to my knowledge), we had had no hospital admittance, no vet call outs and no calves. Not bad going, if I do say so myself.

Ok, I had had to get assistance with the plumbing, a pig had gone on the run, I had brushcut a field, we got the full paramedic experience, and oh, I had had a cow sprint at me while putting up some fencing. But you know, other than the usual maintaince of things that needed done with the dry weather (paint potting shed, mow lawns, treat decking, and laundry all the curtains), the main issue had been the polytunnel, or more so, the plants in the tunnel. It became the new baby. Not as in something to fill an empty void and dote over like some treat their dogs. But something that needed attention every couple of hours. Sun appears, 45 degrees, open doors. Windy, 14 degrees, shut the door. Too dry, needs watered. Frequently. Weeds appear, time to hoe. Seedlings need repotting. Time to plant new seeds.

But the worst to control was the temperature. Not just in the tunnel, but under the velux windows in the house too. With the sudden balmy weather (think shorts and a G&T to non farming folk), the plants really suffered extreme temperature differences. The seeds in the house shot at a growth rate not expected. Thankfully there has been a drop in helicopters flying over, otherwise someone would have glanced in and misunderstood what we had going on upstairs. The tomatoes and corn all needed planted out sooner than expected. Except, the nights were baltic. So much so that quite a few in the tunnel were needing a winter duvet and tucked up in bed as part of their routine.

Never fear, the weather pressure has changed. Now that he’s home, there have been less temperature differences. Or so it seems. The doors aren’t needing opened and shut as often, the nights not as cold. Typical. But hey, at least Hilda waited till he got home to have her calf…