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Dylan missed out the middle comma. And capitalising ‘The Times’. Although I’ve just gone and looked up the lyrics. It looks nothing to what I thought he sang. Hopefully he’s not reading this and I get sent some plagiarism/copyright thing.

But The Times, the physical newspaper is changing. I stopped reading it a good few years ago. It had been my Saturday treat (well, buy it on the Saturday, start reading it on the Sunday and hopefully finish it by the Thursday). But a stooshy over the owners had made me question who I was supporting. I was also noticing changes in the articles. The written content showed subtle changes, I couldn’t place on finger on it. It seemed like hidden agendas, phrases written in such a way to push my train a thought down a one lane track. I decided it was time to dedicate my time elsewhere. Besides The Times did article on world news, the royals and big shots. Not really anything that helped me bring the cows in, plant tatties or work out how the chickens were escaping.

So imagine my surprise when I got a phone asking if I would be interested in speaking to a journalist from The Times. Hmm huh, was my response. What was The Times really wanting? The Crofting Commission has released new figures that show a rise in young people joining, and nearly 50% were women (or something along those lines, the bit I read was vague. And I can help point out a few of how those statistics are coming about but that’s not the point.

‘He’s quite friendly’ was the reassuring words. OK, it’s not the telly or radio, I’ll go e-mail him. Within two minutes I had a response, would I be available for a wee chat at 4.15pm. Aye, go on then. I glanced at the clock. 4.07pm! I had eight minutes to grab a cuppa and do a quick search as to who I was going to be chatting to. And what was the first thing that came up in the search? This was not just any journalist. This man had an impressive journalist achievement (I won’t share it here, it’s his achievement).

And the man was remarkable. Very easy to chat to; an amazing conversation ability that would get you confessing where you buried the three bodies before you’ve finished your cuppa. In my usual derailed train of thought, the conversation flowed all over the place. He didn’t seem phased at all.

I came off the phone thinking, that went ok I think. But then you never know. A direct quote can be used and you are the enemy of the state. A few hours after the conversation and I started wondering, which bit of the conversation would be featured. Hopefully not the dead bodies (I am joking before anyone panics). It’s one thing to speak to a journalist, they then have to put it into writing, and convey that to their audience. Which is The Scottish Times, and who knows what their demographic customers look like. I wondered how he would manage to put it into a tiny piece, probably stuck to the left side of the paper, maybe tucked between an article on a shortage of paperclips in the UK and some footballer getting a new pet. And by this point, his contact details had also been shared with the other participants on the Grass Ceiling project. I wondered if any of the others had been in touch. What message would be conveyed?

The first message pinged in at 7am (“So which Rose is playing a star role in the Sunday Times today…?”). The fact that someone within the extended Rose family had already found it gave a fear. What did it say?

But before I get to that, there has been a bit of an uproar. Not about issues with the written article, but that it was only printed in the Scottish edition. Apologies to those south of the border who went and bought the paper only to discover it wasn’t in. This has nothing to do with me. I may be able to sort a coffee machine for the local hall, but I have no idea who The Big-Wig is that has the ability to get the article published in the south of the boarder papers. If I knew, maybe I would send a wee cheerful message to ask. But I don’t. Feel free to send in letters to the editor. Journal politicking is probably similar to the NHS. You need the right person. But good luck even being able to identify who, let alone how to contact them.

So for those that missed it, maybe those that scoured the entire English paper only to be faced with disappointment, it covered several of us who are part of the Grass Ceiling project. An EU (and Scottish Government) project looking at women running rural businesses across the Scottish Highlands and Islands. Jen from Cormonachan Croft and I are both part of the Scotland team of GRASS CEILING, and both feature in the article. Along with six other women, we are led by an amazing team from NICRE and Scottish Crofting Federation. The Times article highlights the increase of women entering crofting as well as the Grass Ceiling project. Within crofting, there has always been women. That is not new. Innovation does not need to be new. But it’s looking at what’s stopping us and helping us in our innovation processes.

So this is a massive thank you to the journalist, Mike Wade, who wrote the piece. Several people have commented at how well it is written, to have such a positive piece in a newspaper of some fairly doom and gloom reading. Previous work colleagues are now laughing, fully understanding why gralloching a deer with me is not a fast process. The community cafe’s coffee machine has now become famous. And I’ve now been told it included a great phrase for my gravestone.

The build up to this week’s adventure has at times been palatable. The boys have been fairly tenacious while I have been trying to get ready to travel, get some work done on the computer, and make sure the livestock have everything all in order for a few days.

It was looking calm, until the message came through from Tim yesterday.

“It’s not looking great for flying today…”, before the following message:

“And….cancelled”

Yes, the grandparents were move from on call to activated and the handover started. Handovers for cows can be fairly simple in the summer months: there are (insert number of cows), if one is legs in the air, call the knackerman. If they are ill, call the vet. Here are the two numbers. In the winter, there is a bit more attention needed. They are in the byre so have hay for munching on, straw for bedding, and a water trough that can freeze. Similar for the boys: food, drink and sleep requirements (and preferably none of the straw or hay is incorporated into any of those).

Today’s forecast is apparently more optimistic for Tim getting off the rig. The cancelled helicopter flight was due to swirly wind (rather than straight wind). Helicopters apparently don’t like swirly wind which is understandable.

In the mean time, the adventure to Oxford has begun. The first train is running, they seem to have staff (although that can always change), and no mention of weather affecting this bit. The next stage will be the interesting part, I need to navigate across a part of London.

“Mum, how long does it take to get to Oxford?”

“It will take most of a day”

“What language do they speak there?”

“Hmm, English”

“How?”

“Well, the English language is spoken, albeit different dialects, in a few different countries.”

“Are you flying”

“No, train, so hence why it’s going to be a long journey”

“Ooo, do you go through the big tunnel?”

“No, I’m not going under the sea, I’ll stay on the ground (well, hopefully)”

“Is Oxford not in a different country? How can you get there without the tunnel?”

“Well, a lot of delivery companies think there is a sea between us and ‘the Mainland’, but there is in fact, nothing stopping the trainline from going all the way from Inverness to Oxford.”

And that was the conversation with my kids today. The main discussion for them is my upcoming trip to Oxford. Oxford is not somewhere where I have been before. I had never contemplated ever going until a surprise phone call a few days before Christmas and suddenly an expedition and a half was needing to be organised.

Travel is going to be interesting. I was against flying. It would have been cheaper and quicker but I really didn’t want to choose it. I had no ambition to take the car. We have an electric car and I get separation anxiety when away from our solar panels and charger. Getting to Edinburgh or the Western Isles is fine. Going way down south? Hmm, no thanks. So train tickets were purchased. Yes, I will be going through a tunnel (aka the tube in London, not the tunnel that goes to France as I have had to explain to my son). Getting there looks promising. As long as the trains work, they have staff, the weather is dry, no wind, snow, or rain, and it is neither too hot nor too cold, I should arrive some 11 hours after leaving.

The ticket coming back is a different matter. I have four different connections; I would like to remain the optimist but recent experience with trains mean I have little confidence that I will make all the connections (or that the trains are going to even run). I have less hope that I will get a seat.

So that’s the travel bit. But I have a bit of a dilemma to make sure I can make the 07.55 train to London Kings Cross on Wednesday. Tim is due home tomorrow (Tuesday). That is if the weather is fine, flights run, the wind is low, the fog remains far away, etc, etc. I don’t usually plan anything the first few days he is due home as we are well familiar with travel disruption, particularly at this time of year. Between him arriving home and me leaving on a train is about 12 hours. Very little room for lightening strikes to ground helicopters. For Cinderella to get to the ball, I don’t need a giant pumpkin, but on call child, cow, sheep, and hen care to take on all responsibility until he returns. And so enter my parents who are now on call to cover anything and everything (hopefully it will mostly be child duties as the cows and sheep got bedding, bales, and buckets today to tie them over; the hens are fairly self sufficient as long as the water doesn’t freeze). And hence all of this is why I’m having several conversations with the boys as to how things may pan out over the next couple of days.

And all this to make a wee trip to Oxford. Do I know much about Oxford? No, other than I like the Oxford comma. But this trip is not so much about Oxford, nor grammar, as it is the event that I’m going to.

The baltic air seemed to permeate through clothing like it was red wine to a white sofa. The water had an inky blackness, its surface smooth, no hint of a breeze, and went as fair as the eye could see. The sun had not yet risen, the darkness hanging on just that little bit longer. The journey started, smooth, the water parting as we passed though making good progress, gliding seamlessly.

That is, until we reached the downhill bit. Because no, we were not in a boat looking at a peaceful lake, but in the car on the school run looking at a dirt track that had had snow, and then compacted snow. But it had started to melt. The water sitting peacefully on top of the ice, quite content not to move, and I had not put snow chains on.

The back of the car swung starboard. My oldest asking me, in awe, how I had just managed to get the car to move that way. Two hands gripped the wheel, we realigned, before it then decided to swing port side (which was better, less of a ditch off that side of the road). The back of the car was eager to catch up to the front, it was not happy at the back. The front wheels then decided they wanted to try a glide before a few rough stones stopped the slide and got them back to the usual roll. And then, it was over. The council road was before us. We had reached the end of the mile and a half track in one piece, a car that stayed on the road, and two children were shipped off to school. The sail boat was put away as the snow chains came out to get back home.

And then, it was gone. The snow covered fields, the frozen water pipes, the sheets of ice disappeared. The water trough flowed once again. And so, until the next block of artic blasts come our way, I have no plans to go sailing again.