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Our newly planted fields has been getting visitors. Four legged bandits looting the place under the cover of darkness. Picking on young, self defenceless seedlings. They are not part of any union to represent them, can’t afford a lawyer, so they are under stress. Not only that, word has been spreading among the pigeon population and gangs have been congregating in the area during the evenings.

Now, I’m not about to invest both money and hard labour into a field for the benefit of our small herd and lose it to pigeons and deer.

But they know what they are doing. I can’t see the field from the house. Even when I can see it, I cant always access it with two boys. And its too far away to leave them to stand and watch. Options were considered. Back to the strategy plans. I decided to take an MI5 approach. So meet Mrs Spooks. No, she’s not spying on the neighbours, but watching in the direction of the looters. She does carry a firearm. She’s more akin to GCHQ than 007, but the enemy doesn’t know that. A general scarecrow wasn’t what I needed. I need to scare the deer, and we’ve all seen Bambi to know what the evil man does. But men aren’t the only ones with firearms licences. And the deer know that. And they will have seen that hoodie out working before. And they may remember losing their pal Big Red a few years ago to that woman (the fingerprint analysis showed its not just wee deer…).

So my beloved deer and pals. I may not be there 24/7, but Mrs Spooks is my new employee covering it for me. She may not always have a gun. She may be joined soon. If she is, there will be social distancing between them. Who knows what skills the next employee may bring with them. But sometimes it’s better to be alone. Pigeons may flock together, but eagles fly alone. Let’s let her be an eagle. And let’s not spook the neighbours.

But there was no plan. Just a simple ‘nip down to the shed and get back up to sort tea’ type of plan. And just to get the dog doing as much with me as possible, I’ll let him run down without the lead (Gus, a patterdale terrier if that gives anyone an idea of the story about to unfold). Got to the shed in time to be greeted by the entire herd at the nearest gate. They had seen me coming and they were bawling. Not soft, gentle moos. They were making their presence know and demanding action. As to what, I could guess.

Just a few hours earlier, the Crofter and I had been discussing what the field/stock rotation plan needed to be over the next few weeks. Grass growth is currently pants on the grass growing scale. We have one entire field newly sown so out of bounds (for the cows; the deer seem to be having a ball with it so if anyone wants to help do some evening scare tactics, do please get in touch…). Anyway, we then have a section fenced off for the ‘hopeful haying season’. That time will now not just be dependant on the weather being dry, but will there be enough grass to even cut for hay? The rest of that field usually gets split for strip grazing. But not this year, there isn’t enough. So the plan was I would move them up to the top field soon. But with the bawling I thought I’d just take down a few posts, they can step over the electric wire (turned off) and off they go to the rested field. Moovers and shakers business really. They moo, so I shake a bucket and whistle, they follow and move fields.

Smooth, apart from Jack, a teenage steer and two calves that is. No way Jose (I realise that that ‘e’ needs a tilted, farmers flat cap above it, I have no idea how to find that on my phone, just imagine its there and all the grammar/punctuation people can be at peace). Anyway, the last three wouldn’t go. So I head to their rears to try and offer a bit of further encouragement. Still no chance. Cue Gus, who at this exact point, dips under the gate and takes a run into the field. Now, he has done this in the past but has chased the cows and barked like mad at them. His free movement was taken away in the lead up to calving so to avoid stressing the cows. It has been slowly reintroduced. I hollered a him to sit (hello neighbours, enjoying the peacefully countryside?). And he did. I was shocked. Not bad for a terrier who has his eye on something. The admiration was short-lived; the two mothers of the calves I was still trying to shift decided to see what the problem was. I envisioned a dog/cow fight/charge and I was in the middle of the field. I snatched Gus and chucked him over the nearest fence (gently I hasten to add, but speed was of the essentence at this point). I then spied the Mini Crofter at the bottom of the orchard with a piece of rhubarb he had just pulled up out of the best looking crown that I had grown from seed. He got quickly sent back to the house. At this point, the Micro then took an interest in the cows and headed acroos for the fence. He is down a shoe and has a really wet sock half hanging off (where’s the shoe?). Never mind, he seemed fine so turn back round to loop round behind the steer and Gus entered the scene again. Another shout; an instant lie down. Hmm ok, is he a wanna-be sheepdog? Quite impressed. But never mind that, I suddenly realised why they were bawling. Something had gone wrong with their water supply, the troughs were empty.

I pick Gus up and run. A quick turn on of the bore hole tap and a sprint up to turn an upper tap off (water comes in from a burn usually) and I hear the reassuring sound of water filling the tanks. By this stage, Jack (as in Daniel’s…) has been nosying up the electic, decided its not so bad and stepped over it along with both calves. Except the rest of the herd have decided, this wasn’t what they wanted and start making their way back down. Electric fence post were jabbed back in as fast as I could to get back and turn the electric back on (they aren’t daft if you leave it off). All while having Gus at my heel.

And so you think, excellent, jobs done, I can know sort a one shoe boy, a potential sheep terrier and a very late tea. Hmm, two hours later, all the cows are queuing wanting back to the bottom field. That and I’ll need to go sort out a water pipe…tomorrow.

Maybe it would have been better if I had just done the original saying and just grinned and beared it. But back at the start of the year, one of my goals was to make my own gin (by infusion with a neutral spirit I hasten to add before I have HMRC tapping at my door wondering why I don’t have the proper license; I’m not bootlegging it before anyone asks).

The moon may shine but this is no moonshine. It’s just a chance to experiment with what is used to make gin, to see what flavours come through, what can I actually taste. But, I have a slight issue (not the unhinged type of issue where life’s lessons have given me a love of sarcasm and alcohol). Firstly, I don’t like tonic, and so what I use gives different flavours than what the general masses use. Secondly, I don’t tend to like the bog standard. What’s a girl going do? Find someone or some people to help. Yep, I had to lo and behold, ask for help again. I needed some to trial some blind tastings. And I found someone. Thankfully the search for volunteers was not long and hard to give away four mini gin bottles at home and have a wee evening in (thank goodness for lockdown…). But this wasn’t any knock it back and say aye or nay. Mine got sent with a tasting note card.

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.