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…
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…
Meet the three wee pigs. Who, after their arrival (ie, one day to collect, three days distracted with plumbing) decided to put on a show in line with Gilbert and Sullivan’s Penzance production.
Scene one, act one began as they were given access to explore their new surroundings. The electric fence was soon tested but they showed their savviness. I breathed out a sign of relief, and with that, a sudden sprint ensued, a synchronised limbo dance move and all three went straight under the bottom wire and off they trotted.
Yes, off they frolic in their new sense of freedom when, upon spotting the cows, changed their navigation route like true pirates and headed straight to the byre.
As I quickly approached the new lair (and shut the door), the pigs took note that I had deceived them. And rather than go quietly into a wee corner, they decided it was better to live and die as pirate pigs than go easily. And I’m sure anyone wanting to audition for the next Captain Jack Sparrow, just needs to chase pigs. Eventually, while out of puff and with several bruises (me, not the pirates), all three were placed in the dog’s crate (improvising at its finest) and hauled (they may be wee but heavy when lifting!) back to their home.
And it is at this point when things took a twist. I had used a sheep gate across the front of their home while they acclimatised, it had worked perfectly. The first out was Runty MacRuntface who, did a magic trick and went straight through the gate. How he did it, I will never know, but there, for split second, he stood outside of his home, glanced back and then, doing the identical breakdancing trick as before, off he trotted.
Now this time, the cows took an interest in the wee ginger ninja. So he changed his bearings and headed west. As I gained ground on him, he slipped through the next fence, swung wide and headed for the road. Bear in mind, piglets are small but they sure can move at some pace. As he started to then head back to the byre, a brief sense of relief was felt until, at the last gasp, he shot off back down the road, slipped through the neighbours deer fence, crossed the river a couple of times before disappearing into some heather. And then vanished. Completely and utterly vanished.
The mishap fugitive on the run had not gone unnoticed. The neighbours (whose property it was that he went AWOL on) came out to help and started combing the area too. I checked for footprints. We got the dogs out to try and smell him. But no, he became the poor wandering one. And eventually I had to give up. The boys needed their lunch. I was needing a seat. But even then, while the sun shone (why, oh why could I not just be sat enjoying the sun with a G & T?), I scanned the east side of the glen like I was gold panning. Just as I gave up and started cracking on with the other jobs for the day, my phone rang. He had been spotted, not in the glen, but high up, in the forestry woods and appeared to be having a whale of a time.
And this is when the concept of getting him back started to diminish. After several circuits, bent over, through the thick, sharp tree undergrowth, I had to call it quits. He had disappeared again. The idea of a Scottish ginger wild boar being discovered by a rambler in years to come and becoming front page news for the local press crossed my mind. I had to accept defeat and go give the confession to the Crofter. A pirate sherry was poured and the acceptance of loosing to a piglet hung in the air.
But, never fear, for their operetta does not end there. For that evening, as I trudged wearily out to feed the remaining two, both snuggled up in the straw; there, under their house, was the runaway pig. As the sun slowly dipped behind the hill, the blue sky turning to a very chilly hue, he was finally reunited with his comrades (ok, after five laps of the house trying to get him in).
And since that day, they have remained in their designated spot. Hill walkers and ramblers will not come across a ginger boar running wild in the woods. The local press will need to find other stories to cover. Oh happy day.
Ahh, lockdown. The time to sit back, get the spring cleaning done and spend some quality time with the kids. Aye, but no good story starts with the spring cleaning. Things had started off ok and were going tickety-boo until soon after I’d written the Rock Chick post. Then someone (not me, I hasten to add) decided to ramp up the tempo and figured I was ready for the next level up and needed a new challenge (all terms useful for zoom chats with all normal urban souls but maybe more applied to Scrabble than scrambling about like mad).
The first hint of a problem was a stream of water coming from the byre and exiting via an emergency exit. Upon turfing the cows out briefly, I discovered a leak in their trough. Not just any trough, their emergency trough (and certainly not an M & S one). The normal trough got a massive crack in it just before the Crofter headed off. A new one had been ordered. But this was just as we hit lockdown. The company didn’t know how long it would take. So with that, the emergency one was put into working order and all hunky doory.
Until the fateful day. From working with the Philips screw driver, the two of us soon made sure we had frequent catch ups. If we missed a day, we would be sure to make up for it the following day. Now, the main tap for the water supply is about 500 steps away from the byre trough. It supplies the field troughs too. And the polytunnel. And to check if the system was working, meant something more akin to the bleep test from PE class. For it’s not just a back and forward exercise class, it’s under the pressure that Child 2 is down for a nap which means there are other jobs to get done. And child 1 has been given use of the online babysitter (aka Peppa Pig) so I can move slightly quicker and not have to answer the ‘why’ question for the 482nd time while trying to gain a qualification in plumbing.
Nor has it been a straight wham, bam, strawberry jam solution either. The first overflow issue was initially resolved; the connector and the floating doofer had fallen out with each other (I’m not a plumber, in case you wondered).
In response to that argument, the trough then took a huff and decided to stop all communication with the connector and go dry. Philips and I took a look again. Soon, a wee trip up to the water source was needed. I say wee; distance wasn’t a marathon but if you need to transport two children up a hill I can now recommend a cloth sling for the youngest on the front and a strap sling to hold a toddler on your back. Parking two beside a burn may seem dangerous to Health and Safety awareness people. But believe me, it’s nothing to having to stop a toddler the urge from throwing stones in while you’re in trying to remain dry.
The walk down didn’t seem nearly so bad. The comment by the Mini Crofter didn’t help though. ‘Mummy, shall I turn the other tap back on?’ Aghhh, yes, please…to know he knew of another tap is one thing, but when did he turn it off?
Which is great, until the next day and I’m back to an overflowing trough and a dry polytunnel. Yes, my sons enjoyed wading through the puddled water. Did we eventually sort the water? Yes. A sheared tap was found and sorted, the floating doofer had more stuff stuffed into it, and the boys new paddling puddle dried up. Step count? Much higher than normal but I’m not really wanting to walk 500 more…
Birchwood Croft, Inverness-shire 