Category: Crofting Life

The highs, lows and laughs of crofting

Bees, Crofting Life

Don’t Worry, Be Happy

croftingwifie

Begone, thou fairest Queens. And begin your new quests in a land far, far away and begaze your new surroundings. I’ll stop the ‘bee’ words. For while their kingdoms remain the same, the bees were loaded in the night, tucked up in their abodes, and transported to be governed by a new crofting emperor. Well, maybe emperor isn’t the best word. Keeper of the bees, who will respond to beck and call for need of food, ensure they are comfortable, and all the other things that beekeepers do for queens and colonies.

Yes, the bees went this week to their new kingdom, we are beeless (that is actually a lie, we have the usual non honey bees and there are some honey bees in our ancient woodlands, a lost swarm from last year but I am referring to the pet bees).  

Over winter they have been tucked up in their bee boxes with fondant. No opening up of the hive, but once we started getting some good days when you could feel the warmth from the sun, the bees (not the queens, they stay in their Beeckingham Palaces) came out; mostly to deposit bee poop onto my washing line but I can forgive them for that. Several times all three hives could be seen that they had activity, which was a relief. Having made the decision last autumn that the bees had to go, a new territory was sought, but it was always planned that they would wait until spring as we could never be sure of how many colonies would survive the winter. 

When the initial post went out that the bees would go, I think anyone who had a beekeeping friend went and told them. Which was fine, it did help get the word out that we needed to find them a new home. But within the beekeeping world, biosecurity is tight. We don’t like getting other bee equipment or bees which affect our own. So I got heaps of beekeepers sending me a message pretty much saying ‘I have bees, so I don’t want yours, why am I getting sent this info and why are you getting rid of them before winter?’ (Note: This was not everyone, I should say, but more than I was expecting who hadn’t read the entire social media post). Of which I had to politely say, yes the bees needed rehoming due to Tim’s allergic reaction. But they would be best going to someone who didn’t have bees and they wouldn’t be going anywhere until the spring, but I needed to organise where they were going as I didn’t want to wait until we had the activity of Terminal 5 in backlog on a Saturday on the first day of the school holidays before making plans. 

It was a rough call to decide where they went as we had a lot of equipment. So planning for moving bees took some time. Bulls seem to be easier than bees, Maybe bairns too. I had several dreams of driving down the road with a swarm of bees following (and yes, I know this is not realistic, it was a dream, and dreams aren’t sensible thought processes in the night). 

Collating the equipment took time. Several parts of the process were talked through to make sure it would be minimal disturbance for the bees. Loading the equipment caused issues. It was a mild day with little wind. A few of the bees came to see what was going on and wanted to explore the supers. And the bees really like Tim. We quickly put a stop to that before they became too interested. And that evening, they were secured in their hives and loaded. Belt and braces; one hundred and one ratchet straps (not far off) were used. 

That night it rained. Pelting it down. I dreamed that they had been flooded. At 5am I checked. In fact, the pickup was so full with bee equipment that barely any rain had made it into the pickup. With the lights casting shadows into the inky darkness as the rain still lashed, I set off, crawling. Not literally, just very slowly as every bump conjured up the image of the hives being knocked. 

And then the usual. Ten minutes down and I realised I had left all the washed sugar syrup bowls at the house. I didn’t dare drive back up. I abandoned the vehicle in the middle of the track (who in their right mind would be out on our track at 5am; she said as she watched a neighbour’s car lights head off as I started back up). 

Take two and we were off again, a total of 50 mins from first leaving the house and making it to the end of the track, a journey that normally takes 10. The hives checked again. The idea of getting to the destination and finding no bees would have been grim. Check fine. Onwards. I started feeling better, until the concocted swarm dream trilogy returned. Another stop, another check. All good. And so the journey went on. Every so often, pulling in to let cars pass. There was no chance I wanted to hit potholes or make any sharp stops that I must have looked like a driver of the gentry out for a Sunday afternoon drive. Except I was in an agricultural pickup (i.e., it’s not plush), stacked with beehives, and it was 6am on a Tuesday. 

Eventually, I reached their new home. The transition from vehicle to view point was smooth. I then started thinking maybe I had made them all car sick, which if honey is bee puke anyway, how would they cope with motion sickness? Maybe I had upset Queen Flora, Fauna and Trixie-boo? Would they like their new empires? The journey back was full of what ifs.

The apiary spot now sits empty. A slabbed area with a path behind, nestled at the foot of the orchard. An empty void in the shed where all the equipment was stored. But for now, we wish those bees well. To Queen Flora, Fauna and Trixie-boo: may your colonies grow strong, not swarm unless planned and organised, no A & E trips, and may you give your new keeper much joy and heaps of bee puke. You may also get renamed. We’ll wait and see. 

New empire

Crofting Life, Livestock, Sheep

The Scanner Man

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This week, a Sheep Scanner was up our track. Our neighbour had organised it and very kindly let us tag on. As I held on to one of the ewes, we got chatting and he reminded me of my last episode with a Sheep Scanner.

Ah yes. The last Scanner Man now has a whole song made up about that episode with many thanks to Billy Joel for providing the inspiration and tune. Yes, substitute Scanner Man for Piano Man and you’ve got yourself a tune to sing along to in your head while they are busy working.

This week’s scanning session was nothing like the first episode. I’ll set the scene. The snow was down, drifting, icy, and road conditions weren’t great. I was at the end of the track waiting for the school transport to drop off our eldest. As the taxi driver tried to leave, the van wheels spun on the compacted snow. Never fear, I was dressed in full ‘outdoor-time-to-get-stuck-in’ gear. Not elegant, not classy; but fully prepared with snow shovel, grit box, and a tow rope. As I worked at getting the lady back to moving, a pick up arrived. One with duct tape around the front, pulling a trailer, and a guy with the window down asked if we needed help. No, it was fine, the lady got the van rolling and he then stopped me in my tracks, ‘Are you Beth?’. Hmm, yes. I then realised he was speaking to someone through his pickup’s audio. It was my neighbour! She was stuck in town with the snow and he was the Scanner Man for her sheep, could I show him were he was going. Aye, ok.

So we headed up the track. A few times I thought his vehicle must have died. Maybe the duct tape wasn’t doing so well with the pot holes. But no, he eventually arrived and we parked up at the neighbours. My boys by this time wanted out. The Scanner Man was on his phone. Right, let’s get on with it. And this is where I thought, Man, if people thought I took a lot of photos, you should watch him! As we did the two ewes, I desperately was trying to remember which one was scanned with what. Finally, the boys were bundled back in the pickup, and we headed on to home. Our own cows checked as the cold bite could be felt, the fire light, and tea sorted.

By this stage, the tune of The Piano/Scanner Man was now on repeat. 

It’s four o’clock on a Fri-a-day,
The snow laying thick and quite fast
There's a young guy stopping his pickup
Making use of his duct tape galore
He says, Beth, can you show me where I'm going?
I'm here to scan your neighbour's sheep
The snow held her back and I know she's got two to be done
You'll be glad for waterproof clothes 

Baa, ba-ba, be-be-baa
Baa-baa, be-be-ba-ba maa,
La, la-la, di-di-da
La-la di-di-da da-dum

Show us the scans, you’re the Scanner Man
Show us the scans today
Well, we’re all in the mood for the lambing results
And you’ve got us feelin’ alright’

And so, the song stayed with me. Every spring, the tune and chorus is back. Oddly enough, it was ages afterwards at the Royal Highland Show that I discovered who the Scanner Man was. Worse, I was told the episode was on his vlog. Yep, there I was, having had no idea that he had been filming the lot and the boys could be heard in the background.

So thankfully, this year’s Scanner Man didn’t have a phone. Or at least I never saw it. He did have a single orange croc which was this year’s highlight (for the boys that is; the sheep never asked a thing about it).

Crofting Life

The Times, they are a-changing

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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.

Crofting Life

Against The Wind

croftingwifie

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.

Crofting Life

Long Train Running

croftingwifie

“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.