Category: Livestock

Cows, sheep and any four legged beast.

Crofting Life, Livestock

A new day dawning

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A new day, a new dawn, and another attempt at starting the tractor. 

The tractor doesn’t like the cold. Not the whole tractor, just the battery apparently. And while it is able to cough its way to life on most other occasions, it’s a pitiful, sometimes nonexistent, attempt when it’s baltic. 

A good hour clearing snow had meant I had warmed up. And it didn’t feel quite so cold. A better sign of the battery being in less of a grump? An illusion really, as I eyed up the tractor now covered in a layer of snow. The gentle fall of snowflakes from overnight had had some merry dance and were now strewn everywhere. Yes, even inside the hay shed. Och well, the charger which had been hooked up like a ventilator giving the tractor some intensive care was showing green. A wee blast with a hairdryer cleared away the snow and the suspense grew. Now was the dreaded ‘turn-the-key-and-hope-for-the-best’ moment (and if the attempt was unsuccessful, the backbreaking attempt of rolling a bale in was now about ten times worse with a thick layer of snow to battle, and they needed a bale of hay as well). 

The wee fairy light button (what ever that warm up indicator is supposed to be but it looks like a string of fairy lights) finally turned off to signify it was ready. And instantly it burst into life. No half attempt, or questioning today. No sign that it had been refusing it move yesterday. 

So with the noise, the cows knew what was coming. The straw and hay was delivered and the tractor was parked back up with the audience of contented cows. And sheep. I got out of the tractor to find five sheep looking at me. They had polished off their remaining hay while I had sorted the cows. At least their hay can be done on foot.

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, Livestock

Woolly Silence

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Things have been fairly quiet on the blogging aspect. The writer’s block has seemed to have outlasted the pandemic and is still going strong. A few times I would get those ‘whay-hey’ moments, but rarely would the mental concept last, the next breeze would chase it off and by the time I got to sitting down to write, it would be a distant memory, not of the concept itself, but that I had at some point had a paragraph I could have written. Maybe I should dig the laptop out anyway, I would wonder. But I then found excuses, I was trying to work on my knitting, I have a cross-stitch project from about 10 years ago that I would desperately like to finish. What about the spinning wheel that I rarely touch, let alone the piano. Then there is the pressure of Duolingo (for those unaware, it has leagues, and points, and demotion potential if you don’t practice). For one whole year I was doing French via Duolingo. That has now changed to doing Gaelic (because having two boys in the local Bun-sgoil and sgoil-àraich means now getting asked questions which I have no idea), so I shelved the French and swapped to gaelic. And while I don’t spend a lot of my time language learning, it can quickly fill an evening, even with the longer spells of darkness. And I did try combining knitting with gaelic but counting K2P3, as basic as it is, was not aiding with duolingo (suggestion to any involved with the Scottish gaelic is can I have a knitter’s version).

Now, I realise a lot of people are not keen on the nights drawing in, but I’m enjoying it as it gives an excuse to finally get to the spinning wheel and my knitting (yes, my spinning wheel has been outside but often, I just sit there and eye up all the outside jobs that need done). And with the attention back to the wheel, and the knitting needles back out, I recently did take a day off and went shopping. To the rare breeds sale at Dingwall Mart. What more, then window shopping (well, gazing through the pen gates) at all the different breeds of sheep, a cafe area which serves bacon rolls and chips, and to then splash out and buy some more sheep could you want in a day?

Yes, having done a little bit of prior research into wool, I went along eyeing up three different types: ryelands, wensleydales, and Icelandic’s. I was given a sack of ryeland wool early autumn which is about to get washed. I decided to practice washing one of the fleeces I had sheared this summer (texal cross) before approaching the ryeland wool. Which will now need to get done sooner rather than later because I bought two Icelandic ewe lambs. And I would like to have gotten through the ryeland wool (washed, dried, and carded) before I then get icelandic wool next year. Which also means I need refreshers on carding. But the problem with looking carding up on you tube, is you come across articles on weaving, and then someone has made bags from weaving their own wool, and then you start looking up looms, which takes you back to the auction mart and oh, look! There’s another spinning wheel for sale at the mart; the same mart I was at last week buying two sheep. Ahh, it certainly is a slippery slope into the woolly world. Besides, I really need to go check the cows, the bull, the chickens, and the dog before I get back to my knitting this evening.

Bees, Crofting Life, Livestock

Hippy, hippy shake

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A wee while ago (OK, maybe a few years ago), I went on a freebie session about maximising social media for small businesses. So I dutifully signed up as a business to Facebook, got an account on Twitter and joined up on Instagram. Facebook, oddly enough, I could handle. I like stories; while a photo or two can capture the reader, there is info in the post (well, not on every post and not on everyones but let’s ignore that). A lot of blog posts all started off as a facebook post, became too long so got transfered over.

Next, was Twitter. And nothing really prepared me for a newsfeed of pure sharp shooters; snipers sitting at their keyboards (most likely in a darkened room, eyeing up any movement or activity on the plaform that they could shoot down in a single shot). I may be slightly exagerating. Not everyone is like that. But it is certainly a one liner culture: a hit and run culture. I sit in the arena and watch the horror of gladiators and lions attack each other. I think I average about 10 mins a week on it before it is abandoned and I go back to the fairy tale stories of facebook.

But then, there was Instagram. The click and collect social media version of the happy shopper. All I saw was lots of pictures. But tell me more! Why are those two women jumping about in a living room in front of a sofa? Why is another picture showing me a coffee being made, of a dog looking shocked and another of some mist? Why is the wee blurb sometimes hidden? The conversations between people doesn’t flow. So, with the difference in the set up, Instagram came even further down my list of what to look at in the night when suffering from insomnia. Figured, hey, I’ll do a bit of reaserch another time to figure out who looks at this stuff and the thinking behind it.

And so the days rolled into weeks, into months and hum-hmp, years. Until recently, a discussion with a friend gave a bit of insight into who uses it and why. It is her do-to app. I started looking at it again. Promptly to be closed. Until that is, a nudge from a good fiend. Someone who is the real life version of the Mr Men’s Wizard (not that he has special powers but he has a beard, a wealth of knowledge and can talk to anyone). Yes, Mr Wizard knew how to tap into the chic and shabby world of instagrammers. You know, the type that have avacado on toast, want to live in the country side where the air is pure, they can experience walking through meadows barefoot and eat local organic food (can I clarify this is not the entire set up, it’s just the type I seem to find). So how do I discretely join in when we just had a 400 degree hot pizza oven blasting from the back of a bashed pickup parked in the byre due to it lashing with rain? Or when I had good solid dirt under every fingernail from digging veg? And when I’ve just had to pressure wash a pair of boots that got coated in gardener’s gold (aka manure) straight from a cow? They may not smell the manure on Instagram but I don’t think pictures of cow pats cuts it.

But never fear, I’m sure I do have photos that match the wannabe country folk. But if it’s out walking the meadows barefoot, I’ll be checking for ticks. If the sun is shining through the long grass, I’ll be assessing the grass length or blocking the contract tractor dude from mowing the grass. Dancing to the Hippy, Hippy Shake? Sorting a bee swarm by the sound of it. And if I’m lying back, on the grass, looking like I’m dreaming? Mostly likely a cow has knocked me flying and I could do with a hand up or an ambulance. So this will be interesting; bridging a gap between what people think I do and reality. And more likely needing witty, one liners for a photo. At least actually ‘living the dream’ does put food on our table and gives me a warped sense of humour.

Crofting Life, Livestock

Charging Bull

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Ok, this is probably the first in a long time that I have not used song titles, lyrics or even my own adaptions to songs in the title (it’s also the first time in a long time that I have written anything). A few months ago I did not deal with a Charging Bull (like the statue outside Wall Street), but a very real, charging steer. People at Wall Street apparently have to deal with high stress levels, think they might have fancied a bit of fresh air and lending us a hand?

Some of you may remember we use to have a cow called Breena. Breena, who on her first day with us went charging through an electric wire. She then settled down until her last two pregnancies with us when she turned absolutely mental. Two strikes, she was sent to her forever home (not without her last stand at the abottoir, for those that read that story) and I thought my troubles with mental cows was a thing of the past.

However, (and a big however!), over the summer we have been moving cattle around while our reseeded grass got established. Out of one field, into a trailer and just 5 mins round the corner. All went swimmingly (well, swimmingly like Eric the Eel when you are taking down electric fence, putting it back up and trying to work with livestock). Swimmingly, that is, apart from one. Jack Daniels. Jack was one of four boys born here two years ago. He has often been hestitant but that’s workable. I could still get him to a bucket, and we had moved him several times before. But his anxiety suddenly escalated. Into a new league. On this one occasion, all the others walked into the pen, loaded and moved. Apart from him. He refused point blank to go anywhere near the loading pen.

So, with that, I went back down the day after the initial attempt to try the good, old bucket of nuts and taking it soft and slow. The gentle buzz of bees, the gleams of sun being filtered through the trees. He would follow the bucket to within a foot of where I needed him before going back to his comfy corner (in the furthest away corner at that). The morning quickly past and it was soon lunchtime. Back up was called. The Crofter arrived with two mini crofters to see if we could rig up some electric wire to halve the field to help nudge him in the right direction. Nope, just like Breena (bless her), he went straight through and away he went.

Troops were regathered, lunch fed to very hungry people and strategies sought. Which was, ‘oh pants, we need to check the bee hives for potential swarming’. Yes, to get a land flowing with milk and honey, it all takes time. Once the hive checks were completed, and we got back to steer strategies, we decided to ring in help. Surely another couple of people to run about a field would help?

It started so perfectly. Along a fence line, towards the pen he aimed. Backup spaced out in a way a rugby commentator would be proud of, when, on the space of a fifty pence piece he double backed on himself and set off like Mo Farah. In fact, not only like Mo, he decided to try the hurdles and jumped the fence into the neighbour’s field. He was nearly ready to go over the next fence like a criminal in an urban housing estate trying to avoid an arrest when we managed to divert him though a gate into a square penned section of a field. Barbed wire, new stock fence. Excellent. Set up some hurdles, the livestock trailer awaiting; he could walk in and voila. Attempt one. After he started eyeing up jumping the stone wall, e sent someone to the road side to persuade him not to. Attempt two. I then jumped the barbed wire to put him off jumping that. Alas, he didn’t care and jumped the barbed wire, a jump that a cross country Olympic horse would have been proud of.

Great. Just great. Plan C (or D): let’s try and get him to jump back into his original field and leave him to chill overnight. And this is where things took a turn. A bit of old fencing, a few loose posts: great, let’s aim to get him over that. Perfect opportunity as he has shown he’s got showjumping potential. He followed the line perfectly, headed for the dipped fence before coming to a complete stop. Maybe I should have complemented him on his jumping? But he then turned, at first running off at an angle to the side of me before suddenly turning and came straight at me, head on. Life does not flash before your eyes. More, ‘this will be very painful, will I be thrown up in the air or trampled (I kid you not, that was my thoughts)’, and with the only thing I had, I walloped him on the nose with all my might.

I will not lie, I am so glad my Guidance Teacher never suggested being a Matador (turkey farmer did come up in one book but never Matador). I never wanted to be a Matador but if I had, my career potential had instantly crumpled (don’t get me wrong, I like cows, but without the drama, another subject not recommended for me). With a steer only taking one swipe at me, I wanted out of the field.

While the steer headed back to eyeing up jumping over the stone dyke; some old fence posts were uprooted to enable the fence to be pushed down to give space for him to step over. I exited the field while the Crofter and two other brave men tried one last chance. Thankfully, Jack D saw the opportunity and took it. And while he looked thankful to be back in his own field, he was now searching for pals. He didn’t want to be on his own. But while he wanted a support group, we left him to chill, praying that he wouldn’t try jumping again. Now, this all happened when we had a slot booked for the following day for a steer to go to the abottoir. And his name was now on it…if we could get him loaded.

But how to get him into a pen? We decided to take down our house cow who is very chilled, very slow, and is the herd matriarch. She quickly got him following her like a star struck teenager with a celebrity. She did several short laps of the field, each time bringing him back. But he would not enter the pen. She now wanted to know what on earth this was all in aid of and when could she go back home! We needed to get to the abottoir and were fast approaching our cut off time. As the clock ticked, we had to abandon him and quickly nip back to load another steer to take to the abottoir. But we were still stuck.

Now, my trip to the abottoir went fine. That is for someone who has recently been charged at. Discussions were had with an experienced livestock handler. So knowing I had a backup plan, I then headed off to chat with a local farmer, who told me where to find another farmer. So, in the middle of a farmer’s field, as he was trying to wrap silage, over the noise of the machinery, it’s a former I had never spoken to before, I was provided with a plan. The use of this farmer’s handling area and knowledge of how to get the steer up to it.

We were not foolish though. And we still sought help from the local Farming Community. And it went like clockwork. The Matriarch, her calf and Jack Daniels quietly walked out of a field gate and up a road, into a handling area and with only a wee blip at the livestock trailer, you would never had known that I had been google searching if any Vets in the Highlands had experience on Safari’s firing long distance tranquilizers.

So why write the story now? Well, Jack came back to our fields and remained with our bull until last week when he took his final trip. I have been counting down to it. I will admit I have been pretty twitchy near any of the cows recently. The two of us in particular have kept our distance. He did try one last chance to break me and nearly succeeded. Thankfully, the likes of Hugh, Ian, Andrew and Graham have been the unsung heroes of the livestock world. All four men offered their knowledge, time and support.

As for me? To help get over my confidence dip, we’ve just bought a bull. A massive bull. One that looks like a bison. This ought to be interesting…