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.
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…
Birchwood Croft, Inverness-shire 