Tupping the sheepies

This entry is dedicated to Geraldine Evans. Hello Geraldine.

We bought a 'tup' a few weeks back. The vet got him for us at the tup sale in Dingwall when he was buying the sheepstock club rams. A 'tup' is a ram, in case you are confused. I am usually confused with animal terminology. For instance, in the case of sheep, you can have ewe, ram, lamb, tup, wedder, shearling, hog and gimmer, not necessarily in that order. I mean, a sheep as a 'hog'? Never, I hear you say, a hog is pig. But don't take my word for it, Google.

The idea when breeding any sort of beast is for the stockman to determine when, where and with whom. The tup that we had bought for our little flock of mainly 'gimmers', was therefore put into a field with an old ram (kept for sentimental reasons and don't ask me ask the wife), a wedder and a young ram who had escaped the knife. The new tup would be introduced to his harem on the 28th November, or thereabouts, and all was rosey at the Romesdal croft.

A few days later working at the byre I noticed something odd about a sheep in the distance. It was nothing specific, it just looked odd. Gathering my trusty dog Jay (a bitch) off we went for a closer look at this strange sheep. As we neared it dawned on me that the sheep was 'odd' because it was obvious that it was a ram! And not one belonging to Romesdal.

Moreover, our little flock was nowhere to be seen and there was mystery as to how this strange beast got into the field in the first place. Anyway, I surmised that the flock was 'over the wall' as the gate had been left open to let them and the cattle come and go as they pleased. So, driving the strange ram in front of us, Jay and I heading in that direction.

It was a full on flabbergast when, on through the gate, I saw the flock and not one strange ram, but five! They all looked at home and was that a one smoking a cigar? As to how they got in in the first place that could wait, as the problem now was getting the blighters out.

The easiest way to do so was to the drive the lot of them, ewes, gimmers and rams back through the gate down to the yard, pen them and then separate. And with the invaluable help of Jay, that is what I did. As to ownership, that was easy, as they were clearly marked as Kingsburgh sheepstock club tups.

Sheep successfully penned and rams separated from the rest, the livestock trailer was backed up to the pen. The rams were shooed into the trailer for the short journey back to were they belonged, at Kinsburgh fank.

The best laid plans of man and dog scuppered and the prospect of early lambs to boot.

Such is life and what can you do?

PS As to how they got in amongst the flock, that remains a mystery, as a walk along the fence line revealed no breaks. They either jumped the fence, flew over the fence (unlikely) or some half-wit (not me) left a gate open for a while and then closed it.

Autumnal Skye

It has poured incessantly for the past four days and its feels as if the rainy season has arrived. The land is sodden and the Highland Cattle look permanently bedraggled. I'm waiting for a break in the weather to finish painting the outside of the house, one of many snaggy jobs to be done.

The Romesdal river is ferocious as it hurtles itself the short distance to the sea fueling a water cycle that would make any desert dweller green with envy... for a while.

Daylight fades about five in the afternoon and darkness rules until after seven the next morning and it is only early November. The hours of darkness will lengthen yet and the daylight fade correspondingly earlier in the run up to the longest night and the turn of the year.

The Highlanders are looking hungry and eying me keenly when I enter the fields. The winter feeding regime is but a week or so away and then it will be seven days a week in all weathers until the end of April next year.

But, hey, let's not anticipate and not be SAD just yet, and give an account of happenings since to last post.

Blackie was sold at the Portree and will not be jumping any more fences as he was 580 kilos of prime Highland beef. The beast will have entered the human food chain by now, no doubt. He had a good life. He was free range and well looked after and what more can you say, as life at Romesdal is as far from factory farming as we are from Timbuktu.

We had friends from Glasgow visiting and returned to compliment, which was very nice. Yvonne flew up from London and I caught the Uig to Glasgow bus just outside on the A87. We both like Glasgow having lived in that city for many years. Its like going home.

And then I had my first visit back to London since Calum died last January. Regular readers of this blog will already know that Yvonne works in London whilst I look after the croft on Skye.

I may have given the impression earlier in this blog that I don't particularly like London. Well, just to set the record straight, I must say that I do. A famous Englishman from the past once said (paraphrase) 'if you are tired of London then you are tired of life' and I agree. But not to work in and commute on the Underground every day, just to visit and soak up the cosmopolitan atmosphere.

The Kennington Tandoori is hard to beat for an Indian meal experience and one was had. Along with a play at the National Theatre, another Indian meal with friends in Ealing and night out at the pub with some old work mates. It was back home to Skye and the croft with new lease of life.

Rita and her family had been looking after Jay. And I had missed Jay, having been constant companion for so long. Yet the lure of the city proved too strong and off I jolly well went with nary a backward glance. But it was back to reality and it was in this period that Blackie was sold.

The Foot and Mouth outbreak in Southern England imposed countrywide movement restrictions on livestock and a temporary cessation of market activity, but now the ban had been lifted. The major township task to be done with regard to the sheep-stock club flock was gathering, grading and selling the seasons crop of lambs. And you may recall from 'The Gathering', this had also been done in July for the purpose of managing the health of the flock.

However, I thought I would miss out on this as Yvonne and I had booked a week's holiday in sunny Cairo. And sunny it was and warm too at temperatures of over 30 degrees. And as far from Skye as, well, Timbuktu or slightly less and with more people and I think more smog. The air was terrible. My eyes streamed all the time and a permanent, dirty, haze enveloped the city.

But it was also fascinating, of course, and we did the tour of mosques and museums and pyramids and the Sphinx and saw another culture amid a strange land, a gift from the river Nile. Cairo made London on our return look like a medium sized market town with clean air and back home on Skye the air was intoxicating (or was that the duty free whisky?).

And the Vet had not gathered the sheep from the hill and back only a day I was thrown into hill walking with a purpose and an excitable Jay, shedding lambs and dipping sheep and hardly a pause to take stock, until now.

And now I prepare for winter

The tale of the homesick Highland bullocks

The tale of the homesick Highland bullocks:

Once upon a time (not so long ago) in a place called Romesdal on an island known as Skye lived a fold of pedigree Highland cattle. These Romesdal Highlanders consisted of seven cows and their followers (offspring) and were a very close-knit community as most had known each other since birth.

(Image of Blackie with the hill and Romesdal glen in the background)

Now the man in charge (advised by his wife) deemed it sensible to separate the cattle into different fields according to size and sex and therefore kept three bullocks in the place known as 'over the wall'.

Moreover, the biggest bullock, known only as 'Blackie', was over two years of age and had become a bully to the younger heifers. So, along with his pals 'Brownie' and 'Dunnie' they were exiled from the main body of cattle and put 'over the wall'.

At first they were not too happy and bellowed at the gate (which had another gate tied to it so as Blackie couldn't jump over it as he was an accomplished fence jumper). To no avail, as the wall was high and the gate even higher and so after a while the three bullocks settled themselves down and munched and wandered the length and breath of 'over the wall' in seeming contentment.

(Image of Brownie looking windswept and interesting)

As the summer progressed and the sheep were gathered from the hill the man had the notion of giving 'over the wall' a rest from grazing cattle by putting the bullocks across the road an onto the hill, for which he had grazing rights, but had never exercised them. If that all makes sense?

The main obstacle, however, was the busy main road leading to the ferry terminal at UIg one way and the main Skye village of Portree the other way. You see, and this probably wont make much sense either, Kingsburgh township crofts in the main are sited below the road with the common grazings above the road. Therefore beasts coming and going from croft to common grazings have to be led across this main road.

As this was a first and the man failed to seek advice, the tried and tested method of trial and error was called into play. With a bucket of cobs as a lure the tactic was to lead the bullocks through a gate, across the road and through another gate and onto the hill.

Cars whizzed by as man, wife and bullocks waited at the gate by the road. The cattle were nervous but greedy. The traffic lulled and they decided to go for it and gates were opened. Dunnie came through and onto the road with the other two more reluctant but starting to follow gingerly.

Suddenly a line of vehicles approached from the direction of Uig, spooking Brownie who headed back into his own field. The traffic halted and the the mission was aborted by shooing the other two after him. A few days later a friend and neighbour suggested that very early on a Sunday morning, when there was no traffic, was a good time to cross the road with beasts.

He proved correct and the bullocks were moved across the road with ease the next Sunday morning.

Mission accomplished, as they say.

(Image of some Shorthorn/Highland cross yearling

heifers, for no other reason than I like it)

You may recall that the bullocks were very unhappy when first put 'over the wall' and wanted back to the main body of cattle but couldn't jump the high wall and the even higher gate. So it was no great feat of genius to predict that once the bullocks realised they were exiled even further away from their mommas, there would be wailings and gnashing of bovine teeth. And, oh my, were there wailings, or more precisely bellowings.

It was embarrassing. The darn beasts just stood at the gate demanding to be let back across the road and home. And all the neighbours, as they passed by in their vehicles going to Portree for shopping, had a grandstand view of these three, spoiled, brats of bullocks.

The man therefore (advised by his wife) decided to lead the bullocks far from prying eyes and take them on a journey to Madrigal, an abandoned village in the glen of the Romesdal river, in the hope that they would meet new friends and settle down for a few months of free grass and heather munching. And the plan seemed to work.

The bullocks duly followed the bucket and after an hour or so walking were abandoned by the man near the tumbled down ruins of Madrigal. They looked bemused, he thought, as he dived behind a tree and made good his escape along the line of a little stream, keeping low to avoid detection.

It was with a spring in his step and a whistle on his lips that he made his way home by a circuitous route lest the cattle follow him. He arrived in a triumphant mood but a seed of doubt impelled him to have a last look up the hill with the binoculars before a cup of tea and a piece of home-baked fruit loaf.

With binoculars raised he scanned the hill for sign of bullock and at first all seemed clear. Not a sign. Then a black dot of bovine head appeared on the skyline. And then another and yet a third, like Indians readying an attack. With a resigned sigh he went indoors to impart the bad news to his wife.

The bullocks were back.

A few days later the three bullocks jumped a fence into a neighbour's croft (the only croft above the road) directly across the road from the Romesdal croft. They had not only come home but had decided to come by way of our front gate just to rub it in.

The man's resolve to banish the bullocks collapsed. He gave a shout of encouragement and the three homesick beasts trotted through an open gate, across the main road and down the Mill road to be let into the field to join their mommas and siblings

There's a moral to this tale but I am not so sure what it is?

Bed and Breakfast at Romesdal, Isle of Skye

There is a school of thought in Kingsburgh (who shall remain anonymous) that considers it a curse to live in a place which others consider idyllic.

You may have gathered by now that I am not much of a person for having a master plan being of the 'make it up as you go along' school of life and doing B&B is another case of something that just sort of happened. Calum died suddenly leaving me responsible for the croft, cattle and sheep (and Jay) and unable to spend months at a time in London working, which was in plan A, so one must adapt.

As for the B&B experience from the other side of the kitchen door, I enjoy it very much. The first couple were Italian, from Tuscany and the second couple were Polish. There have been more since then (as this is an update) including French, English and even Scottish and it looks very much like if you can't get out to meet the world then doing B&B seems to bring the world to your door.

Moreover, as a working croft and home to the Romesdal fold of pedigree Highland cattle our visitors, after a comfortable nights sleep, get to view the Highland cattle from the windows of the dining room as they tuck into a hearty breakfast, which will set them up for a hard days holidaying on this most beautiful of Scotland's islands.

Romesdal as a destination offers a warm welcome, a comfortable room and bed, exclusive use of a newly modernised bathroom with power shower and use of an upstairs lounge with stunning views to the South for chilling out by watching a little television or reading that book tucked into a corner of the holdall.

We are not your usual bed and breakfast with a pile 'em in mentality, offering only one double bedroom, and therefore you will enjoy a peaceful and unique experience staying in a family home, with the main business being breeding pedigree Highland cattle.

For anyone interested in a stay at Romesdal I can be contacted from the main Romesdal Highland Cattle home page

Next time: 'The tale of the homesick bullocks'

The Gathering

The ringing phone by the bedside table woke me from a deep sleep where I was in the midst of gathering sheep and lambs into a pen with the usual gang who pass for workers at Kingsburgh fank. (Only joshing guys)

(Images are John-Niall and the Vet, Hugh taking a break and inside Corrie Fuar)

Digression: a fank in this part of the world is a place where sheep are processed and by that I mean herded into pens, separated (shed), sheared of fleeces, dipped into a tank of organo-phosphate soup that kills ticks and other creepy crawlies, dosed with white gunk against worms, lambs vaccinated against diseases and tails docked and then all let go again to find their way back to their rightful place on the hill.

And if we didn't do the above then there would be no woolly jumpers, no leg-of-lamb not to mention the lamb used in curries, sheep would die of disease and the Sea Eagles would have to take up fishing again.

Anyway, the lambs where jumping and bleeting and the ewes were swirling about upset at being parted from the lambs, dogs were running hither and men were shouting when the phone woke me up. I think I was delirious.

It was Yvonne, of course, calling from London to share her news and views on the new day. But I was still dead-beat after spending the past two weeks, at first gathering the sheep from the hill and then working with them at the fank and she soon scooted off back to her duties bored no doubt by my lack of response.

I had worked for many years at Kingsburgh fank in my summer visits to Skye and was used to the routine and under no illusion as to the hard, dirty work that this entailed but this was my first season gathering.

Kingsburgh operates a 'sheep-stock club' whereby all the sheep on Kingsburgh common grazings are owned by a group of shareholders who each receive an annual dividend from sales. Yvonne and I inherited Calum's share on his death, hence the interest. But others work at the fank too, not just shareholders as some are elderly and some just don't have the time and you need to keep up the numbers. The vet is the chief oraganiser.

Kingsburgh common grazings, I may add, is a massive stretch of land much of it hill and bog populated by scattered groups of sheep (cheviot), and all the wildlife native to Skye from Golden and Sea Eagle to fox and deer and the rest down to the ubiquitous tick, patiently waiting on a sprig of heather to latch onto you and your dog and without your dog the sheep would remain on the hill.

Gathering sheep is very much like hill-walking, only with a purpose other than recreation and with a dog or three in tow. One dog good, two dogs better, three dogs better still and any more even better as long as you can afford to feed them and either rear them or buy them, and a good working dog is not cheap.

I have only one dog, Jay, and she had never gathered sheep from the hill either as Calum had given up this aspect of communal working in his mid sixties or early seventies. So we were both new kids on the hill and therefore subject to the usual banter and teasing, called 'ripping the pish' out of someone where I was brought up. And by the end of the gathering the pish had well and truly been ripped.

The gathering took place in three phases with a day for each phase: The 'Road', 'Romesdal'; and 'Corrie Fuar'.

The Road phase was relatively easy and entailed men and dogs climbing up above the sheep, spreading out in a loose line across the hill and driving the sheep down onto the old road, crossing the main road with them and onto the fank.

Romesdal was harder as you had to walk further to get into the large corrie at the head of the river Romesdal and then drive all the sheep back down to the road and onto the fank.

Corrie Fuar was downright dangerous and entailed an all day walk there and back across very rugged terrain gathering and pushing sheep as you went in a great circular motion to a backdrop of spectacular cliff edges and swirling mist. The first day we tried this gather we reached the very end of the corrie and were just about to begin the circular route back when the mist descended and the gather had to be aborted. It would be so easy to walk over a cliff edge in those sort of conditions.

We gathered again a few days later in beautifully clear weather as England drowned under torrential rain and returned safely with both sheep and a sun-burned noses.

It may be hard work. It may even be dangerous. It may even be lonely sometimes parted from the missus for weeks on end, but it sure beats working in an office in a human anthill of a place that goes by the name of London.

Jay the sheepdog takes a knock

Yesterday Jay was injured at the fank and is lame and looking a bit worse for wear, poor wee soul that she is. She was tumbled under the hooves of a gang of ewes and rams that we were trying to herd into the large shed, whilst at the forefront of a pack of sheepdogs. She may be not so good at the gathering but at close in work can hold her own with the best.

I was alarmed at her injury but the other men just shrugged and said she would be alright. Nevertheless, as the vet passed (because he too is a crofter) I asked him to have a quick look at her foot. No bones broken, he diagnosed after a brief examination, and then scuttled along after the massed ranks of swirling sheep like a medic from the opening scenes of 'Saving Private Ryan'.

Anyway, though hobbling and in obvious pain Jay was keen to get on with the work so I sent her off to join the rest of the dogs in gathering more of the sheep and off she scampered with pain forgotten in the excitement of the chase and only a slight wobble in her gait. Still, not being a complete moron, after another ten minutes I put her in the back of the Land Rover to save her from even more damage.

Her forlorn and pained look of injustice will haunt me for...... a wee while.

Highland Bull

I will start by stating the obvious. If you are in the business of breeding quality, pedigree Highland cattle then you must obtain a pedigree Highland bull for the creation of all that new bovine life.

This time last year we had two bulls on the croft: a rising two-year old Lachie Geal of Romesdal whom we bred ourselves as the name indicates and a Whitebred Shorthorn bull. Lachie was duly sold in the summer of last year to a breeder from the Isle of Lewis and the Shorthorn was sold at Portree in the last sale of the year on the advice of the local vet, who reckoned the bull was turning arthritic. Such is life, as we only had him for one season.

So how does the crofter, far from markets and the wrong side of the Oban pedigree sales go about buying a bull? Over the internet, of course. I suppose that some reading this will automatically assume E-bay and it would be great to say yes. However, the more sensible option seemed to be the Highland Cattle Society's cattle wanted and for sale page. And it was there that we came across Iain Siolach of Shenavallie, which is a fine name for a very fine, well bred, Highland bull.

A brief exchange of emails with the Shenavallie breeder followed and the deal was done. The day after the cows finally crossed the road the bull was delivered and we have lived happily ever after, excepting our neighbours who have to endure the bull bellowing at cattle near and far at all hours of the day.

Crossing the road

You would think it easy to move a group of Highland cows and their calves through a gate, across a little bit of tarmac road and through another gate, into a nice, clean, field of lush new Spring grass but, in my case at least, you would be wrong.

I was going to wait to the weekend to move the beasts as there would be more bodies about in the form of my wife Yvonne and some visiting friends, but an intemperate character and impatience got the better of me. The grass was over there, the cattle were hungry and over here and I was heartily fed up feeding them hay every day. So, as I rode down the field that morning, two bales of hay tied on the rack of the quad, the wee devil on my shoulder, urged, 'open the gate and let them cross the road, or be a tube for the rest of your days'.

Now, as a man fond of a challenge it would be fair to say that the wee devil was kicking at an open gate and instead of spreading the hay as usual I made for the gate of freedom with cows and calves following sedately behind. 'Nae problemo', I thought in my best Scottish/Spanish as an adrenalin surge of confidence took me to the edge of the field. Later I reflected that I would have thought this in Gaelic had I the linguistic ability, but I don't.

As an aside, that is not to say that I am an anti Gaelic type of person because I am most emphatically not. The truth is that I am deeply envious of Gaelic speakers and those from this area whether they have the language or not. Good on yous and please keep Gaelic and the crofting culture alive. I promise at some point in the future, obviously before I die, to try and learn some of the language, if not all.

But back to Highland cows and grass, gates and tarmac roads. The quad was parked at the side of the gate and for the first time the bales of hay were left untouched. Instead, I opened the first gate wide and crossed the road and swiftly opened the gate into the other field and then stood back expecting a 'Rawhide' like stampede of cattle down the banking, across the road and into said field. Which was what happened, sort of, in the sense that the older, more experienced cows crossed no bother but the younger cows plus all the calves point blank refused to go through the gate let alone cross the tarmac road. It was obvious, then, that this was going to be a case of re-joining cow with calf with some cajoling and the usual bribery to effect the desired end of having all the beasts in one field instead of now being spread between two fields.

Funnily enough, the wee devil had by this time vamoosed. But, the time was ticking on and so would I, for a while, as lunch was calling. The cattle, I decided, would have to fend for themselves for the next hour or so until yours truley was nosebagged.

Lunch finished, after a lot of coaxing and bribery with cobs and threats with a big stick the cows with calves on the wrong side of the road were ushered back through the gate, across the little bit of tarmac and back into the field with no grass. It was to take another three attempts in two days and this time with a lot of help from Yvonne and our visitors before the job was finally done. A case of another 'Skye half-hour' wee job turning into a marathon, snag-ridden, major undertaking.

I'll get the hang of this crofting business yet.

It always rains at Achnasheen

It has been a bit of a slog over the last four months and a lot has happened. At Romesdal the larks are soaring and singing high above the fields heralding the imminent end of the winter feeding season and soon Jay the sheepdog and I will be dancing to a different rhythm of crofting routine. (Jay is the wee dog above).

We have successfully calved three of our cows, or, more precisely, the cows calved themselves without any interference from us. I did have have to milk a cow a little as her udders were so full but she soon came right and now all is well. (Photos of cows and calves to come). We still have three more cows to calf and fingers crossed all goes well with them as well.

We have about twenty sheep but only expect three lambs as most are ewe hogs and wont go to the ram until next season. The darn critters are getting itchy and scratchy and the 'spot-on' I put on them a few days ago doesn't seem to have worked. Looks like a good dipping is the only solution and I am not keen on dipping at this time of year. Still, needs must.

We were planning to re-seed part of the croft this Spring but, logistically, are in a bind and now are just going to apply fertiliser to one large field as a stop gap measure. Next year for the re-seeding project, then. Just shows that you have to plan well ahead in this business, if it can be called a business.

Yvonne, my wife, had to go back to London and work a few days past and it is not the same here without her. It is peaceful enough, however, and Jay is good company. There is also always something to be done, from decorating the house, a seemingly endless task after the renovation, to planting potatoes, gardening and mending fences. As Calina says, crofting can be a hard life but also very rewarding.

Most every day I think back to morning of the 25th January 2007 when I found Calum dead in his bed. He died suddenly, without warning. One day he was here, feeding the beasts and giving me the benefit of having lived all of his 80 years as a crofter; teaching me slowly and surely the value of patience and tolerance around the animals; answering my questions about the Gaelic language and translating the Gaelic radio into English for me; giving me companionship whilst Yvonne toiled at the workface of darkest London, and the next day he was gone.

By strange coincidence Yvonne was arriving in Inverness that very day for a scheduled visit home. After assuring myself that Calum really was gone, I phoned Rita, Yvonne's aunt and our near neighbour, as the beasts still had to be fed and I would still have to go to Inverness in the Land Rover to collect Yvonne. Also, Jay would have to go with me in the back of the vehicle, a first for her. So, after feeding the beasts and a quick shower I put Jay's box in the Land Rover and began the first leg of the three hour drive to Inverness.

At Broadford about an hour into the journey, as promised I called Rita to find out how things were going. The funeral parlour staff had come and taken Calum's body already and I thought how easily it is that we are cleansed of this life. Rita had also very kindly, as well as informing the authorities, contacted all of our close neighbours as a gesture of respect. Reassured that matters were progressing, I filled the Land Rover with diesel, called Jay into the back and trundled on.

The January sky was dark grey as I crossed the Skye bridge at Kyle of Lochalsh with low cloud obscuring both landscape and seascape. I passed through silently with a swish of windscreen wipers as there was little traffic at this time of year. The next stop on the journey to Inverness would be at Achnasheen, where there was toilets and a nice railway station, set amid the most stunning scenery and guess what? When I arrived there, it was indeed chucking it down and I was not in the least bit surprised as it always seemed to rain at Achnasheen.

However, as a footnote to this entry, last week found Achnasheen both coming and going very pleasantly dry.

Highland cattle feeding time

A sudden change in circumstances:

Winter feeding of cattle and sheep is a fact of life for crofters in this part of the world and entails a daily routine of whatever your feeding regime may be.

My way is 'old fashioned', or so I've been told, as it involves a lot of hands on work with the cattle and sheep, is labour intensive and time consuming. And to be honest, that is a fair assessment.

In the byre each morning I prepare separate buckets of food for our sixteen Highland cattle of all ages. The younger ones get slightly less the older and larger beasts correspondingly more. They also get, in addition to a ration of cattle 'cobs', a mixture of bruised oats and 'shreds' - a by-product of the sugar beet industry. However, mixing the 'bruised', shreds and cobs in the buckets is the easy bit.

Next comes feeding time at the zoo.

When I first came up from London at Christmas 2006, to help Calum with the winter feeding, it was quite a scary experience feeding the Highlanders at the byre of a cold and stormy morning. The horns, you may think, but no, not in my case as a cow actually trod on my foot, jumping to escape a lunge from a larger beast, and it was very painful. So for me it is the feet not the horns.

As the days pass you get used to things and it gets less scary and you acquire the knack and experience kicks in. So now I take five yearlings into the yard, leaving ten larger cattle and a suckling one month old heifer calf outside. The five calves are given their buckets and then I call the two most dominant cows to the yard fence and feed them. I then race to the back door of the byre and quickly put out four buckets and the next four dominant cattle tuck in. This leaves four still to be fed and these hapless souls circle the eaters ineffectually, with pained 'why me' expressions.

I go out of the back door with a large stick in hand, stand guard and wait. With a bit of luck they will finish their food at roughly the same time. But, like humans, some are slow and some are fast eaters. And there lies the need of a big stick.

Morag, the black highlander and dam of the month-old heifer named Suzie, is at the top of the dominance ladder in the Romesdal fold and is a powerful and determined beast. The way it works in cattle society is that the strong eat whatever is going at the expense of the weak, given a chance and the fact that food is rationed to one bucket per animal. A 'state of nature' as they say.

So there we have it, back of the byre, animals munching me with a stick. Morag food finished and on cue rushes from around the corner intent on taking from a weaker beast which would start a domino effect (cause of my sore foot) and me positioned to stop her. So I whirl the stick in her face shouting and snarling, which she does not like, and gently tap her horns and she stops long enough for the four to finish.

I then slide open the back door of the byre, allowing Suzie to come in for her feed, and bring in the empties. I then close the door and wait a few minutes because I can hear Morag snorting around outside looking for more and determined to get her due.

The remaining four buckets are positioned right at the door for speed of distribution. I put a handful of cobs in a pocket, slide open the door, close it behind me and call Morag away with the cobs as a lure. Some of the other high status cows follow her. At a safe distance I scatter the cobs on the ground and hare it back to the byre.

Being intelligent beasts and knowing a full from an empty stomach the remaining four cattle are waiting. The buckets come out as do me again with my stick. Morag snaps the last cobs, turns and starts advancing, which is my cue to curse and holler and wave said stick. And she thinks better of it. Stalemate and compromise. She gets a little bit extra and I get all the cattle reasonably well fed.

And then I have to think about feeding them their hay.

Alternatively, I could save a lot of time and trouble and buy a bigger tractor, dump bales of whatever in some feeding rings, top with some cobs and never have to do battle with Morag again.

The Sea Eagle

I saw my first White Tailed Eagle today. The bird was soaring high above the coast just north of Kingsburgh road end and was quite unmistakable due its large size and, of course, white tail.

It would be hard to deny that the 'Sea Eagle', as the creature is commonly called, is a magnificent bird of prey. And there lies the problem for Crofters in this and other parts of Skye. There is a definite ambiguity amongst them as to the presence of such a large predator, especially when they have ewes ready to lamb and cattle just about calving. Moreover, whilst the Crofter may admire the Sea Eagle for its splendor and magnificence you get the distinct feeling that they would rather see the birds somewhere else, or not at all.

On the other hand, residents involved in tourism like the Sea Eagle very much as they attract visitors. The economy of the Island of Mull, for example, has benefited enormously from their presence and the pro Sea Eagle lobby would like a similar boost for the economy of the Isle of Skye. This sector would therefore like to see the Sea Eagle splattered all over the tourist literature.

To confuse the issue, someone told me that the RSPB, a pro Sea Eagle organisation by definition, whilst wanting the bird's presence tolerated does not want it's presence advertised, for fear of disturbance and also probably egg theft. So the RSPB just wants the bird to be left alone.

And there's the rub. A situation where a re-introduced species of wildlife has engendered a range of different responses and for different reasons. The Crofter would like to eradicate it. The tourist industry would like to use it as a marketing tool. And the RSPB would like to make it invisible.

The Beginning

For a person who has shirked responsibility all his life I now find myself landed with sixteen pedigree Highland cattle of all ages, twenty one Cheviot sheep (with one an interloper) and a female sheepdog named Jay. Oh, and also a croft on the Isle of Skye in Scotland where we all live.

Over the coming days, weeks, months and perhaps even years I will be using this blog to inform anyone who is interested of life as it unfolds here, with its ups and downs and bruises and sore backs from lifting too many bales of hay.

I would like to make it clear that I am incomer to Skye and originated in the industrial Central belt of Scotland. How I ended up here is a long and complicated story. Perhaps you will find out more as the blog progresses.

I like it here. On a mission yesterday to dose a relative's Hebridean sheep I met a local crofter (another term which will be explained in due course) who proudly produced a dead otter that he found by the side of the road. It was a magnificent creature! Now something like this happening to you is just not possible in a townie life.