The Romesdal Fold of Highland Cattle Blog

The storm

2011-11-24T22:45:00.006Z

Terrible storm outside. Wind howling and rain lashing since mid morning.

Television on the blink owing to sat dish unable to take the strain. A few puffs above 'normal' and pixels are us. However, can still get the BBC IPlayer using a broadband dongle. And, the radio still works and there are plenty of logs for the fire. Reading a good book as well.

The dogs in their kennels have started howling in competition with the wind! Must go and see.

Lola and the rabbit

2011-08-21T09:24:00.008+01:00

Lola caught a rabbit at the Scrappy's and brought it home to the back garden. I then took only her to the Co-oP and on to feed Neal's dogs.

We came back and she started chewing on the rabbit. I left her to it and went into the house, leaving the back door open.

About 10 minutes later Lola strolled in the back door and promptly vomited a load of rabbit guts onto the floor of the Utility room.

(Image of Spike and Lola)

I cleaned up and took her and Jay outside. I then let Spike out of his kennel hoping he would dispose of the rest of the rabbit. But Lola was on guard and growled at him.

Some people drove down the Mill lane and started to take photos of the cows and calves, getting a bit excited in the process and making noise. The dogs all started barking and running about. Spike saw his chance, grabbed the rabbit and expertly began the demolishing process.

Then the latest B&Bers (Spanish again) came and all hell broke loose, with Spike trying to bark with a bloody rabbit leg in his mouth and, to add to the pot, the neighbours from across the road came with their dogs and then a torrential rain shower flowed from the sky and we all got soaked.

The moral of the story?

Never underestimate a dog named Spike.

Cattle and colour

2011-03-08T13:34:00.004Z

I usually wear a German army-surplus, camouflage, parka about the croft. It is light and reasonably weather proof but no match for this morning's torrential rain and high winds. So on went the heavy-duty, yellow oilskins.

As I went to feed the cattle, the younger beasts stared with startled looks, before bolting off. The bull gave me a funny look as well and I kept well away from him.

Seems my cattle anyway, have a dislike of bright custard yellow. Such is life.

A near miss

2011-02-14T17:03:00.002Z

I was feeding two beasts the other day, a 2 year-old heifer and a similarly aged bullock, when I came near to being another agricultural injury statistic. Both beasts are pretty well grown and on the feisty side of feisty.

Anyway, the heifer has quite a large spread of horns and she was my main concern as I had to cross an expanse of field with their cobs to reach the feeding tables and she is most keen to get first bite. So, I took my eye off of the bullock.

Finding myself caught in a position between the two beasts, to my surprise, the bullock jumped into the air and kicked out with one of his back legs, just scraping my chest at heart height. Had the blow connected properly, most likely I would have been seriously injured.

As it happens, just some bruising and a bit of pain in the chest. Memo to me. Shoot the bullock and get rid of the heifer.

Anyone want to buy a feisty Highland heifer? Only jesting. She stays and will calm down eventually.

Promise of Spring

2011-02-14T16:53:00.005Z

The land is slowly awakening with new life and the best time of year approacheth. In the words of the great Canadian prophet, Mr L Cohen, hallelujah indeed.

And now the sales pitch: 1 yearling pedigree Highland Bull (white) and a selection of yearling Highland heifers 3 white and 1 dun. Praise be.

Rain

2011-01-13T08:53:00.002Z

The inevitable can be delayed no longer, rain or no rain, so goodbye warm world of slippers and soft furnishings and hello smelly wellies and mud.

Spike

2010-08-16T16:29:00.003+01:00

A lot of rain has fallen on Skye since I last posted and it is now the season of the midge, moth, crane fly and mushroom. This morning I had to hoover the window sills to clear away last night's debris of dead insects. The mushrooms are outside, of course.

There is something special about mushrooms which brings out the curious in me. I like to seek them out and have a good peek. So many varieties of colour, form and size to stare at. And always the question at the back of the mind is this one or that one deadly poisonous?

This time last year we had one dog, Jay, for working the sheep. A year later and we have three. Jay, Lola still with the mind of a pup although she has grown full size and Spike, bought in June as a fully trained working dog.

Among the many things I never expected in life, one of them is to be cast in the role of pack leader. Spike is a Border Collie from the Borders or very near there. The 'Borders' for those not in the know, is what we call the border region between Scotland and England.

I had a wonderful time going to collect Spike. The first holiday from Skye in a good while and appreciated the break from the confines of Kingsburgh and the croft.

Apart from all that, we now have six new calves, four white, one red and one dun in the ratio of four female and two male. And, not forgetting the lambs, eighteen of the little blighters. If Lola had her way we would have none as she would kill the lot, but that's for another story.

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2010-04-28T09:18:00.001+01:00

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Death on the croft

2010-04-28T09:16:00.000+01:00

Jay (dog) just bit me on the end of the nose when I was drying her in the kitchen. She must have hurt the pad on her foot and I gave the area a too vigorous a rub. Memo to myself, shoot Jay. Would need to borrow a real rifle so perhaps I wont bother. Lost a bullock to a rifle bullet. Vet had to put the poor creature out of its misery. It had damaged a leg and then managed to find its way into the only bog on the croft. No way we could get it out.

And then a dog killed two of the lambs (twins) on Sunday. Must have been a dog as they were ok in the morning and mangled in the afternoon. What can you do, as they say up here, but carry on regardless.

Lambs and Dogs

2010-04-25T17:37:00.005+01:00

Back home from checking on the lambs. All was well this morning. This afternoon is a different story. Found two (twins) lying side by side, dead, in a mangled state.

Doubt the Sea Eagle would have killed them in this manner so only other option is dog. And it wasn't either of my dogs Jay or Lola as they were under strict supervision all of the day.

What probably happened was a dog came along, the mother ewe ran away, but the lamb's instinct is to lie still until danger has passed. I noticed this the other day when Lola slipped her lead and was running excited among the ewes and lambs. The sheep flocked together but the lambs lay still and quiet.

Anyway, the lambs lying still were easy meat and all I am left with a sense of wasted lives, time and effort.

On a brighter note, currently bottle-feeding a lamb, one of twins, rejected by its mother. Seems the lamb has adopted a rather bemused Lola as its new mother and protector. Good luck to you little ewe lamb and Lola, please keep the canines sheathed.

Jay the sheepdog takes as beating

2010-02-27T14:45:00.008Z

Jay got kicked in the head by a cow. She can't help snapping at their heels but is now too old to get out of the way in time. And then, no kidding, the black Hebridean ram with the curly horns gave her an almighty butt! The beasties are trying to kill my dog!

And to cap it all, I lost my woolly hat when trying to feed cattle and sheep in a gale. It was blown right off and it could be in St Kilda or Canada by now. Or in the next field caught in a tree. My heart was saddened and my head was cold. I'll go and look.

A dangling sheep

2010-02-04T12:34:00.002Z

Something out of the ordinary happend this morning. The sheep gatecrashed the cow's breakfast party and a mini riot ensued with Dolly the cow swinging her head and catching a sheep's horn with one of her horns and hoisting it into the air until it dangled for a few seconds like an overlarge, exotic earing. Well, I'd need seen anything like it, that's for sure.

Sea Eagle

2010-02-02T07:45:00.002Z

I was walking the dogs in Kingsburgh Forest this afternoon and saw a Sea Eagle soaring high in the sky. Coming back the Sea Eagle was still about, but much lower and came over my head about 100 feet up. As I stared at this magnificent bird above my head, for a split second I thought it was going to have a go.

It didn't, suffice to say, and soared off to find smaller prey. Strange how I kept checking the sky over my shoulder until I was out of the woods.

Breakfast at Romesdal

2009-07-28T19:08:00.002+01:00

Two weeks of hard work at Kingsburgh fank was finally over. The sheep had been gathered, lambs dosed, jagged, castrated, tails docked and then, along with the sheep, dipped.

It was a relief to have time to think.

The next day I was a bit on the burnt-out side and not fit for much at all. I went into Portree for a newspaper and some shopping and in the process acquired a bottle of red wine.

The afternoon and early evening was spent horizontal, on the sofa, reading the paper and sipping the wine. I had no B&B's booked in and was hoping for an empty night, but the vacancies sign proved too tempting for a pair of weary travelers.

An Austrian man with twelve year old son had pulled up at the Romesdal B&B looking for a room. The chiming of the doorbell and Jay barking lifted me from my rest.

I said 'yes, I have a room', showed them into the house and asked what time did they require breakfast. 9.00 was the agreed time and I returned to the sofa, wine and an infuriating, in a quiet way, cryptic crossword puzzle.

Unsurprisingly, considering the wine and general tiredness, I fell into a deep sleep and on awaking was a tad more dazed and confused than usual. It was daylight, that was for sure, and I glanced at the clock on the sideboard to be told it was 8.30.

I jumped from the sofa in horror! I had people expecting breakfast at 9.00 and I was very not ready!

I dashed from kitchen to dining room, laying table and frying sausage and bacon near simultaneously. I was in full automatic pilot. Mushrooms were chopped and toaster filled with coffee ready to go.

I looked at clock in kitchen, 8.50, and noticed it was getting darker outside. So I sighed wearily at the realisation, and proceeded to eat two full Scottish breakfasts for my supper.

In consolation, at least the table was laid for the morning.

Such is life.

The sad case of the sheep stuck in a bog

2009-07-05T22:41:00.003+01:00

I usually have a look at the sheep twice a day, just to make sure. Nine times out of ten the sheep are fine, with the lambs, at the sight of me and Jay the dog, bleating and rushing to their mothers for a reassuring suck.

As for Jay, she invariably looks disappointed at not being given the command to gather.

And then that one time happened.

There is a stretch of bog at the bottom of one of the fields which the bullocks had made boggier in their determination to eat the succulent vegetation. I knew this had been going on for some time but failed to spot the danger.

The danger was that though the bullocks had the strength to wade safely through the muck, a sheep with full fleece stood little chance of vacating the bog under its own steam.

Anyway, to cut a short story shorter there was a sheep stuck in the bog and I had to get it out.

A slight digression: Last night there was a man on the television, a 'born survivor', who actually waded into an Irish bog and extracted a dead sheep, skinned the beast and ate the heart raw. He then wrapped himself in the fleece and slept with it in a leaky cave. Nutter.

I didn't do that and anyway my sheep was still alive and I wanted it to stay that way.

What I did do was go for the quad and a length of rope. It was then a case of making a loop in the rope and attempting to get the loop over the sheep's head. Much to my surprise, I did this after only a few throws.

The other end of the rope was tied to the back of the quad and I ever so slowly pulled the sheep from the bog and back onto dry land.

It was a sorry looking beast indeed but after a few faltering stumbles ambled on its way to join the rest of the flock.

An obvious consequence of this event is fencing off the bog so that all beasts are denied access. I should have done this in the first place, of course. The accidental crofter learns another lesson the hard way.

Busy time at Romesdal croft

2009-05-11T22:28:00.004+01:00

It has been an eventful few days at Romesdal. It began with penning the three yearling heifers, loading them into the livestock box and taking them the quarter mile or so to an adjacent croft.

The heifers, understandably, were a bit bemused by their new surroundings and true to bovine form walked the entire perimeter of the croft in order to get some sort of bearings. I followed them about for a while to keep them company. A pocket full of cattle cobs at the ready for reassurance. They ate the lot.

Reason for the departure of the heifers to pastures new was that it was time for Big Iain, our Highland bull, to leave his winter quarters and join the cows of the herd for a season of loving and doing what comes natural.

As for the heifers, his offspring and not ready for the bull for another two years, time for them to put out of bull reach. Also, Iain's winter companion, only known as 'the big bullock', is for the off in the next few days and will provide our freezer with a much needed fillip of prime beef. The bullock has to be trained, by feeding, of course, to just about walk into the livestock box when it comes the morning of his demise.

And by lunchtime it was all over. Mission accomplished, as they say. The bull and bullock were now with the cows and three new calves and the heifers were safely away.

Getting ready to vacate the byre for house and food my attention was caught by a ewe, bleating like crazy and staring into the burn at the back of the byre. I had to investigate. There is a small waterfall there (see previous blog for photo). A lamb was standing on a little ledge, just above the falls. I ventured forth and caught said lamb and returned to mother. Phew!

The resident rabbits nearly paid for another lamb a few days earlier as the poor wee thing had ventured (word of the day) down a hole. Again, ewe bleating and not happy was the dead giveaway. I cast around looking for absent lamb and after peering down a rabbit's hole and seeing wooly tail, felt sure the beast was a gonner . But I persevered and pulled the lamb out and lo and behold it was alive.

A few days later: Just back from taking the bullock to Lochmaddy slaughterhouse. This entailed a road trip the half dozen miles to Uig and then the ferry across to North Uist. The weather was beautiful, for a welcome change and all went well, including the fried breakfast on the ferry.

Was going to relate the story of halter training the heifers but got sidetracked. Like I said earlier. Lots happening here.

The case of the confident heifer calf

2009-04-06T08:10:00.003+01:00

Should really update this blog more often. Lots been happening. Going backwards from now, as it were, we have had two Highland calves so far, with four more to go.

The first calf was born was to Morag, the Black Highlander, is kind of red in colour and is a heifer.

Calf number two is a white bull, and this time Morag's daughter The Skelper, was the dam.

Interesting to note that all the female calves thrown by Big Iain, the Romesdal stock bull, have been red or light red in colour whilst the male calves' range from white, black and dun with not a red hair to be seen. Wonder if this trend will continue?

Also of interest, to me anyway, is the obvious difference in the natures of the calves, even at such a young age. The red heifer is confident, curious, and will walk towards me, and Jay the dog for that matter. By contrast, the white bull calf is flighty and nervous around us and will dart away at the slightest movement.

For the first few days after birth the calves don't do much and tend to feed and sleep but after that initial period they become much stronger and start to practice running fast.

This 'running fast' trick is invariably followed by the 'stopping abruptly', 'changing direction' and 'running round the mother' moves. Brings a smile to the face to witness this.

The first born calf, the red heifer, also learned another good trick and that is to eat from the feeding troughs alongside the yearlings.

The morning feeding regime begins with preparing the cows food. The six cows each have a bucket of cattle cobs with a topping of bruised oats and shreds. Shreds, for the curious, are derived from sugar beet pulp.

We have also six pedigree Highland calves from last year. These are fed bruised oats, shreds and 'beef stock' rolls mixed together and put in two feeding troughs.

The system is to bring the six yearlings and Morag (with heifer calf at heel) into the yard leaving the other five cows (and the shy white calf) on the outside. I then take Morag into the holding pen, place her bucket of food in corner and close the gate of the pen. Then the yearlings' food is put in the troughs and they immediately tuck in.

Bess is fed her bucket of food on the other side of the yard gate. A quick sprint through the byre to the back door and the other four cows are fed at the back of the byre.

The secret is to have the cows fed so as they finish roughly at the same time, otherwise the pecking order steps in and the strong take from the weak. Morag, in the holding pen, is trapped, until I decide to let her out.

The six yearlings have the time and peace to finish their food and all is usually well that ends well.

Anyway, the heifer calf was scarcely a week old when I noticed her at the troughs nibbling at the food alongside the yearlings. And this she continues to do. Goes to show that a confident nature pays off.

There is much more that is happening.

Just got a phone call. The Sheepstock Club hogs came home from wintering on Saturday and they have to be dosed and jagged. Better rush and get the beasts fed.

PS you can view photos of the cows mentioned in this entry on the Romesdal website.

The strange case of the Highland bull who learned to jump

2009-02-16T20:05:00.010Z

The new day was bright, crisp and clear. A sharp overnight frost had formed a crust on old snow. All was well in the world of Romesdal, and had been since the start of the winter feeding season.

Then came an unexpected knock on the front door. 'If you're the keeper of a Highland bull then the animal is on the main road', said a strange but kindly-faced man.

The phone was ringing also and my wife answered. Her cousin from the cottage on the eastern edge of the croft told her the bull had jumped the fence and onto the main road.

I rushed about in frantic haste, throwing on jacket and hat and exited the back door in time to see our bull, Big Iain, cantering down the Mill Road. The dun bullock, his companion, was on the field side of the road fence keeping pace.

(Image is of Iain the bull in his park)

'Phew! at least he was off the main road', I thought with relief.

As to how and why they got out of the bull park, that would have to wait.

As I ventured out the bull had stopped half way down the road and with head up was looking all around. He was obviously in an agitated state.

I reached the side gate into the field where I hoped to lead him back to safety and began calling him to me - he knows his name's Iain, by the way - with no success.

Experience tells that the easiest way make beast do what you want is to entice with food. At this time of year anyway. So I headed to the byre for a bag of cobs. As the bull is used to seeing me on a quad and associates it with feeding time I decided to take the quad as well.

Riding down the Mill road towards the bull I could see he was interested. I stopped about twenty meters from him and advanced on foot with the bag of food. He didn't run away or charge towards me, which I took to be good signs.

Carefully I edged near him, softly calling his name and offering him a look at the feed bag. The bull slowly and nervously advanced. I placed some cobs on the ground in front of him and retreated with the bag back to the quad. He finished the cobs and looked up for more.

(This is the quad bike mentioned)

Mounted on the quad I began the slow journey back up the road to the field, stopping every so often to lay a cob on the ground as a lure. The thought of food seemed to have calmed him and thus I managed to entice him off the road, through the gate and into the field.

I was lucky there were no vehicles trying to get up or down the Mill road during this time otherwise he would most likely have been spooked again and taken off.

I left the bull and bullock in peace to settle down and got on with the job of feeding the rest of cattle and sheep.

Once finished, I loaded the quad with a bale of hay and some cobs and went to feed the bull and the bullock. The plan was to lead them back into their bull park at the southern corner of the croft and let the matter be.

A necessary digression: The bull park.

There is a house on the croft, Romesdal Cottage, the former home of my wife's late aunt and uncle bounded in the east and south by the Romesdal river. Access is by a track from the main A87 trunk road. The northern boundary fence of the cottage has created a 'corner' of the croft which we deemed ideal as a place to put the bull when not working. All that was needed was to run a fence down the side of the access track to cottage with a gate in the middle.

Anyway, back to the day in question, I'm on the quad with the feed, the bull and bullock are in the field and, as I lead them over a rise in the ground back to their park, I notice two cars at the top of the cottage access track by the main road. The gate is also open. There is a woman coming up the track from the direction of the house. My wife's cousin and owner of the cottage.

I about turn and with the beasts in tow go to a far corner of the field out of sight of the main road, cars, people and open gates. There I feed them their cobs and spread the bale of hay in the hope they will settle down.

Finished, I rode up to speak to the cousin and see what had happened. I was told that as she was dragging a wheelie bin from the cottage up the access track to exit by the main road, the noise of the wheels on the crunchy snow had caused the bull and bullock to freak out.

The bullock jumped the fence onto to track and was away whilst the bull jumped the fence by the gate at the main road. Actually, he more went through the fence rather than jumped and it was a sorry looking section of fencing indeed. The idea of putting the beasts back in their park would have to be curtailed for the moment, until the fence was mended.

So there you have (for the moment for there is more in part 2)

A case of what can go wrong will go wrong, expect the unexpected and that's what you get for being smug and complacent and thinking you are in control.

A short drive around Trotternish

2009-02-05T09:11:00.006Z

One of the benefits of living on Skye is that you can go for a drive and admire the scenery. Last Sunday, for instance, instead of returning home from Portree by the usual route, I took the Staffin road instead.

Trotternish is a peninsular and Staffin is on the east side with Romesdal on the west so basically this is is a circular drive. The first landmark is The Storr.

Next point of note is Lealt and then Kilt Rock and on into the township of Staffin itself.

A small road just beyond Staffin is a shortcut across the peninsular to Uig, but first you ascend a very steep section to the Quairang.

Alternatively you can drive on and pass Flodigarry with its beautiful hotel and stunning views across to the mainland and on up the Duntulm, site of another hotel and the ruins of an ancient castle on a headland.

A few miles before Duntulm, however, at a lonely Phone Box with a tiny carpark beside, is the start of a pathway which if followed will take you to an old coastguard station on the cliff edge, and a steeply descending path to the tip of Trotternish, Ruabh Hunnish. From here, in season, you can watch minke whales and basking sharks pass by on their migratory wanderings.

All the time their are stunning seascapes across to, at first, the island of Rona, then the mainland and finally at the top across across the Little Minch to the mountains of Harris. Like I said, there is a lot of scenery to admire.

The road back home via Uig is also full of wonders and places to admire.

The Trotternish Museum of Island Life is a restored township of thatched houses and gives a taste of life as it was lived here not so long ago, This is a must stop for the first time visitor. Close by in an old graveyard is the final resting place of Flora MacDonald of Bonnie Prince Charlie fame. Seems Flora got about a bit as she once lived at Flodigarry and Kingsburgh. Of course, Flora was also a world traveller and spent years in the Carolinas.

And then on to Kilmuir and sheep and cattle in small fields by the roadside, down to Totescore and on to Uig bay and the road back home.

This little drive never fails to impress and underscore the luckiness of living in such a beautiful and ever changing environment.

Skye weather closing in

2008-12-02T19:44:00.002Z

There is only so much you can say about the weather.

From summer time and the living is easy to darkest winter with hail and gale. It gets repetitive, just like the seasons, and by definition boring. Last year was much the same and next year, barring a change in the Gulf Stream, will be more of the same. But I don't mean it's boring being here, living the life, just boring talking about it.

When you live in the great outdoors the seasons and weather dominate. Nice day today, or a bit terrible, to neighbours seldom met and shop attendants in Portree when in for the paper.

Other things happen, of course, like planting one hundred native trees, a mixture of alder, birch, rowan, goat willow and hazel, down by the burn. Not to reduce our carbon footprint or anything else so high minded, but just because we like trees.

And then there is my current crusade, or war, against the local crows. The darn creatures are eating all the garden bird food as soon as I turn my back, so I have taken to shooting them. The little garden birds could be at the table all day a nibbling at what the crows demolish in a matter of minutes. Bastards! But crows are clever. After killing a few and winging a few more they skedaddle the minute they sense my presence.

And then they return, in droves, once I'm away from the house feeding the beasts. The crows, bastards that they are, are winning. Let one slip and get cocky and its buzzard food.

It would be nice to recount a play that I had recently seen or a film viewed and start a debate on merits but life here is not like that, at least for me. I seldom venture out of an evening, except perhaps, to the monthly local history society lecture. And do I mind? Not in the least.

Because this is the life I live and I like it, just as it is.

So, so long until Spring.

As there is only so much you can say about the weather.

PS Be sure to sure to check the for sale page of the website if interested in buying cattle or come a visiting for B&B next season.

Oidhche mahath leibh

Dark Skye

2008-11-16T17:55:00.005Z

The nights are drawing in and it is dark by five o'clock in the afternoon. The days will progressively shorten until the winter solstice at the turn of the year. One thing we don't have much of on Skye is light pollution and a clear, frosty night with the Milky Way stretching its magic band across the sky is a sight to behold.

It doesn't rain all the time, but it does rain a lot. The gales have been ferocious the last few days, battering me and Jay as we go about the business of feeding the cattle, and in the evenings rattling the windows and making the chimney groan with a constant background drone.

The ground is getting muddy, especially around the byre and it will remain so until the Spring.Yvonne is at work in London and life at Romesdal is pretty quiet. The bed and breakfast season is long over and I miss the company. The income came in useful too.

This morning dawned clear and bright, for a change, and the weather seems to be settling. I have been feeding the cattle hay and cobs for the past week and this daily routine will continue until next May. It is a pleasure on a day like today and a 'get it over with quick' chore when windy and wet. One of the other winter tasks is to halter train the three Highland heifer calves. The calves will then be sold, potential buyers please note.

I have also been busy with the vet (retired) at Kingsburgh Forest helping with wood sales. We sell wood locally on behalf of Kingsburgh Forest Trust. The vet is the chairman and I, for my sins, am the secretary. We use his tractor and trailer and the wood is sold by the trailer load as logs. However, the shop will be shut soon as we are rapidly running out of cut wood. A major upcoming task at the forest is the planting of one thousand sitka spruce plants, replacements for other plants that, for some reason or other, died. Never a dull moment or a quiet day around Kingsburgh.

The vet is also secretary of Kingsburgh Sheepstock Club and has been focused on gathering in the club tups from the common grazings in readiness for putting them out to the hill at the end of the month. He has roped me into helping him find the rams and, like I say, never a dull moment or a quiet day, except for Sunday.

As for my own sheep, I will be putting the ram in with them on the 28th November but before that they will be injected against scab and worms and dosed with spot-on against lice and ticks. Oh lucky sheepies. I never took much notice of sheep when Calum was alive, except to help him feed them, but seem to be getting more attracted to them as time goes by. I think this is because we had some nice lambs last year and I want to see more.

So, there you have it, nothing exciting going on here. Just changed the oil in the Land Rover and now for some diner. Chicken roasted in the Rayburn, if you must know. But before that I'll light the fire, draw the curtains and prepare for another night at home. Dark Skye again, indeed.

Such is life.

Skye Time

2008-11-03T07:01:00.005Z

And the seasons they go round and round
and the sheep and cattle breed and feed
we are captured on a carousel of time

Calves are born and so are lambs to play
and grow to be big and strong
and then most end up for sale

Cash comes in and then goes out to pay for winter feed
and not much else so how do we make our ends meet
.... is the question?

We can't of course because crofting does not make economic sense
and now I've a chance to mention the new fence and the expense,
of trying to recreate a small native woodland, along the little burn

All a matter of choices whether to do this or do that
play a game of tit for tat
or sell the lot and stay in bed for the winter

But can't bear the thought of life back in town
and its so nice here most of the time
and the rest of the time is really nice too

To watch the summer visitors come and stare
at the Highland cattle and the woolly sheep
as they gleefully tour this not so little island

Gives pleasure to know that it was you, me
and us that helped shaped this place
and added to the attraction and beauty for all to share

And even invite some in to our home
for a little bed and breakfast

That's enough now

It's my blog and I'll write how I like because you don't have to read it and
as the seasons they go round and round

with gatherings of sheep and tales of bullocks jumping and fank work and the annual escape to the the sun of somewhere which this year was Morocco

and now a circle has been completed and the winter feeding season is all but on us

like last year and the year before and next year and the year after

for ever and ever

somewhere over the rainbow bluebirds sing

row, row, row the boat gently the stream

hope I don't wake up at some office desk

.... killing time until half past five

Skye Mushrooms

2008-09-10T22:28:00.010+01:00

There are many varieties of mushrooms at Romesdal, in the fields, under the trees and by the burn. For some reason I like to study them.

But not in a scientific way with measurements and notes. I just like to look at the different colours, textures and shapes by bending down and getting a little closer. One day there is nothing except grass and earth and the next this strange, almost creature like thing has emerged.

With head bent, intent on the ground, time passes quickly and you don't have to venture far in terms of distance for a long walk around the croft.

Is that one edible? Or is that one poisonous? And why does this one always appear on a cow pat?

And there are large mushrooms, small mushrooms and no doubt there are magic mushrooms.

I have no desire to be an expert in the mushroom field. To dissect and classify is to demystify.

For me fungi will remain mysterious forms of life with the capacity to feed, kill, intoxicate or simply make a day more pleasant by indulging in the simple act of finding and looking.

Wonder what kind of fungi tomorrow will bring?

PS can anyone out there tell me what kind this is? (Apart from the obvious that it is a younger version of the mushroom in the first photo)

Summer on Skye

2008-08-21T11:05:00.009+01:00

Summer on Skye and the living, if not easy, is busy and interesting. Weather is changeable after a beautiful Spring of little rain and slow grass growth.

Grass is green and lush and the cows are fat with calves growing fast into little heifers and bullocks.

Bed and breakfast business is brisk with the extra income more than welcome. Strangely enough, as website enquiries have tailed off 'walk-ins' off the road have been a regular feature of the last few weeks.

Never realised Skye could fill up so quickly with tourists. Had to turn away so many people over the last few weeks to B&Bs neighbours further down the road.

Some of our guests have found Romesdal a comfortable base to explore North Skye and have stayed on for a few nights। All our guests have been fascinated at the Highland cattle grazing in the field as they eat their breakfast and afterwards there are photo opportunities galore. Just as well I am not one for hurrying.

Glad to be of service.

Jay the sheepdog and me didn't participate in gathering sheep from the hill this year owing to the fact that she was pregnant and nearing her time. As well as saying right now that it all went horribly wrong and she lost her pups. Still a sore subject.

She was not destined to be mother and the vet spayed her to prevent any future pregnancies. But she has recovered well and is back to her old self.

Major task at the moment is Kingsburgh Forest Trust's application to the Big Lottery for funds to extend the multi purpose track. So much to do.

Like I said, summer on Skye and the living is busy.

Road sheep and rams

2008-06-18T09:10:00.006+01:00

I am not very good at keeping this blog up to date so don't expect any of the 'yesterday I went to shop and bought a Mars Bar' sort of stuff. And, as for going to the shop with the price of diesel going through the roof I may very well be going on a horse in the near future and the Land Rover will be left to rust.

I suppose that would make an interesting future entry: 'I went to the shops on a horse and bought a Mars Bar. The horse had some oats and it was an altogether more enjoyable experience than forking out £20 on diesel for the 8 mile journey. Also, the horse didn't rust'.

Keep dreaming.

(Image of a ram sheared of its fleece)

There always seem to be stray sheep wandering up and down the Mill road, not ours I may add, touch wood. They come up from the shore having managed to breach dilapidated fencing further down the loch. In fact, for many it is probably considered home range and the odd car or three to avoid is just an everyday hazard.

Once they reach the A87 junction at the top of the road however, where our house is, the situation can be annoying as, if the gate is accidentally left open then the sheep come into the garden and browse the plants. Little wooly devils that they are.

Also many a car and sheep has met its end on the road over the years from this freelance, care not a jot, sheepy attitude to staying behind wire. Road sheep are rogue sheep. Nevertheless, regardless of their renegade status, once a year these road sheep like all the rest of the local sheep, have their little lambs.

A few weeks back looking out the window at a most beautiful Skye evening scene, sun glinting off Loch Snizort, cattle grazing contentedly after a hard winter on hay and cobs, the Romesdal flock all present and correct and happily within the croft boundary, a little lamb was spotted through the fence in our field with its mother distraught on the Mill road. The little darling.

You see, wee lambs can squeeze through the tiniest hole in a quest for...who knows what. Anyway, I grabbed the trusty shepherds' crook, and hot footed it out of the house, down the Mill Road, through the gate and into the field. Jay, of course, was at my side and loving every minute of this unexpected turn of events.

When the lamb saw me it went off like a shot into the furthest corner of the field and bleated like crazy whilst trying to butt its wee head through a very stout wire fence. Bless. As I got closer to the corner the tiny mite of wooliness was off again, this time to the Mill Road corner, by the burn (stream). And so I slowly followed.

Patience paid off in the end and I finally caught the lamb with crook (after a good soaking from running through the burn chasing it) and deposited the beast on the right side of the fence to find its agitated mother.

I was ready for that Mars Bar when I got home to replace the energy expended chasing the lamb, I can tell you.

But I digress because what I meant to relate was how I managed to get our oversized and overweight ram sheared whilst on holiday in London (see image above). Which for me was an unusually clever piece of work as the alternative was to shear the giant ram by hand and the following chain events gave me the opportunity.

I was walking down to the Mill Road to the shore with Jay one day shortly after the incident with the lamb in the field and spotted amongst a gang of road sheep a pair of Kingsburgh Sheepstock Club rams (See 'The Gathering' for more detail on 'sheepstock club'). I knew they were club tups because of the orange paint mark on their rear ends.

Now, being a member of the club I could not very well allow these valuable beasts to wander nilly willy up and down roads until they maybe caused an accident, for which the club would be liable, or vanished into the sunset of an evening. So I called my trusty bitch Jay to heel and directed the rams through our field gate and into the field where we keep our own rams and wedders (see 'Tupping the sheepies' for term explanation.)

On meeting the vet (now retired), who doubles as secretary to the Sheepstock Club one day soon after and informing him of the tups in my field, he asked me to bring them to fank as all the club tups and hogs were going to be sheared on the following Friday. I said, no problem and can do, but I am going to London for a week's R&R and therefore wont be able to help with the shearing and stuff on the appointed day. The vet said, well don't worry about it as 'what can you do'? Which is not a lot, I thought, as I would be on London town.

So the next morning I gathered the rams and wedders into a pen, backed up the old but serviceable livestock trailer and shooed the club tups, along with our own much larger tup, into the back and trundled them down to Kingburgh fank. I informed the vet of this successful operation and said my own tup had accidentally got in with the rest and it would be just as well to shear him also. The vet looked at me knowingly.

On return from London the tup had been sheared, was duly collected and returned to his rightful field.

Nice one.

Skye peace and quiet

2008-05-15T11:34:00.007+01:00

But first an update:

We have increased our stock by 6 calves and 14 lambs. Offset against this is the sale of two Highland beasts to Loch Greshornish campsite and four yearlings cross Highland heifers at the local mart in Portree. We are near standing still in terms of cattle numbers and the lambs will be sold in the autumn.

(Image of twin lambs having a feed)

The big difference, I suppose, is that this year all our calves will be pure bred, pedigree Highland cattle. Iain the stock bull has worked well and the calves, 4 heifers and 2 bull, are thriving and looking exceedingly well. ( I'm biased, of course).

Dolly the Highland cow, for some reason known only to her hormones and genes, has still to calve. She had a nice calf last year and we don't expect any problems.

Anyway, this is what it is all about - seeing your animals safely through the winter to deliver strong healthy offspring in the spring. Beats working for a living.

The cows have nearly stopped coming for food in the mornings as the grass growth takes off. The weather has been absolutely fantastic. Sunshine and more sunshine with the only cloud on the horizon the lack of rain. Never thought I'd see the day on Skye when that was a problem.

But what about the peace and quiet and the sound of silence, et al?

Well, a friend was here recently for a visit, which was very nice and helped enormously with cleaning old wire from around the croft, but his presence sparked the thought in my head as to how quietly I live life in general. Could it be I'm becoming reclusive?

(Image of two Highland calves)

With the wife in London working most of the time I spend a lot of time on my own, in relative silence except for the occasional hour or so of television or radio. The visiting friend, however, obviously enjoyed living life to a near continual soundtrack of radio and television with news and sport interspersed with music and talk.

This was a bit of an eye opener. Is there something I'm missing?

And then, when back on my own, I listened to that old cliched 'sound of silence'.

There is the quiet hum of the washing machine in the kitchen next door;
the sound of bird song filters through the open windows from the garden;
a lost lamb bleats for its mother in the field - she replies in a deeper voice;
a car passing on the nearby road is a faint but distinct event;
a ringing phone intrudes on my writing;
Jay is moving restlessly in her basket in the kitchen.

Down by the stream:

water tinkles gently as it flows down the little water fall;
primroses and bluebells are quite silent but beautiful none the less;
a skylark trills high above my head as a song thrush burst into full bloom;
two crows squawk raucously across the sky as they worry a harried looking buzzard;

Walking to the byre:

Someone is using a chainsaw far off in the distance;
A man shouts faintly at his dogs on the croft above Eyre;
a fighter jet screams so loudly as it bombs a group of cows and sheep and lambs scatter; (In training for war)
Cows begin to bellow as they see the man approaching;

At the byre:

The tractor thunders first time as its fired up for work;
the quad bike sputters badly, in need of a service;
Jay barks excitedly at the prospect of work.

You get my drift? I would hate to live my life in silence. But I must say that I much prefer a natural soundtrack to the inane prattling of manufactured sound.

Takes all sorts, I suppose.

A Crofting Life

2008-03-10T14:37:00.004Z

Get up in the morning, porridge for breakfast
Feed a dog and wash face,
Not keen on venturing out
To start another day of this crofting life

Rain against the window,
That is nothing new
Another soaking in the offing
This is the crofting life

Battle out the back door, wind hard to beat,
Made it to the Land Rover,
Temporary respite.
Ah, the crofting life

Drive the hundred yards to the byre
Reverse up to the door
Inside warm and cosy,
Not so bad, this crofting life

Turn on radio for company,
Cheery man flirting with traffic woman,
Playing songs and talking
Irrelevant to this crofting life

Cows outside awaiting, eager for their rations
But price of feed is through the roof
So hard to keep animals on the hoof (...ouch)
Oh, oh, oh, the crofting life

Cattle and sheep waiting outside of yard at byre,
Bull and bullock in other field
And six yearling calves in yet another field
This is the crofting life

Load buckets and bags in Land Rover
Drive short distance and feed the big boys
Next calves at Rita's and then back to byre
Ah, ah, the crofting life

Cows turn for feeding, sheep last of all
Call Suzie and Flora into yard for ease
Fill buckets and distribute
Another day in this crofting life

All things going smooth, with not a problem
Shoo Suzie and Flora out the back gate
Fill sheep troughs with feed,
A crofting life

Tie bales of hay to back of quad bike
Drive up to the old wall with clever cows a following
Make hay bundles in the shelter
For this is this crofting life

Just about finished for the morning
By now wide awake and hungry
Back to house at lunchtime
Oh, oh, the crofting life

Head to the forest for firewood,
Spend the afternoon a chopping
To the buzz of a chainsaw
Echoes of a crofting life

Repeat daily until Spring

Highland catttle merry-go-round

2008-01-10T14:05:00.000Z

If you separate cattle from the main herd for some reason and then reintroduce them after a time there is nearly always a fight between two beasts of equal size to re-establish rank within the group. Also, sometimes a beast will just fancy the chance of attaining higher ranking by testing the beast next in line. This horn locking and pushing can be alarming in its ferocity, until one beast gives ground and backs off. Sometimes the status quo is maintained and other times it is changed.

Flora (image above) is a the bottom of the pecking order in the Romesdal fold and knows it. The other cattle will not tolerate her at the feeding rings and she stands on the periphery with a forlorn expression. We have tombstone style feeding rings designed to prevent bullying by horned cattle but the bullying persists. The Highlanders seem acutely aware of personal space and rank and when feeding will give way to a beast of higher rank and the higher ranking beast will do all in its power to prevent a beast of lower rank feeding, until she has had her fill and is content.

You would think they would get fed up interrupting their feeding at the rings by chased another beast away, but they don't. 'This is all mine, squirt,' they seem to be thinking 'and you can go take a hike'. And this is the point when human intervention in the shape of your truly steps in to redress the balance of power otherwise poor Flora would lose out and lose condition.

And then when watching cattle at the feeding rings a strange a confusion of rankings was noticed. At first I thought that there was a straight forward hierarchical structure with Morag at the top, I am not counting the bull as he lives separate from the main fold, and Flora at the bottom. But Highland cattle society is not so simple. We have two feeding rings with ten head spaces on each giving, in theory, room for twenty cattle to feed. However, it is obvious that with Romesdal cattle at least, issues of personal space and rank consciousness restrict the comfortable numbers to three or four per ring. Which is slightly galling from the human perspective.

As we have eight cows, not counting calves which sneak in to the rings and don't matter in terms of rank, two are in for a hard time, one being Flora the other Dolly. But Dolly though second bottom in rank, is much braver than Flora and by sheer persistence manages to get her fair share. And then the confusion in rank gave rise to an odd situation.

Skelper, Mairi and Seanag were going round a feeding ring in a circular motion. It was obvious that Skelper was giving way to Mairi who was giving way to Seanach who was giving way to Skelper who was giving way to Mairi who was giving way to Seanach.... ad nauseum, if you get the drift. As one beast stopped to take a mouthful of hay the one behind would give a dunt and the cattle were trapped on a carousel of an anomaly in ranking.

This sad situation only stopped when a cow of higher rank decided to switch feeding rings and scattered the circling beasts. In the age old refrain of frustrated stockmen, 'what can you do?'

Tupping the sheepies

2007-12-06T14:11:00.000Z

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

2007-11-01T12:16:00.000Z

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

2007-09-05T15:37:00.000+01:00

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

2007-08-22T10:09:00.004+01:00

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

2007-07-26T13:47:00.000+01:00

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

2007-07-13T09:30:00.000+01:00

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

2007-06-10T22:02:00.001+01:00

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

2007-05-24T21:14:00.000+01:00

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

2007-04-18T19:26:00.000+01:00

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

2007-02-22T21:12:00.000Z

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

2007-02-14T17:50:00.000Z

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

2007-02-10T20:26:00.002Z

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.