Highland Cattle

We have been rearing Highland cattle at Romesdal for over ten years now and the thought struck me as to how my views have changed over time. Then, the most notable feature of the Highlander was colour. Now, it is whether they are capable of producing a suitable large calf which will sell well at the mart.

In other words, who cares what colour the cow is as long as she is in proportion.

At calving time in the early years we would be slightly disappointed if the calf was male, for some reason thinking heifer calves best. Not so now. Once you have your optimum fold number and don't need replacements then you get more bucks from your efforts from bullocks. Fact of life.

The Highlander, apart from being more photogenic than other breeds of cattle, is part of the larger grouping of cattle bred primarily for beef. It stands to reason therefore that a good proportion of heifers will also end up as beef or the planet would soon be overrun by them.

That is why as a breeder you get immense satisfaction when your lovingly reared heifers are sold to continue the line in some other part of the country or indeed some other part of the world.

To return to the question of colour, what I really like about our little fold of six breeding cows, Iain the bull and their followers, is that we have one black cow, one white, one yellow, one red and two dun. As for their followers, we have one not so little white bull (son of Iain), three white heifer two year olds, one red three year old heifer and five little calves of varying colours from last year.

The moral being the more colour the merrier as long as the quality is there.

The storm

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

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

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

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

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

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

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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Death on the croft

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.