The flying dog

Was feeding the cows hay on the quad and noticed Jay had followed behind. I heard a very loud 'yelp' and turned to see an old, blue-grey, beardie bitch flying through the air. Lucky for her the horn had swung under rather than through. Her eyes and reflexes are just not up to being around cows. Next time she may not be so lucky.

The vet's visit

All is back to normal on the croft following the vet's visit yesterday with the cattle back in their respective fields and the little bullock seemingly ok after being dehorned and castrated. Always a stressful experience, more for him than for us, no doubt.

Bull

We sold Big Iain our stock bull today. He had been with us for nearly five years. But, he was 'coming into his own heifers' as they say, and therefore had to make way for new blood. Still, it was a bit sad.

Good thing, though, he went to a fantastic new home at Arnisdale, near Glenelg. New cows to serve and new people to feed him. Such is life.

So long Iain, and thanks for all the calves.

Tale of two sheep

We have a field across the Mill road which we keep free of sheep and cattle for the winter months. When the grass grows in the Spring we move our cows into this fresh pasture and everybody is happy. A while past it was a tad annoying to spot a lonely, little, sheep seemingly happy enough wandering about the field and grazing what grass was left from last season. The sheep did not belong to our croft and had obviously, somehow, got in from an adjoining field where a neighbour had recently introduced some sheep.

But the issue was only slightly annoying and I left the little blighter in peace, for a while. Then one day I took a notion to return the sheep to where it belonged, summoned the trusty Spike who swiftly cornered the little beast in a corner and I made a grab. Finding it slight and light I just lifted it over the fence and thought 'job done' and went home for a munch of homemade fruitloaf.

Next day, as is my want, after feeding the beasts came a stroll with the dogs down the Mill road to the shore. Much to my chagrin and annoyance what was back in the field happily munching, but the little sheep with the one horn. A change of strategy was called for, obviously. But the day was too nice and the dogs needed their walkies. Tomorrow for the interloper.

The dogs romped on the shore, chasing birds and looking for buried treasure in the form of bones or in the case of Lola, interesting shells. And on the way back their day was even more enlivened by the sight of a stray sheep on the Mill road. The sheep panicked, the dogs gave chase and they all went round in circles at great speed with me shouting at the dogs to let go. The sheep headed for the shore and escaped and that is one of the reasons sheep should be kept firmly in fields, behind stout fences! Sheep and dogs don't mix, unless the dogs are working.

The incident was forgotten but the little sheep with the one horn was certainly not. Next day I took the quad and Spike the dog and duly cornered the sheep again. This time I hoisted it onto the back of the quad and holding the sheep with one hand and steering with the other, took it to another of our neighbour's fields and let it go. Goodbye little nusiance sheepie and problem solved.

A few days later, both the aformentioned sheep turned up at the gate of another of our fields, exactly at the spot where I was feeding the heifers. They had obviously came along the shore and managed to breach the fence there.

For three or four days it was a battle of wits. The sheep dashing in trying eat the heifers food and me waving arms to chase them away. I even tried feeding them, to keep them busy while the heifers got fed, to no avail. One would leave its feed and circle around the heifer's food and then go back for the remains of its own. Tricky devil.

There was no alternative. I took Lola and Spike on a sheep chasing mission. The dogs jumped out of the Land Rover, saw the sheep, I gave the command and the sheep with great haste headed back to the shore. For good measure I chased them far along the shore in the direction of where they should be.

But they came back two days later. So persistent! And the dogs gave chase again and fingers crossed, that will be the last I see of them. Wouldn't like to bet on it, though.

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.