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.

Skye weather closing in

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This entry is dedicated to Geraldine Evans. Hello Geraldine.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Such is life and what can you do?

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

Autumnal Skye

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And now I prepare for winter

The tale of the homesick Highland bullocks

The tale of the homesick Highland bullocks:

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

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

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

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

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

(Image of Brownie looking windswept and interesting)

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mission accomplished, as they say.

(Image of some Shorthorn/Highland cross yearling

heifers, for no other reason than I like it)

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

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

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

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

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

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

The bullocks were back.

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

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

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

Bed and Breakfast at Romesdal, Isle of Skye

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Next time: 'The tale of the homesick bullocks'

The Gathering

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jay the sheepdog takes a knock

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

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

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

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

Highland Bull

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

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

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

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

Crossing the road

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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