Customer service

Look at this! We've been lucky, so far, with goat buyers. And over subscribed - which is annoying because if there are more buyers than goats to sell it feels as though you should put the price up.

Stoney's post and the comments following got me to thinking about customer service so I thought I'd relay a story...

Driving to Thurso the other day to get the sand, (and half a pallet of breeze blocks and some bags of cement and, umm that looks quite heavy), I was less than thrilled to get a warning light on the dashboard of the van. Neither Malcolm or I are of that ilk - I mean the ilk that understands the slightest about vehicles above a vague understanding of what the peddles are for and what that big funny round thing is that gets in the way when you're trying to kip - so I was concerned enough to seek advice on what it meant. We trundled on to the nearest garage and I popped in to find a mechanic. Eventually I found three of them lounging in a back room. Umm - Tea Break I thought. So I apologised - "Ah dinnae bother son, wha' canwe* dae fo' ye." I said I had a warning light on but didn't know what it was. Without trying to transcribe the accent the conversation went like this:

"Have you not got a manual?"

"No"

"Ah" Awkward silence eventually broken by

"What does it look like?" It must have amused them to see me try to describe what it looked like which was sort of like a tank with a bit of fluid in with a cap and a spout off the side... sort of. The description prompted a flurry of discussion amongst the three which eventually ended with:

"It's coolant, or it could be brake fluid." Distant from that ilk as I am, I guessed that there is some considerable difference between these mysterious vehicular humours...

"I don't suppose one of you could come out and have a look at it for me?"

"Aye no bother" were the words spoken, though the body language said something far different. The helpful mechanic dragged himself up and wandered over to the van. He looked through the window, said "Coolant", spun on his heels and marched back to his den.

I have to say that the reception they gave me when I spent £1000 to get the van through its MOT was much much warmer.

*I could do with some advice here. 'Can we', in the local accent, sometimes gets contracted to ' can (w)e' where the w is inferred rather than spoken, but not entirely missed out. How the hell do you write that ?

White sand van man

Malcolm and Helen are here. We've learnt by now that whenever they stay we have to work. They're not content with sight seeing or soaking up the Highland ambience - they want to get things done. Jussi has grasped this opportunity and got Malcolm to work on the lean-to project which has been wallowing in the mud since the chaos around the arrival of the kids. So with new building projects come the need for more materials, including sand. And because so many of you were so excited at my description of how to use a tree to get a bag of sand out of a van - here is the video.

The technique was less successful this time, mainly because Malcolm got a bit excited and started shouting 'Whoa!' which I took to mean stop, but wasn't or didn't.

Meanwhile Helen has nearly finished building a run for the guinea pigs and the kids (I mean children of course) have painted themselves (shurely shome mishtake?).

Skinny blogger

I've been neglecting you. The reason for this is we are at the height of the visitor season - which is proving to be particularly good this summer - but it does make blogging fall off the list of things to get done. This weekend we'll have a total of nine visitors, which in our wee cottage is going to be...erm....fun. But if you were thinking of coming up this weekend, don't let this put you off. It is Gala weekend afterall - time to party.

The garden is holding it's own. Much of most meals are coming from the garden, supplemented by kid from the freezer - though I must confess the garden is starting to look a bit thin.

Worst of all, if this keeps up, we'll be running out of beer.

The only thing busy in Wick is....?

Today it rains. It's the sort of rain that, when you listen by the window, feels as though it has been falling for months, and will continue to fall for months. But the truth is we've had a fantastic summer up here. July seems to be getting wetter by the day, but that's only of late - the year has been hot and dry. July and August usually disappoint in Scotland - the hope is something half decent returns on odd days to break the monotony currently threatened by the smattering of rain on glass.

Senility, poor memory and absurd optimism are prerequisites of life in the Highlands. As the rain falls - remember it as the first decent rain we've had - it'll clear soon; as the sun shines thus has it been all year - a drop of rain wouldn't go amiss.

Yesterday, sunshine and showers, was a day out for us. Buying oats, visiting cheese makers and vets and shops et cetera.

The farmer we are now buying oats from also grows potatoes, which he sells to the
Faroe Islands - gets a good price for them apparently - far better than selling them locally because other growers hereabouts started a price war. So inspite of the hassle with customs (where a tonne is a tonne - no more no less, and paperwork paperwork paperwork), inspite of the costs of transport to Faroe via Aberdeen, he can get the best prices.

Happy were the cheesemakers. If happiness is to be found in the most venomous hatred of Tesco I have ever encountered*, and if happiness is to be found in a loathing of customers (not people who buy the cheese, but those who don't (because they shop in Tescos), or worse, those shops and hotels that were once customers but are no more because Tescos is cheaper, or they have become part of a chain where all food is purchased centrally with no room for local exotics, and farmers markets - yes farmers markets - who no longer allow them to take stalls because they come from too far away ('it's the food miles you see')). And if happiness is to be found in spilling spleen and spit in their contempt of any and every incarnation of officialdom. And if happiness is to be found in telling us, bluntly, repeatedly and at every opportunity not to do it, it is folly, 'you'd be better knitting socks'.

And if happiness is to be found in making cheese - for in making cheese they shone, glowing with pride and finesse they practiced and demonstrated their art with great aplomb and majesty and pride. It was truly stunning. They had been told by officialdom that they couldn't make cheese because they knew nothing about it, they had encountered innumerable obstacles and overcome them with tremendous grit and great ingenuity. And they make great cheeses. Happy were the cheesemakers.

And, in case you're wondering, a wee quote picked up on our travels yesterday:

"The only thing busy in Wick is the Sheriffs Court."

* Yes hatred - had we been outside I think the phlegm would have been bouncing off the cobble stanes like summer hail - though strangely, when some tourists arrived to buy cheese and asked for a bag, a Tesco carrier bag was quickly found. But that dilemma surely sharpens the ill-sentiment.

Bronze leg

Time was when I'd put mile after mile behind me as I cycled up dun and down glen, often in the company of this fine chap who has just embarked upon a blogging journey. I expect lots of his posts will be about cycling, though his inaugural address isn't. I recommended wordpress to him because it seemed that wordpress blogs look like they have more bits to them them blogspot ones. Though somehow he's managed to create the most basic blog in the universe ever. Go visit - we bloggers need encouragement you know.

Black leg

It is surprisingly difficult to use the web to identify what's up. For instance, google image "me spuds leaves are gannin yella like man" turns up this bizarre little gem.

But eventually, using harvest wizard (link in side-bar) I narrowed down the options and was able to get enough info to confirm the diagnosis at RHS site (very useful but difficult to navigate). Black leg - imported into gardens through infected seed potatoes (grrrr) and 'cured' by rapid removal before it spreads.

Meanwhile, a lot of my brassicas seem to have lost the will to live. I understand this sentiment, such as when Jussi returns from milking the goats to say "There's sheep in field.".

But I'm surprised brassicas are so sensitive. And there's lots of flowers in the fields - like this one that I almost managed to get a piccy of before the camera batteries also lost the will to live.

Gardener's warning

I don't really feel I deserve the title 'gardener' yet. I may be being reasonably successful at the moment, I know I am far from versed in the nuances and skills a true gardener has.

All true gardeners know not to compost weeds - especially roots of the likes of ground elder, dandelion, thistle et al, but there is, I read somewhere but cant remember where (maybe I dreamt it?) a way round this. If you are collecting a lot of weeds you can but them in water and leave them for a fortnight. You then have a 'tea' which can be used to water and feed your plants, and a semi decomposed sludge that can be safely added to your compost heap.

Highland Council recently furbished us with a spare 'recycling bin' - a wheelie bin of epic proportions and I decided to put this fermentation of weeds to the test. Yesterday I opened that wheelie bin, it having been sat stewing for nigh on three weeks. The liquor was decanted off to water the veg and the sludge hauled off to compost.

And here is the warning. Do not be fooled by words such as 'tea' and 'liquor' nor imagine anything so delicate as 'decanted'. For this tea has a stench, the stench of shite. And unwholesome shite at that - not the floral aroma of any herbivore stool but the most nose punchingly acrid shit smell of putrid shite. In other words it's quite unpleasant. To me at least. Horseflies however, find the stench most enticing and I quickly found myself the centre of a huge horsefly fest - they came from miles around to sample the delights of my 'tea' - which they especially enjoyed when accompanied by lumps of Simon flesh.

If the smell is anything to go by I expect a bumper crop of potatoes, or perhaps a bed of dead potatoes, time will tell. And the weeds were well rotted so it felt safe to put them on the compost heap.

I returned to the cottage to cook our evening meal. Wash hands. Umm - that smell. Scrub hands. Nope - I can still smell it. Shower - washing your hair is a most effective way of cleaning your hands. Nope. Later I went to bed, having washed dishes, and washed hands a few more times. Eau de shite still pervaded. Even this morning I'm still getting gentle wafts of the stuff.

Because my veg are worth it.

A random quote

...to amuse at least one regular reader:

'Of the trenchermen who ate and drank at Luckows, the Baron Ferdinand Sinzig, of the house of Steinway, established a record which still stands by downing thirty-six seidels of Wurzburger - without rising. Envious competitors observed that he was a native of Cologne and therefore presumably without kidneys.'

Luchows German Cookery by Jan Mitchell (1955)

Uncommoners still

We had a call from the Crofters Commission yesterday afternoon. Bless their cotton socks and all.

The formal consultation period for our application for a share in the common grazing has passed and no one has objected. Yay!

Well, no one that is except the Crofters Commission themselves who reckon we aren't allowed to put goats on common grazings. Eh? Where did that come from? We've spoken to the Clerks of Grazings and they seemed happy enough (everything is relative of course) so where exactly has this new rule sprung from? We know not. Anyway El Crofters Commission is 'calling in' our application. We're not sure what this means - but the helpful lady who called suggested we might need to consider 'apportionment' - whereby we fence off part of the grazing which then becomes for our exclusive use (and exclusive responsibility). We are sufficiently paranoid to know that there are nuances around such options that we can't even begin to imagine. There may also be benefits - but these will undoubtably be over-shadowed by mountains of paperwork and general crap.

Crap, we know only too well, features high in the hierarchy of crofting. No self respecting crofting crap would settle for corporal or able seaman - no crofting crap is a general, or admiral or given its propensity to fly around a lot, wing commander.

Hey ho.

Dead or Alive

I'm back! Me and Ailsa (with Ailsa highlights in brackets, mainly to confuse), we've been to Hull (the rays) and Scunthorpe (the squirrels) and Malton (the water slide) and Howden (the birds) and Newcastle (the ice age) and Durham (the quill pen)and now we're back - and fantastic it is to be back too. We survived the travel and most especially the geezer sat across the way from us between Edinburgh and Inverness who sang, discussed and argued with himself all the way. It started off being mildly amusing: - but not after four hours. But it was quite funny - he had 10 minutes of duetting with himself waiting for the trolley car to return so he could get more sugar for his coffee:

'I'm waiting for the buffet car for my sugar yeah yeah yeah'

When it arrived he got his sugar and a sandwich - and for the next half hour he had a new song:
'Oh man I need some seasoning yeah yeah. I can't taste no bread, I can't taste no egg, I can't taste no watercress no no no, I need some seasoning - I need salt SALT yeah yeah, I need sugar SUGAR yeah yeah, I need brown sauce, tomato sauce carribean sauce yeah yeah I need seasoning {Spoken} but salt and sugar is bad for you man {sang} but I can't taste my food no no no, I need salt yeah yeah yeah....' etc.

Amusing for a whle, but not for very long.

And Jussi (and Rebecca) have kept the garden good and have sold most of the kid meat. Kids seem to be worth more dead than alive.

And for now, the weather is glorious, and it is good to be back.

Further reading

If you really need a taste of the Highlands while I'm away - try 'Night falls on Ardnamurchan' by Alasdair Maclean. It's not the kind of book I can bring myself to recommend, but maybe you should read it....

Holiday

I'm off south for a week or so - blogging will be very thin. Have fun!

Astonishment

Success. I can't begin to tell you how amazed I am. It's not like a pate you might buy in the shops - it lacks that dense creaminess - more akin, perhaps, to that souvenir jar you pick up in the Dordogne - and it sure the hell is tasty. Yum scrum.

Jussi, never one to shy from suggesting an improvement, thinks I've used too much sage and maybe should have added more salt. But hey! I'm thrilled to bits.

For the record - it sat in the bain marie for nigh on two hours. Recipes suggest it is cooked when the pate comes away from its container and floats in its own fat, mine never reached that stage, probably because there wasn't enough fat in there - and this might explain the lack of creaminess. Be warned! The cooking pate expands - I had to weight it down to be able to close the lid (I felt it was important not to have the pate in contact with the lid). I pushed the pate down with the base of a sterilised pint glass, then wiped the rim of the jars clean before allowing to cool for twenty minutes and then closing the jars.

Eeeh grand!

Balancing act

As you wait gripped by anticipation over how the pate turned out, I think it is a good time to shatter your vision of the rural idyll you imagine us living.

In the midst of all the gloriousness of the weather, the scenery, the sheer nature, the garden produce, the companionship and blind love from the kids and the goats, the tranquility and solitude, the time (aah the time!), in the midst of all this there rages a darker side, a constant grim battle. A blight.

This battle can be summarised in one foul word. It is a word so redolent of misery and suffering that it is enough to send all but the most dedicated ruralist reaching for the solace of the nearest bottle of chemicals. Invertebrae!

Yeah it is they! From the midge to the tick, from slug to horsefly and even millipede, we live our lives in fear.

Midges are havng a bad year. The hot and dry seems to be keeping their numbers low, though when conditions are right they seem to emerge with a voraciousness that frays every nerve-ending forcing you indoors sobbing for mercy.

Ticks are abundant however. Even established crofters have remarked so, though their explanation verges on the supernatural: "Aye! We saw a deer in the spring and have been cursed by the tick since. So it is." Even modern man flays flails and fails to find pattern and explanation of the perverse humour of mother nature. Mother you say? Surely more a twisted bitter old spinster.

Ticks require constant vigilence. Every itch and tickle, every speck, demands examination - whatever contortions it takes, in whatever bizarre location you feel the need to drop your trousers and bend and twist and wobble your way to that little sensation on the back of your thigh. But as time passes I'm beginning to regard the tick with strange affection. They are harmless enough if you catch them early - and easy to deal with. And, truely, there is little in life so rewarding as the imagined screams of a tick being split in half by your thumb nail.

It is not the thought of the midge or the tick that brings up the bile to burn your throat. No, that honour is bestowed upon the crack commando in the Old Girls amoury - The Cleg.

Horseflies are agile and persistent. They fight to the death. Their bite is often painfully delivered and often draws blood. In the days following the bite itches and swells to an extent surely more befitting some venomous cobra. And this hot dry summer seems to be to their liking.

It is the horsefly that engenders a constant paranoia. A neurosis directed at any and every winged innocent (and not so innocent). A frantic disquiet. Though you may labour in the searing heat of the day you dare not offer weary flesh to the cooling breeze for fear of the painful retribution of the cleg.

But at least, I say with fingers crossed prostrating myself afore the beauty, benevolence and munificence of the Great Mother, we don't have this .

Lunchtime approaches. Pate beckons.

Kid liver pate

Not the Hannibal Lecter recipe obviously. This is in honour of Jussi who found six 250gr kilner jars under our bed. Amazing eh? A present from Helen apparently (yes that Helen, no not that one).

As they are gently simmering on their bain marie here is the recipe - no idea if it's worked yet of course - but this is what I did. Most recipes mix liver with a fair amount of meat. We didn't have any meat but there was about 250g of cheap bacon offcuts so I used that.

Anyway - put about 200gr of butter to a small pan and on a low heat fry a couple of onions and a load of garlic.

Take your livers - two in this case, and finely chop discarding any tubing. Take your hearts - three in this case - and try to extricate as much meat from them as you can - which really isn't much - but as I said in the intro we were short of meat. Take the bacon and finely chop - making sure to discard fibrous bits.

Make bread crumbs out of about 6 inches of baguette.

Put all of this in a big bowl along with a good couple of glugs of fino sherry (I found recipes using cognac, port or sherry - I found the sherry first), a couple of slodges of milk, a good wee shake of dried sage, and of dried thyme, a wee shake of mixed spice and of white pepper cos you can't be bothered wandering round the house AGAIN trying to find the bloody pepper mill AGAIN. And salt.

Whizz. Recipes variously suggest mincing, zapping in a food processor or even forcing through a sieve - frankly a ridiculous idea. All we have is a soup whizzer and surprisingly it worked a treat.

You now have a pink sludge. Some recipes suggest tasting it at this stage by frying a little and checking for seasoning. I couldn't be arsed - I mean it was hot. But the sludge had a pleasant enough aroma.

Decant into very clean kilner jars, leaving a good gap at the top. This recipe nicely filled six jars. Put in a bain marie, bring to a simmer with the tops of the jars loosely on and simmer for I'm not quite sure how long - but I reckon I'll leave em for about an hour. Allow to cool slightly. Tightly close and bingo is your uncle. Should keep in the fridge for a month or so, and many recipes suggest it'll freeze well too (but personally I'm not sure about trying to freeze kilner jars).

Most pate recipes say you should weight the pate down as it cools. I might do this if I can figure out a way of doing it - but at the moment I can't.

Fingers crossed!

Weather

Blazingly hot again today.

Lulu phoned around 3pm yesterday and said she'd had a big storm and she thought it was heading our way. 'Nah' I retorted.

Around 6pm we had the most monumental thunderstorm. Water poured in through the front door and the upstairs windows, soaking carpets and beds and storage. The water beat the front door because the dry weather has made the door shrink. In the winter the door swells up to stop rain getting in. Surprisingly effective most of the time.

Upstairs the problem was less complicated. We'd left the windows open.

The evening was then punctuated by a series of power cuts as the storm headed east attacking electricity lines along the way (this explains, by the way, why I didn't make pate last night).

Around midnight, I was out staking up all the plants that had been flattened by the rain. Mainly broad beans (and it looks as though we'll get a bumper crop). And the peas are nearly ready. And midnight is a good time to catch slugs.

Three little kiddies

Jussi went off to Dingwall yesterday with three of the kids. She came back and we ate the scrummiest freshest liver ever. I mean it was really unlike anything you could ever buy in the shops - very tasty unfeasibly tender and not in the least bit 'goaty'. Sad but true - it has to be done you know, the alternative would be to simply waste it. Even sadder because we thought we'd sold two of them as pets until the last minute when the deal fell through, apparently because the buyers husband is a pervert.*

The slaughter house was very busy with lambswhen Jussi arrived, so they put the kids in the office. Jussi said she wanted to see the whole process but they sent her away saying she'd only get upset - which is probably true.

Today I'm going to attempt to make pate. I've checked a few recipes and they all involve baking in an oven in a bain marie. Well our oven has blown up so I'm going to try to do it on top of the stove. It should be OK - I guess it'll just take longer. And, course, we have nothing like the range of ingredients the recipes suggest (because, although Jussi went shopping yesterday, we foolishly hadn't anticipated her returning with the innards and so haven't stocked up) and I'm going to have to improvise - a lot. We are also pretty short of things to cook it in - I'd rather make several small pates than one or two big ones, but this is a very small cottage with virtually no unneccesary kit - we have the pots and pans to get us through out daily needs + a bit extra for visitors. Mmmmm.

*Well OK so I'm stretching things a bit here - he insisted that he wanted female kids and all we could offer was wethers.