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.

Summer delights

Maybe I'm still a bit loved up from my virtual weekend at Glastonbury but I really really am enjoying the summer. The weather is absolutely superb and the veg patch is doing us real proud. So far we are only really eating thinnings, but in the last couple of weeks we've hardly had a meal without some contribution from the veg patch.

The time input is pretty significant though - weeds grow considerably better than veg - and we've only had a couple of days of rain since Easter, so there's lots of watering to be done. The last few nights I've set out to water around 10:30pm - which is a joy in itself - with technicolor skies over gently shimmering seas. On Saturday I remembered to take the camera - the sky was uncapturable - but here is a homage to the garden. The light's a bit strange, but it was nearing midnight.

Festivals

Gawd! Am I glad I didn't go the Glastonbury this year. It's a good idea to avoid festival with too good a line up on too many stages. I mean how would you choose between a re-formed Blur and a re-energised The Prodigy? No, better to stay at home glued to the telly into the wee hours letting the Beeb select the best bits from all the performers, with a bottle of whisky and a sense of wonder.

Oat tails

Ok - so that should be oat tales - but the pun amused me. Did you know that wild oats - the seeds, walk across soil? It's a dispersal mechanism powered by fluctuations in moisture levels. But I digress.

How is it - you phone at 8 in the morning and ask if you can make the 50 mile or so trip to pick up straw and oats and arrange to meet in the farm yard around 11, you get there, load up with straw and ask about the oats to be told there's none left, they were sold for milling a couple of weeks ago? How difficult would it have been to mention this at 8 in the morning?

It seems to be a Highland trait - an unwillingness to disappoint, or to delay disappointing until the last possible moment. Sometimes it feels very close to deceit, lying indeed, but I don't think it is a malevolence, it is more a wish to appear to be being helpful.

But on this occasion it brought forth something close to panic. Jussi had left it til the last minute to get the oats, knowing that we had an arrangement with this farmer to take all the oats he had (now that is getting closer to deceit, or betrayal perhaps). It's summer, late in the oat year as it were, and very few farms have stocks of oats available for sale. Said farmer, in a fit of genuine helpfulness, or remorse, suggested a few places we could try, and even tried to phone a couple.

With the spectre of having to face a host of hungry goats that evening we set off in earnest. As we neared our first lead the van started to massively overheat. It was turning out to be a grim day indeed. But we limped on and arrived at a rather splendid farm, scattered with rare breed animals. Timidly we enquired as to their oat situation. Yes they have oats - about 125 tonne - and yes we can have some - and we're very lucky - they should have been sold already but 'they' had not turned up to collect it - and yes they can put some aside for us to keep us going through the summer - and yes here is a watering can of water for the van - and no there's no need to pay for the oats now, we'll settle next time.

phew

Amputations

Jussi's laptop died a few weeks ago - but she now has a shiny new thing wizz bang whallop. PCs are cheap I'll say that.

My laptop is in need of repair - looks like it's going to cost the best part of £300. But of more concern to you is that blogging may slow down a bit. And guess what - to get my laptop fixed I have to send it to Edinburgh.

Scotland leads the way

Yesterday the Scottish Government enacted legislation committing Scotland to cut it's carbon dioxide emissions by 43% (on 1990 levels) by 2020. It sounds astonishing, but it is no more than is needed if we are to prevent the worst excesses that climate change promises.

Three cheers for Scotland and everyone who worked so hard to to the the bill through.

Meanwhile, back in the USA, campaigners are struggling to get a bill through that will see green house gas emissions cut by around 20% (on 2005 levels) by 2020. US campaigners are proclaiming world leading status for the bill. I don't think so.

Not only is the 20% target measly, but it's baseline is too high. From 1990 to 2005 US greenhouse gas emissions rose by 16% - so the US target would get it back to a little below 1990 levels. So you can see just how brave and monumental the Scottish target is.

But Scotland is such a tiny country. We need the USA to take the lead and be much braver and bolder. We need the USA to be able to go to Copenhagen in December with the moral authority to push for much bolder targets across the globe. So far they are failing miserably*.

And for a bit of context:

Per capita tonnes carbon dioxide emissions (2004)

• 20.4 - USA
• 9.8 - UK (Scotland is on a par, but slightly less)
• 9.8 - Germany
• 3.8 - China
• 6.7 - World average

And remember that a great deal of the China total includes all the manufacturing it does to supply Western markets with consumer goods. This is why it is fallacy to point to Chinese coal fueled power stations. Climate Change is caused by Western excesses and it is we who must change the way we live. So well done Scotland - and c'mon USA - you can do better!

*We should welcome the US bill - it is a huge and rapid turn around from the climate change denying stance of the Bush administration - but - ooooh we need so much more.

A scythe in time

So with the strimmer unable to strim out came the scythe. Of course we looked at the helpful (and often hilarious) 'how the scythe' videos on YouTube later that night after a few drams (which might explain the hilarity). Anyway - it turns out the scythe is a pretty effective beast - it's better where the grass is longer so it has something to grip - and on our uneven molehill ridden lawns it can be a bit tricky - but nonetheless a pretty respectable job - and a whole lot more pleasant than strimming - especially when Rebecca does it for you.

Ailsa took the piccies - so the safety goggles I'd been wearing while strimming still had a use to get that ye olde country oooh aarrr look.

Thin summer salad

Tis the season to be thinning tra la la la la la la la la la. So last night our meal was accompanied by a salad consisting entirely of things from t'garden.

• Baby spinach
• Baby chard
• Parsley
• Baby parsnip
• Baby fennel
• Baby dill
• Baby lettuce
• Baby spring onions

Scrummy yummy yum.

Fusion

To mark the longest day, and the arrival of visitor from the South, we had an evening* on Saturday. In preparation I set about reclaiming our lawn - which had become something of a wild meadow. It had grown so long because it had taken me a good too many weeks to track down a 50 ml bottle of two stroke oil (and found lots of 1 litre bottles - but that's just a waste).

It was with a little guilt that I went off a-strimming. Some months ago I had badgered L&C for a scythe that they'd promised in the foggy past. But somehow the mental effort of getting the strimmer going was considerably less than the mental effort of getting to grips with the scythe. C - who has a way of speaking such that his words burns permanent neurotic paths - said two things to me when handing over the sythe:

1. Make sure it's sharp - it's a lot easier to use when it's sharp.
2. I've no idea what you want the scythe for.

Indeed - what did I want the scythe for when I've got a strimmer? Was I on some weird no carbon masochist trip?

So there I was - feeling a little guilty strimming away. After a while the strimmer started to sound a bit funny. I stopped and took the head to bits and couldn't figure anything was wrong and put it back together again and continued. A few times. Eventually half the strimmer head went flying across the garden.

Aaaah.

So there was something wrong afterall.

I collected the bits together and discovered that most of the plastic elements had fused together - clearly everything had got way too hot. Mmmm. I tentatively opened up the body of the strimmer to find lots of metal filings - a sure sign that something isn't right. Like probably irrepairably knackered. Probably caused by trying to do too much work - cos the grass had grown too long - I knew I should have fixed on the brush cutter.

Another mechanical gizmo meets it's match. Ha! How dare it imagine it could continue to work in my hands!

*It might have read better if I'd written 'soiree'

More travel tales

I forgot to mention. The drive home from Lairg is about 1 1/2 hours - you can do it in an hour if you really want to arrive with lambs stuck to yer bumpers - but on Wednesday I drove home from Lairg and encountered 4 cars. Where else in the UK can you drive for that long and encounter so few cars?

Today we're going to Wick for straw and oats and shops. I watched the weather last night night and went to bed resigned to constant rain all day. As it is I've woken to glorious sunshine. Of course it may not last but it's a nice start and a stark example of how the weather people so often get our weather very very wrong.

Meanwhile the met office have released their local climate projections for the next 100 years - which gave rise to the headline in the Beeb last night "London as hot as Bagdad" - you can find the maps and stuff here - worth a look but it's difficult to interpret - there's a lot of stuff on this website I've not yet looked at though. Anyway, whichever way you look at it things are changing - and very fast - and up here the most obvious threat is winter flooding with communities being cut off for days or weeks on end (because there's so few roads and a lack of alternative routes when one road gets washed away yer stuffed). Highland Council is doing what it can to plan for these things already - cos they've had quite a few instances of roads being washed away in the last few years - and a couple of years ago the A9 was washed away and in that one event the Council used up all their spare bridges.

Eh? Yes really - Highland Council keeps a stash of spare bridges for emergency use. One example of why climate change will hit poorer countries far harder than it'll hit us. But some of those projections are extreme - and not beyond the realms of possibility. And if the progress of past projections is anything to go by, in a couple of years time it will be predicted that the more extreme scenarios are more likely than they are currently estimated to be.

Planners - that's everyone from Councils to small businesses - are being urged by Government to start factoring in these projections in their risk analysis and contingency planning. No one is expected to get it right - but at least start considering it now and try to have some contingencies in place. A tough call without a doubt. It may be the Government realises that everyone needs to start thinking about these things - it may be that Government hasn't got a f*cking clue what to do and are so are passing the buck.

Salt and vinegar?

Hold on to yer seats! I went to Inverness yesterday. No really. How exciting is that?!?

I went to spout off. I love spouting off, and I realised yesterday that I seriously miss it. When I worked I used to spout off all the time - and one of the great things about being a CEO is that when you do spout off people feel obliged to listen. Eeeeh, them w'e days.

I was in Inverness for a consultation the Scottish Government is running about their proposed climate change adaptation strategy. Thrill a minute stuff.

The workshop only lasted the morning so I spent the afternoon wandering around Inverness, mainly charity shops, and feeling aghast. You have to realise - I've not been to a place as big as Inverness for about a year. It all felt very odd.

The rest of the time I was in search of material to use to make a wind break to protect the fruit trees. I found some stuff in Homebase - but at over £3 per square metre I baulked. I found some at Highland Industrial Supplies but they wouldn't sell me any less than 50m rolls so again I declined (and bought a fishing rod instead - "Fathers Day" I told myself). Then today I read Jo's blog and so now I'm captivated by the idea of using scaffolding netting - I suspect it might not be cheaper than garden netting - even though I think gardeners are taken for a ride over the cost of most things - but it will be better quality and should be strong enough for all kinds of other uses I can't possibly imagine.

I knew it was time to head home when the sun came out (the whole day in Inverness was steady heavy rain) - and it was very pleasant pootling up the A9 in the evening sun with a string of cars behind me (I obstinately stuck to a steady 60mph - it must have been sooooo frustrating for all the traffic behind me who obviously had to get somewhere really really urgently).

I stopped off in Lairg for something to eat (fish supper! - another treat). I've mentioned before about the economy up here being very poor. There are countless examples of people and traders being incredibly frugal and eeking out every penny's worth - but the chippy in Lairg takes the biscuit*. Once the (as it turned out - very good) fish had been cooked to order I was offered salt and vinegar - I eagerly accepted. Swish swish with the salt pot, and then - not splodge splodge with the vinegar as you'd expect - but phussst phussst. The fish supper was gently misted with vinegar using one of these.** Now you might think this might be in homage to Heston Blumenthal or something - but in a place whose best selling item is probably deep fried frozen pizza I doubt it. It's about saving money. I must keep visiting that shop - cos eventually they'll think of a way of limiting the amount of salt they give out - can't wait.

*Can a chippy take the biscuit? Should they take the batter? or the deep fried pizza?

** I struggled to find a piccy of one of these - and this piccy comes from a strange blog - if you can be bothered to look.

Bug Hunting

For some reason only known to those who know, the school was closed today. So Ailsa and I set off on a bug hunt. It was quite a walk - four hours or so - and we saw lots of bugs and flowers and lochs and grass and - yeah yeah you get the idea.

So here is our little picture gallery - most of these are in focus - we took many others but as we approach the middle of the year it's too warm for the little blighters to keep still.

Bombus Terrestris - the buff tailed bumble bee - just about the commonest bumble bee there is.

A fly. Ailsa has a special little bug collection kit but generally it was easier to get the piccy if the bug was on natural surfaces, like this intricately woven fabric of our rucksack.

Fungi infecting nettles. All the nettles we saw had these growths on them - which might be the rust fungus Puccinia urticata - but what do I know.

Pooh. Don't know what - thought it might be an otter, but it doesn't seem to look like the otter pooh commonly found on the wideworldweb so my guess it's something else.

We also saw lots of small grass hoppers - impossible to get piccies of them, a dragon fly thing, ditto and countless butterflies, some unusual looking ones too - but they all insisted on fluttering off when they saw a camera.

Untitled

Sometimes, most times, titles for blog entries are easy to find - but alas today I'm bereft of ideas - not a good sign considering that today is a word smithying day for me.

Yesterday was glorious. Apparently Englandshire is getting flooded again but we just basked and baked. Apart from a brief interlude clipping goats feet I spent the entire day weeding. I love weeding - it's a completely zone out task, requiring little concentration so yer mind can wander wildly - and there is real satisfaction in leaving the veg patch weed free (for at least an hour - I mean the weeds return with astonishing speed).

Today it's much cooler and, apart from a brief interlude clipping goats feet, I intend to finish off a funding application for a local charity I've got myself involved in (at a recent meeting I was elected to the committee - someone proposed me, all agreed - the timing was perfect as my face was buried in a huge hunk of the most glorious home made fruit cake ever - I was in no position to object). I drafted the application last week and sent it to a select few asking for comments using 'track changes'. One of the select forwarded it to the entire universe asking it to send comments to me - and many have, but strangely none of them have used track changes.** So there's an agonising ploughing through of ideas to be done - just finding their comments is hard enough in some responses. Hey ho.

** That's a tricky sentence innit? - it - many - Mmm!

Cowboys and injuns

When pootling about, alone, laughing out loud, nay even giggling, is a pretty rare thing I think. Well it is for me anyway. But this did verily make me laugh. I mean - what is it? Weeeeell - it be a wigwam, built for my runner beans to climb up. It's held together by baler twine, wont survive the wind, the wood is probably too thick for the beans to use (maybe?? I dunno), and generally probably unfit for purpose. But it was fun making it.

The Lupins came from Lulu last year - doing well eh? As are the tatties, which are now earthed up with marigolds planted between the row - apparently good complementary planting - but Jussi wanted marigolds cos she has big plans to make handcreams.

Mama know best

Goat herds have leaders - a matriarch who leads the herd to grazing, to shelter etc. Gwendolyn is our matriarch and Jussi has enormous respect for her and often, I think, goes a bit far in projecting intelligence upon her. However, one of Jussi's more likely projections is that Gwendolyn is a weather forecaster.

In the morning, after the goats have had breakfast - if they sit lounging around for an hour or so before they go out - it's going to be a sunny day all day. If they rush out to graze after breakfast it'll be raining by noon.

Another apology

That Cheapskate jazz collections on the sidebar. Soddin awful most of it.

Sunrise 04:11, Sunset 22:21

I'm on a bit of a go slow on the old blogging front - something I apologise for, to all those who check in daily. Gets to be a bit dull innit.

But I am trying to avoid sitting at the computer - the weather is good - there is lots to do in the garden, and when I do sit staring at this screen there are a number of bigger projects I really ought to be getting on with.

The goats are fine, the kids are alarmingly large, the garden is rampant and the weather is good. Meanwhile, as stated by a labour MP recently, the Labour Party fiddles while Gordon burns. At least I voted - there must be some very sorry people in Northern England whose 'protest' - ie not voting - allowed the BNP to get two seats. Dreadful.

Thank you!

Phew - nicer weather returns. Thank Gawd.

We had big plans to go to the Scrabster Harbour Festival today - featuring....wait for it....can you guess?....bet you can't....a 1956 doube decker bus. I mean it would have been worth the 70 odd mile round trip eh? Alas Ailsa has pals performing in the Mod so she's off to watch them and I can continue earthing up me spuds, while Jussi fiddles with her PC (she's lost all internet connectivity - it's a bit like having your aorta removed).

Grovelling apology

A couple of days ago I rejoiced at the cooler, wetter weather. I'm sorry. I didn't foresee the mercury falling so low that snow would smatter the croft this morning. It is now too cold. And I'm sorry.

SORRY!!

Can we have the nice weather back now...please.

Home win

Last nights menu:

Home made home grown chard and home grown home made goats cheese soup with home made home grown sour dough bread followed by home made home grown rhubarb crumble.

It's over

Phew - what a relief. The temperature has plummeted - it's a good 10C cooler today than of late and it's good to feel the icicles sparring with my toes again.

The weather really hit on Friday. I fell over. My ankle! My ankle! F*CK.

So the last few days I've been laid up. Excused from kid feeding duties has meant I could lie in in the morning until - oooh 7:30 at least. Luxury. And all that weather - perfect for being invalid. Only, in truth, it's been too hot for me. So maybe I've spent a bit of time lounging outside, but then rushed indoors to escape from that funny bright round thing in the sky.

But the garden is going ape. Why do weeds grow so much better than the things you actually want to grow? And if I decided I wanted to cultivate ground elder would I have to spend all my days trying to get rid of lettuce and carrots and stuff? Maybe I should try it.

We had a family day out on Sunday. A rare thing and very enjoyable. We went to Durness and explored a bit, and sampled a bit of the local inept hospitality. We stopped in a cafe for a bite to eat and only had to wait an hour or so for them to make up two sandwiches - a forgivable delay as there were already two other people in. Both were apparently single middle aged women, sat at separate tables, each scribbling in notebooks, one pausing from time to time to look out of the window with a pair of ridiculously over-sized binoculars. What were they writing?

"The tranquility has just been shaken by the arrival of a young family"

"I can see a rock"

I don't know. Anyway, after quite some time, one of the women was approached by the 'waitress' with a steaming micro-waved potato generously coated with lurid orange goo (I guess it was cheese), she looked up from her notebook with a look of what I can only describe as panic, and repeated in an alarmed voice:

"Ni! Ni!" I guess she was foreign, probably a Python fan.

The proprietor/'cook' rushed out of the kitchen area, looking doubly dashing on account of the white cooks trilby and fag packet in breast pocket admonishing the waitress - "No it's the other lady". Lucky he was around - Ni was on the verge of heart attack. Food handed to rightful customer we all returned to stupor.

Our sandwiches arrived some time later. I'd just like to mention at this point, that although it is good to have freshly made egg mayonnaise, it's best not to make it by cracking two eggs into a bowl - micro-waving until the egg and bowl have become one, then mashing with a fork and the addition of a gollop of mayo. No siree.