It would be best if I did not write too much regarding the issue of the land which has been damaged as it is now being 'dealt with'. I will update once a satisfactory resolution has been realised.
That said, I will issue a warning to anyone who may wish to wander about in the field - beware of the bull. Beware of the massive, unpredictable Limousin.
He is red, not far off a ton, sturdy, possibly slightly mental. The bovine equivalent to a brick outhouse but fast.
Talking of bull and matters bovine but not fast, I received a reply from Richard Lochhead.
It would appear that many of you who took the time to write to him also received the standard reply, one or two paragraphs appearing verbatim in the Scottish Farmer so little effort for originality there, Richard.
My concern was; What do you do if you are either unable to qualify for legal aid (eg if you fall just within the remit) but are unable to meet the massive costs of the Land Court.
A case can easily cost over £200,000 and the insurance covers £50,000 so bit of a gap inbetween.
The reply offered nothing that new - approach the various farming unions, associations or approach RSABI, a support charity dedicated to 'the relief of hardship and poverty amongst people who have depended for their livelihoods on the land'.
Rather than copy the entire letter out, here is the abridged version.
Dear GentleOtter,
Talk to the hand, mendicant.
Yours sincerely
Richard Lochhead
I would offer back the suggestion that he gets on down and dirty with the farmers at the next roup. You know, put on a pair of government issue wellies and lean on a gate with other farmers before said gate gets sold to the highest bidder.
I would have said come down to grass roots level but that is a sore point for us just now - lumps of our pasture stuck to a 4x4 somewhere else.
Talk to and spend a day working with the shepherds who have to faff around eartagging thousands of wild, horned hill sheep, usually in the rain.
Come and help attempt to dry a soaking wet pile of grain if the farmer has been lucky enough to get the crop in or stand beside the farmer who has just had his crop rejected and choose that moment to spout some spin. I dare you. I will even offer a free "risk assessment".
Mr L, spend the day with tenant farmers who are facing daily adversity with lawless landowners, those people who wish the right to buy their own farms after working them for generations, those who do not have a farm but want to rent somewhere to work the land and not be ripped off before/during/after five years and there is an *awful lot* of land out there asking to be worked and freed....
Thought not.
Aye, keep those wellies clean. They might fit someone else.
The farm at the back of beyond.
Monday, 7 November 2011
Saturday, 5 November 2011
Roups and ruined pastures.
Neighbouring farmers held a farm sale today or roup as it is known.
All machinery, tools, odds and ends are sold and whilst it was a good turnout, I spoke to the lady who was the outgoing farmer about how she felt. She found it very difficult to see items which were part of her everyday life held up and scrutinised then flogged off to the highest bidder; a small collection of belongings which took a lifetime to collect, gone in two hours.
We will miss this family and miss seeing them when they were gathering hay, out lambing in all weathers, a wave from a tractor...
My father used to lend a hand on this farm (he and the farmer were cousins) and have a lovely photograph from the 1950s of dad and his sisters plus the farmer and his siblings all waving cheerfully from an old car. Dad said they had all gone out to help with the harvest and everyone looked tanned and happy, the farmer relieved that the work was done and for family celebration to begin.
It is the end of an era, another tenant farmer gone and many of us talked about how we felt.
The roup is one of those rare occasions where you meet people you have not seen for a long time, years sometimes so there is a lot of news to catch up on.
We had a few comments like "Oh my goodness, is that the baby!" to our strapping four year old and how Rosie had changed from a shy little girl to a beautiful young woman.
Now, roups at farms bring lots of cars, 4x4s, trailers and even the odd tractor and trailer. It churns the fields up something terrible and becomes a sea of mud where people try to jump out of the way of cars trying to leave the field, skidding sideways, spraying great fountains of mud everywhere.
We headed home with spares for the combine plus a huge chain and The Farmer thought he would have a quick look to check our cattle as we were passing.
We were left horrified.
While we were at the roup, a shoot had taken place in the field where the cattle were. We were given no indication that this would happen as we would have moved the cattle to a different field. Their pasture churned up by the treads of many 4x4s and ruined.
The field had all the fences completely renewed last month, new gates and posts added.
So where are the fifteen cattle which were grazing there this morning?
We will look for them first light tomorrow morning but my guess is that they have been scared off by the guns.
Would it be unreasonable to attach the big chain we bought at the roup to the gates?
To keep the cattle in, of course.....
All machinery, tools, odds and ends are sold and whilst it was a good turnout, I spoke to the lady who was the outgoing farmer about how she felt. She found it very difficult to see items which were part of her everyday life held up and scrutinised then flogged off to the highest bidder; a small collection of belongings which took a lifetime to collect, gone in two hours.
We will miss this family and miss seeing them when they were gathering hay, out lambing in all weathers, a wave from a tractor...
My father used to lend a hand on this farm (he and the farmer were cousins) and have a lovely photograph from the 1950s of dad and his sisters plus the farmer and his siblings all waving cheerfully from an old car. Dad said they had all gone out to help with the harvest and everyone looked tanned and happy, the farmer relieved that the work was done and for family celebration to begin.
It is the end of an era, another tenant farmer gone and many of us talked about how we felt.
The roup is one of those rare occasions where you meet people you have not seen for a long time, years sometimes so there is a lot of news to catch up on.
We had a few comments like "Oh my goodness, is that the baby!" to our strapping four year old and how Rosie had changed from a shy little girl to a beautiful young woman.
Now, roups at farms bring lots of cars, 4x4s, trailers and even the odd tractor and trailer. It churns the fields up something terrible and becomes a sea of mud where people try to jump out of the way of cars trying to leave the field, skidding sideways, spraying great fountains of mud everywhere.
We headed home with spares for the combine plus a huge chain and The Farmer thought he would have a quick look to check our cattle as we were passing.
We were left horrified.
While we were at the roup, a shoot had taken place in the field where the cattle were. We were given no indication that this would happen as we would have moved the cattle to a different field. Their pasture churned up by the treads of many 4x4s and ruined.
The field had all the fences completely renewed last month, new gates and posts added.
So where are the fifteen cattle which were grazing there this morning?
We will look for them first light tomorrow morning but my guess is that they have been scared off by the guns.
Would it be unreasonable to attach the big chain we bought at the roup to the gates?
To keep the cattle in, of course.....
Monday, 31 October 2011
Paddling in the Ocean of Everything
The last few weeks have seen me an utter joy to be around albeit if you are wearing a nuclear hazard suit and ear muffs.
I caught food poisoning, the flu then slipped some discs all at the same time. Right as the harvest finally got started. Right at the beginning of the 'tattie holidays'.
The harvest brought in itself like the scene in Nanny Mcfee, all magical shapes and glitter but that may have been the opiates, uppers, downers and sidewayers prescribed by the doctor. I made the sidewayers bit up but took to walking like a crab anyway, progressing to lobster mode after finding my Dad's old walking sticks.
The Farmer, possibly at the end of his tether, carefully drove me to a chiropractor in Aberfeldy and despite being convinced that one swift crack of the neck would end not only the pain but my very life, back was sorted beautifully.
Nothing shifts the cold and flu quicker than standing in a very cold, windy field, hauling lumps of stuck straw out of the bailer. The wind forgot it's manners and rather than a Victorian glove type slap on the face, it was more of a punch with a knuckleduster and a good eyeful of straw thrown in the eyes just in case it missed the first time.
The Farmer drove past happily in his heated combine, Eldest Son and I wrestled with the stuck bailer and oaths were carried away on the wind to be hollered in someone's ear who lived miles away and would be all shocked.
We managed to get some of the barley in before the rain came again and the combine got stuck in the field, the same as the next farm and the farm further past that one. The ground beyond saturation after months of rain.
The oats are still uncut and bar from hand scything them (which is *bound* to put your back out), there is little we can do except wait for a hard frost which will firm up the ground enough to take the weight of combine and tractor.
There was only one answer to the long faces, longer wet days. The Mother of Death by Chocolate cake. We would all burst our arteries but die happy.
I threw everything chocolatey into the monster sized cake, cooked it to slightly burned perfection, removed it from the oven then dropped it on the worktop where it smashed into many pieces. Many.
Undaunted and now *driven*, it got stuck together with a bucket load of salted caramel sauce (Thank you, MmeLindor) and a mountain of chocolate ganache to hide the damage. The ganache was so thick, I was tempted to mend the roof with it. The roof I am not supposed to mention so you never read that bit.
This is the panacea for all evils and ills, ridder of flu, sorter of backs, lifter of spirits, clogger of arteries and the Devil may care.
I would share but it has mysteriously vanished.
I caught food poisoning, the flu then slipped some discs all at the same time. Right as the harvest finally got started. Right at the beginning of the 'tattie holidays'.
The harvest brought in itself like the scene in Nanny Mcfee, all magical shapes and glitter but that may have been the opiates, uppers, downers and sidewayers prescribed by the doctor. I made the sidewayers bit up but took to walking like a crab anyway, progressing to lobster mode after finding my Dad's old walking sticks.
The Farmer, possibly at the end of his tether, carefully drove me to a chiropractor in Aberfeldy and despite being convinced that one swift crack of the neck would end not only the pain but my very life, back was sorted beautifully.
Nothing shifts the cold and flu quicker than standing in a very cold, windy field, hauling lumps of stuck straw out of the bailer. The wind forgot it's manners and rather than a Victorian glove type slap on the face, it was more of a punch with a knuckleduster and a good eyeful of straw thrown in the eyes just in case it missed the first time.
The Farmer drove past happily in his heated combine, Eldest Son and I wrestled with the stuck bailer and oaths were carried away on the wind to be hollered in someone's ear who lived miles away and would be all shocked.
We managed to get some of the barley in before the rain came again and the combine got stuck in the field, the same as the next farm and the farm further past that one. The ground beyond saturation after months of rain.
The oats are still uncut and bar from hand scything them (which is *bound* to put your back out), there is little we can do except wait for a hard frost which will firm up the ground enough to take the weight of combine and tractor.
There was only one answer to the long faces, longer wet days. The Mother of Death by Chocolate cake. We would all burst our arteries but die happy.
I threw everything chocolatey into the monster sized cake, cooked it to slightly burned perfection, removed it from the oven then dropped it on the worktop where it smashed into many pieces. Many.
Undaunted and now *driven*, it got stuck together with a bucket load of salted caramel sauce (Thank you, MmeLindor) and a mountain of chocolate ganache to hide the damage. The ganache was so thick, I was tempted to mend the roof with it. The roof I am not supposed to mention so you never read that bit.
This is the panacea for all evils and ills, ridder of flu, sorter of backs, lifter of spirits, clogger of arteries and the Devil may care.
I would share but it has mysteriously vanished.
Thursday, 13 October 2011
Faster than fairies
FROM A RAILWAY CARRIAGE
Faster than fairies, faster than witches,
Bridges and houses, hedges and ditches;
And charging along like troops in a battle
All through the meadows the horses and cattle:
All of the sights of the hill and the plain
Fly as thick as driving rain;
And ever again, in the wink of an eye,
Painted stations whistle by.
Here is a child who clambers and scrambles,
All by himself and gathering brambles;
Here is a tramp who stands and gazes;
And here is the green for stringing the daisies!
Here is a cart runaway in the road
Lumping along with man and load;
And here is a mill, and there is a river:
Each a glimpse and gone forever!
Robert Louis Stevenson
My eldest son and I travelled to Birmingham on the train.
We left the farm at 6am then spent the rest of the day slumped against a train window (or sitting bolt upright depending on alighting passengers with baggage and respecting the 'British' thing of not making contact by accidentally brushing a knee or shoulder).
The journey was an education in itself - derelict buildings melted into forgetfulness, concrete forests sprung from long forgotten earth, there were few trees, curves or patches of green.
Chimney pots took on the persona of the passengers; different shapes and sizes, different colours, all piled higgeldy-piggledly as comfortably as they could, perched on their narrow plinths like roosting birds.
There were huge metal towers which looked like they were made of industrial lace, delicate yet sturdy and offering an almost etheral beauty, skyward.
People came and went. They ate, drank, laughed, sat silently, read. One or two slept seemingly unaware of the noise and movement all around them.
The journey and people were fascinating. We are so used to isolation at the farm, few visitors, few trips into town, it was quite overwhelming to make contact with enormous crowds of people and all the noise and bustle they make.
I found the Best Tree Ever.
It spoke of fairies and witches, probably housed a few yet stood with quiet dignity amid the urban chaos.
The journey home was this side of Hell.
Eldest son had three enormous glass boxes which could have easily housed a Great Dane or Newfoundland dog. There was no easy way of carrying them and I think I huffed to Morpeth then gave up the will to live.
Four men had a fight just outside Newcastle but two seats away. I worried about the glass boxes making contact with irate large men but the aggrieved alighted and continued their fight on the platform.
Hours later, the train broke down at Stirling so we had to continue by bus....my soul may have left my body at this point, aided by the person who coughed every three seconds then sniffed snot into a blocked nostril.
We arrived home after midnight. It was pitch black and the familiar mud squelched reassuringly under our town shoes.
The glass structures designed by Satan made it home in one piece, the carriers slightly more frayed.
I stood outside in the dark.
Not a sound.
Not a soul.
Big sky, tiny stars.
Home.
Faster than fairies, faster than witches,
Bridges and houses, hedges and ditches;
And charging along like troops in a battle
All through the meadows the horses and cattle:
All of the sights of the hill and the plain
Fly as thick as driving rain;
And ever again, in the wink of an eye,
Painted stations whistle by.
Here is a child who clambers and scrambles,
All by himself and gathering brambles;
Here is a tramp who stands and gazes;
And here is the green for stringing the daisies!
Here is a cart runaway in the road
Lumping along with man and load;
And here is a mill, and there is a river:
Each a glimpse and gone forever!
Robert Louis Stevenson
My eldest son and I travelled to Birmingham on the train.
We left the farm at 6am then spent the rest of the day slumped against a train window (or sitting bolt upright depending on alighting passengers with baggage and respecting the 'British' thing of not making contact by accidentally brushing a knee or shoulder).
The journey was an education in itself - derelict buildings melted into forgetfulness, concrete forests sprung from long forgotten earth, there were few trees, curves or patches of green.
Chimney pots took on the persona of the passengers; different shapes and sizes, different colours, all piled higgeldy-piggledly as comfortably as they could, perched on their narrow plinths like roosting birds.
There were huge metal towers which looked like they were made of industrial lace, delicate yet sturdy and offering an almost etheral beauty, skyward.
People came and went. They ate, drank, laughed, sat silently, read. One or two slept seemingly unaware of the noise and movement all around them.
The journey and people were fascinating. We are so used to isolation at the farm, few visitors, few trips into town, it was quite overwhelming to make contact with enormous crowds of people and all the noise and bustle they make.
I found the Best Tree Ever.
It spoke of fairies and witches, probably housed a few yet stood with quiet dignity amid the urban chaos.
The journey home was this side of Hell.
Eldest son had three enormous glass boxes which could have easily housed a Great Dane or Newfoundland dog. There was no easy way of carrying them and I think I huffed to Morpeth then gave up the will to live.
Four men had a fight just outside Newcastle but two seats away. I worried about the glass boxes making contact with irate large men but the aggrieved alighted and continued their fight on the platform.
Hours later, the train broke down at Stirling so we had to continue by bus....my soul may have left my body at this point, aided by the person who coughed every three seconds then sniffed snot into a blocked nostril.
We arrived home after midnight. It was pitch black and the familiar mud squelched reassuringly under our town shoes.
The glass structures designed by Satan made it home in one piece, the carriers slightly more frayed.
I stood outside in the dark.
Not a sound.
Not a soul.
Big sky, tiny stars.
Home.
Thursday, 22 September 2011
Autumn
Autumn moved in as silently and quickly as the swifts who have just flown away.
There has been so much to do, so much to prepare for winter and the rumours whisper that it will be another hard winter which arrives early.
There seems little we can do about our farmhouse; the matter was passed on to higher echelons and we can only hope that the issues are settled quickly.
The farmhouse roof groans a little with despair. It tries to hold on to life just as the leaves of the trees hold on to their summer vivacity then stung by the sharp drop in temperature, they reach the point of senescence, begin to wither and fall. Their death throes a blaze of colour, each leaf burns with the brilliance of a roaring fire.
They begin to fall and the ground becomes thickly carpeted and crispy underfoot. The air has a hint of honey and pine with an after scent of mushrooms.
The earth becomes denuded after the grains are harvested and the land ploughed. There is a rich tapestry of deep brown, purple heather, silver birch turned to gold, bronzed oaks, vivid reds of the little mountain rowans.
The land dons it's Autumn mantle to acknowledge the chill.
I had good fortune after offering to lend a hand to one of the local shepherds - he was working alone on the hill at the front, sorting out a flock of around 500 tough and tiny horned sheep, all wild and leaping over the sheep hurdles like salmon leaping in the river.
We worked steadily, ignoring the thumps and bashes of sharp horns on legs and arms, ignored the hail shower which stung, soaked us then moved on.
The shepherd very gently checked each and every sheep, he spoke quietly to them, checked their mouths and ears, their general well being. We dosed them all to prevent some of the myriad diseases sheep are susceptible to catching. Tiny hooves were inspected.
After many hours, the sheep were moved to different pastures, shepherd and helper ready for a hot toddy and hot bath. It was a good days work but did not feel like work.
From our viewpoint high on the hill, we could see the countryside in all it's glory, a huge and fat rainbow hugged the hills and briefly embraced our farm.
For a while, worries were forgotten, anxieties replaced with hope.
The pine trees which had been slaughtered by the savage winds and lay dying were briefly brought back to life by the rainbow's embrace.
I felt an energy in the air, one which fired energy into my tired soul and provided fuel to fight on for the tiny scrap of Scotland which is our home and life. The farm illuminated by a rainbow.
A farm washed clean. The dark negative influences of the past purged by the purity of the environment.
The change has begun.
There has been so much to do, so much to prepare for winter and the rumours whisper that it will be another hard winter which arrives early.
There seems little we can do about our farmhouse; the matter was passed on to higher echelons and we can only hope that the issues are settled quickly.
The farmhouse roof groans a little with despair. It tries to hold on to life just as the leaves of the trees hold on to their summer vivacity then stung by the sharp drop in temperature, they reach the point of senescence, begin to wither and fall. Their death throes a blaze of colour, each leaf burns with the brilliance of a roaring fire.
They begin to fall and the ground becomes thickly carpeted and crispy underfoot. The air has a hint of honey and pine with an after scent of mushrooms.
The earth becomes denuded after the grains are harvested and the land ploughed. There is a rich tapestry of deep brown, purple heather, silver birch turned to gold, bronzed oaks, vivid reds of the little mountain rowans.
The land dons it's Autumn mantle to acknowledge the chill.
I had good fortune after offering to lend a hand to one of the local shepherds - he was working alone on the hill at the front, sorting out a flock of around 500 tough and tiny horned sheep, all wild and leaping over the sheep hurdles like salmon leaping in the river.
We worked steadily, ignoring the thumps and bashes of sharp horns on legs and arms, ignored the hail shower which stung, soaked us then moved on.
The shepherd very gently checked each and every sheep, he spoke quietly to them, checked their mouths and ears, their general well being. We dosed them all to prevent some of the myriad diseases sheep are susceptible to catching. Tiny hooves were inspected.
After many hours, the sheep were moved to different pastures, shepherd and helper ready for a hot toddy and hot bath. It was a good days work but did not feel like work.
From our viewpoint high on the hill, we could see the countryside in all it's glory, a huge and fat rainbow hugged the hills and briefly embraced our farm.
For a while, worries were forgotten, anxieties replaced with hope.
The pine trees which had been slaughtered by the savage winds and lay dying were briefly brought back to life by the rainbow's embrace.
I felt an energy in the air, one which fired energy into my tired soul and provided fuel to fight on for the tiny scrap of Scotland which is our home and life. The farm illuminated by a rainbow.
A farm washed clean. The dark negative influences of the past purged by the purity of the environment.
The change has begun.
Wednesday, 7 September 2011
Priorities.
We worked through yesterday with difficulty, it has to be said.
The storm threw small pieces of trees on the ground, the rain fell horizontally and stung eyes, the wind stole conversation from our mouths and turned them into Munch screams. The thick mud on the farmyard reappeared and made walking look like we had all slipped thorazine in our tea and our legs had been sedated as a result. Concrete welly weather.
The ground became too wet to take the weight of the tractors, the digger sulked in a broken digger way, PieDog ran off for no apparent reason.
I wondered what else would go into the broth of It Is All Going Pete Tong then I ripped my best working trousers on a sharp piece of metal.
Leg was showing.
Wind found leg.
PieDog came back.
We found alternative jobs inside the big shed and continued under the shelter only a large tin roof can offer.
Munch screams turned to wild gesticulations as tractors were dodged, dung coloured duffle coats blended in to the environment so well that they were mistaken as camouflage and suffered a few close shaves.
It is hard to make a "Look I Am Getting Angry Now" gesture at a big muddy tractor when you have become as one with the dung. An amorphous blob of beige and straw. There is no point, you just have to get out of the way.
My farm work stopped when I went to collect our little boy from nursery. He was tired after playing, needed food and a cuddle and a chance to wind down. Me too.
Rosie had given him her old suitcase and it became a wonderland to his vivid imagination. He was a pirate and this was his boat, I was relegated the role of 'sea monster', he was a train driver and I had to be the passenger sitting behind him, it became the 'Krusty Krab' restaurant where SpongeBob SquarePants works and we dined with eloquence. 'Squidward' brought pudding.
Afterwards, our son began neatly folding his clothes and packing the little suitcase. He packed pyjamas, a warm top and the snake belt to keep his trousers up. He added a pair of trousers and a clean vest. His tractor and bales went in last.
"I can't find matching socks but it is ok because they are just for wellies'. The family motto.
"Where are you going?" I asked him. "Are we going to Paris on the Orient Express or to Skye by the Glenelg Ferry instead of the bridge?"
"No" he replied. I'm off to the farm"
"Why? It is pretty wild outside"
"I am going because I want to" he said. "I am going to help Dad".
Wise boy. Wise choice.
He saw beyond the storm.
The storm threw small pieces of trees on the ground, the rain fell horizontally and stung eyes, the wind stole conversation from our mouths and turned them into Munch screams. The thick mud on the farmyard reappeared and made walking look like we had all slipped thorazine in our tea and our legs had been sedated as a result. Concrete welly weather.
The ground became too wet to take the weight of the tractors, the digger sulked in a broken digger way, PieDog ran off for no apparent reason.
I wondered what else would go into the broth of It Is All Going Pete Tong then I ripped my best working trousers on a sharp piece of metal.
Leg was showing.
Wind found leg.
PieDog came back.
We found alternative jobs inside the big shed and continued under the shelter only a large tin roof can offer.
Munch screams turned to wild gesticulations as tractors were dodged, dung coloured duffle coats blended in to the environment so well that they were mistaken as camouflage and suffered a few close shaves.
It is hard to make a "Look I Am Getting Angry Now" gesture at a big muddy tractor when you have become as one with the dung. An amorphous blob of beige and straw. There is no point, you just have to get out of the way.
My farm work stopped when I went to collect our little boy from nursery. He was tired after playing, needed food and a cuddle and a chance to wind down. Me too.
Rosie had given him her old suitcase and it became a wonderland to his vivid imagination. He was a pirate and this was his boat, I was relegated the role of 'sea monster', he was a train driver and I had to be the passenger sitting behind him, it became the 'Krusty Krab' restaurant where SpongeBob SquarePants works and we dined with eloquence. 'Squidward' brought pudding.
Afterwards, our son began neatly folding his clothes and packing the little suitcase. He packed pyjamas, a warm top and the snake belt to keep his trousers up. He added a pair of trousers and a clean vest. His tractor and bales went in last.
"I can't find matching socks but it is ok because they are just for wellies'. The family motto.
"Where are you going?" I asked him. "Are we going to Paris on the Orient Express or to Skye by the Glenelg Ferry instead of the bridge?"
"No" he replied. I'm off to the farm"
"Why? It is pretty wild outside"
"I am going because I want to" he said. "I am going to help Dad".
Wise boy. Wise choice.
He saw beyond the storm.
Tuesday, 6 September 2011
Where are we now?
I wanted to write about how we are all feeling, now that our situation is out in the open.
We are shellshocked by the response. We cannot believe how many people have written or sent messages of support from many countries, not just Britain.
Today, it is very wet and stormy here. The rain has poured into the farmhouse, we swept it out as usual, we gathered around the big table as we always do.
The farmhouse which, despite it's battered and dangerous facade, is still the heart of the farm. It is still home. It is where the family congregate and shelter from the wild weather outside.
We appear to be no further forward and I am waiting for phone calls or emails which will put my mind at ease. Have I done something terribly wrong by speaking out?
It feels that way.
It was easier for some when we were silent and tolerated all the issues which seem to have horrified so many decent people.
We were easier to control when we did not speak out, easier to bully.
I am steeling myself to go outside again. The rain is blowing horizontally and the dung brown duffle coat has come out of it's Scottish summer hibernation of, ooh, three weeks and lies heavily on my back. The hood never did sit right and the wind blows it off then slaps your face.
I never wanted anger, threats, anxiety.
All we wanted was a roof, heat and clean water.
And still we wait.....
We are shellshocked by the response. We cannot believe how many people have written or sent messages of support from many countries, not just Britain.
Today, it is very wet and stormy here. The rain has poured into the farmhouse, we swept it out as usual, we gathered around the big table as we always do.
The farmhouse which, despite it's battered and dangerous facade, is still the heart of the farm. It is still home. It is where the family congregate and shelter from the wild weather outside.
We appear to be no further forward and I am waiting for phone calls or emails which will put my mind at ease. Have I done something terribly wrong by speaking out?
It feels that way.
It was easier for some when we were silent and tolerated all the issues which seem to have horrified so many decent people.
We were easier to control when we did not speak out, easier to bully.
I am steeling myself to go outside again. The rain is blowing horizontally and the dung brown duffle coat has come out of it's Scottish summer hibernation of, ooh, three weeks and lies heavily on my back. The hood never did sit right and the wind blows it off then slaps your face.
I never wanted anger, threats, anxiety.
All we wanted was a roof, heat and clean water.
And still we wait.....
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