I should have stayed in bed.

Do you ever have days when the moment your feet hit the floor, you realise it is going to be one of 'those' days?

Yesterday was one of those ghastly days. I smacked my head off the low part of the ceiling the very second I stood up. normally I instinctively duck but not yesterday.

We ran out of coffee but it was going to be ok - an internet delivery order was just about to arrive and I would feel semi human.
The driver drew up....then drove off again.

The car died a death on one of the most remote roads in Scotland which had no mobile signal. Cue a long, sorry walk home.

Most of the day was spent trying to track my shopping and give Tesco their due, they really have no idea about, well, anything really.

Every little niggly thing crawled out of the woodwork and added to the misery. Flooded kitchen floor, tick, dog ramraiding the kitchen, tick, stepping in wet with a socked foot, tick.
The children fought over everything and each told on the other with painful detail. "Mum! he is breathing and MEANING it"......

I even checked my biorhythms - yes, there they were, dragging their knuckles off the floor like a surly oran utang.

The day never improved and actually got worse so I had a pathetic sobbing session/ pity party on the sofa. A hoofing great wallow in the Ocean of Despair.

The Farmer, who is right as rain now, crept up beside me and gave me a hug. His day had gone really well and he was all chuffed and I tried to be coherent but failed.

I fell asleep on the sofa and woke at OhMyGod o'clock. The fire had gone out and I felt a bit disorientated but climbed wearily upstairs to bed.

The shopping finally arrived today. It was all wrong but at least we had milk and coffee.
My car was towed away to the garage. We had managed to muck it out and made it look half presentable and used half a can of Febrese to mask the PieDog/ farmery smell which farmer's cars have although I suspect the mud up to the roof gave the truth away about our profession.

Things have gone slightly better today but I don't quite trust the Fates fully. It was a 'Wait until the rug gets tugged from under your feet' feeling.

Ever the optimist, I hope tomorrow will fare better. I must remember to duck when I wake, though.

Patience being a virtue and all that.

I made a tentative enquiry, ooh, maybe six years ago.

I upped the ante four years ago then really started to insist last year.

We will throw the dirty word 'BT' in there, quickly. Oh hang on. Quickly is not in their vocabulary.

They came today with a new pole and we missed them. Just when the outside world decides to roll up to the farm with something for us all to watch, we both miss it. I might have even done a baking if I knew. Fancy!

The Farmer has uber lurgy with bells on. That is all I will say about the matter but have every faith that he will feel better soon after some rest and medicine. And broth. Cures everything, broth.

The telegraph pole at the back of the farm fell down about eight years ago. The line trailed in the mud but on such a steep slope that you practically need climbing gear to get to it.
A few years later, a cow managed to wander into this area and I worried that the telephone line might wrap around her hoof so I phoned BT. We cannot have bungee jumping cows or else everyone will want one. The 'Ministry' won't like it.

The cow has long wandered away, calves have been born, fish have evolved, oceans have risen, ice caps have melted since I first notified BT.

Anyway, they came today and erected a lovely new telegraph pole.

In the wrong place.

I will phone them soon and expect them in 2019. I will even point to the area, if I'm spared. (Highland upbringing, we say that sort of thing in the Highlands and look nervously skyward when saying it).

I'll ignore the fact that they have cut us off on numerous occasions due to the bill being sent to a different house and a different name which has nothing whatsoever to do with us. Lets just say that our bill is sent to a family who are not us with a phone which is not ours. (Despite my paying monthly direct debit)

The Farmer will recover, life will go on, Spring will be Sprung, new species will be discovered.

But my Patience may just begin to fray a little.....

Heat and cold.

The snow is back and The Farmer has a bug.

Just when I thought that Spring was hiding behind the big tree, winter returned with a ferocity, pushing Spring from her hiding place and spoiling it for everyone.

We are beginning to feel a bit wearied, The Farmer and I. 'Trauchled' is the Scots word.

I felt worried for him as he looked unwell yet we had to plod on and get the work done. He lay in a heap on the sofa once we came inside so I put on a huge fire, made hot lemon juice and gave him some painkillers. It was early afternoon and the little one was at nursery.

The Farmer felt guilty that he was lying in a heap instead of tackling the myriad of jobs to be done outside. Farmers tend not to 'lie down' to feeling unwell but push themselves to the end of their energy until they look quite dreadful.

"Let's just stay in and have an elderly moment by the fire" I suggested. I felt there was no harm at all in having a quiet moment, just the two of us absorbing the peace and heat from the fire.

He slept and I sat on the hearth, hogging most of the heat which felt good. The snow continued to fall outside in big wet blobs and I was glad we were not out being slapped with it's icy fingers.

It was a relatively quiet evening. The Farmer and his son slept cuddled up to each other. The bathroom ceiling caved in a bit and poured water all over the floor. PieDog sneaked in to the kitchen and stole some eggs from the table.
It did not matter.
I think we were all too tired to care and it could be dealt with in the morning.

He feels a bit better today after a good sleep. The water and eggs are cleared away, it is still snowy outside.

I have now developed a taste and hankering for peaceful moments by the fire with The Farmer and told him.

"We can do it again when we are 65", he said. And for just a moment, I nearly believed

him.

Trying to catch the rainbow.

Yesterday threw virtual puddles in my path.

My daughter has been sad at school and I needed to find out why she felt sad so she and I ventured off to Abrefeldy for a day out and heart to heart talk.

Sometimes it can be difficult to get her mind to focus on any one thing. I can ask her a question and after a while she comes out with a great stream of suggestions which break down into tangents and I am left baffled.
She can seem glum but feels 'ok' in herself except her downturned mouth belies this and an aura of gloom emits a sad signal. I feel like a moth beating it's wings against an opaque window. The moth knows there is light behind the frosted glass but it cannot get to it and ends up exhausted.

We find a shop which sells all manner of brick-a-brack and things. It is an old fashioned shop which smells faintly of eau de cologne and faded grandeur.
We find the corner where the children's books are huddled and we sit on the floor to rummage.
She feels happy looking through the motley collection and finds some old maps which sit amid 1980's Blue Peter annuals. She tells me all about lines of latitude and the lessons she had on map reading at school.

"Why are you sad ?" I ask.

"I'm not" she says.

My darling girl. How I wish I could understand better. I wish I could catch her sadness and release it to the wind as you would with a butterfly trapped inside a window.
I wish she could feel great joy and confidence and how to make sense of the world. I wish I could catch all the colours of the rainbow and wrap her up in them.

We buy an ancient, battered Monopoly set as she loved the tiny houses and the card which demanded that "Every player shall pay you £10" then we walk to the town square.
She starts to laugh when she sees a red hackle stuck on the top of an information kiosk.
"Mum, why does that kiosk have a big red feather on top ?" and I answer that I have no earthly idea but perhaps the designer thought it might be nice. Useless but nice.

We walk arm in arm and she is singing softly to herself.

On the journey home she munches at a salad dish which we bought and inbetween mouthfuls of chicken and lettuce (she carefully picks out all the red vegetables; always has) she begins to talk.

She airs her concern for a school chum who has come from another culture and how can she make this fellow pupil 'feel at home'?
She does not understand why she does not 'get' jokes or lighthearted remarks which someone else had said to her a while ago. She has taken their remarks literally.
She feels that she does not always fit in with others. She feels left outside when others are in.

I feel like I understand a little more. Just a little.

I am in awe of her capacity of love and care for others. She trusts unconditionally.

We have a quiet moment just before she goes to bed and we talk about our day out in Aberfeldy.

"What a lovely day we had Mum. I feel happy".

I would shift mountains if it helped her keep this feeling of happiness but I know it is such a transient emotion and each day, each hour can bring a roller coaster of emotions.
She is changing and growing up and I try to remember how I felt at that age when you stand with one foot in childhood but the bulk of weight is in young womanhood.

The world and it's people are mysteries. We all dance an elaborate dance around one another and leave invisible, intricate Celtic patterns in our wake. We never truly understand our fellow Man but we try our best to make the dance one which we can tackle the steps in time to the music.
Some take longer than others and dance their own dance. Sing their own tune with it's own elegance and beauty.

The world can seem like a very monochromatic place sometimes and we forget or don't know how to add the vibrant colours, yet they are there.
Those who see the world in black or white can almost become overwhelmed when colour is added and understood. That feeling when you really 'see' something for the first time.

My daughter feels lighter in her heart today. My heart feels fuller.

We will never catch the rainbow but feel gladdened when one illuminates a stormy sky.

Rainy night in Perthshire

It has snowed and blown a gale.

There is still a howling gale outside tonight. The storm has taken down tree limbs and rearranged all the little ones plastic toys into an almost tidy pile in the corner of the yard.
It is a sneaky fast wind, one which rearranges your hair into fifteen different styles (none fashionable) then steals your hat and flings it into a forlorn corner of the farmyard.
The layers of clothing were all back on today yet, oddly, there were tiny wafts of warm air on the wind. I suppose anything which gives respite from the constant minus zero temperatures will feel tropical but there it was, a palpable change in the temperature. Just fleetingly.

We tried to rush the feeding but the wind slowed everything down to the sedate rhythm of Stornoway on a Sunday.
It was easier lugging feedbags if you were pointing the right direction like the little figures on a weather vane. Not so easy against the wind but marvellous for the upper bingo wing area of the arms.

Once everything was done, we came in and tried to thaw out for a while. The little one was given a warm bath as he had been jumping in puddles and the best puddle had gone beyond wellie level.

We got the house warm for the evening and settled down to huddle by the fire and radiator while the gale played a mournful pibroch outside.

I am knitting a cardigan for our youngest son. I am making it two sizes too large as I am a very slooow knitter and get a bit fed up if the knitting requires more than 20 stitches on large needles.
The pattern claims to be fairly straightforward - no fancy bits and only one button hole but it takes around five minutes to do one row and I have to watch every stitch.
I Committed my Life to finishing the front half (December nights)and now there is the long haul of doing the back.
At this rate, he will be 21 by the time it is done and it won't fit.

How can I enthuse?

Well, the wool is lovely, bits of cotton and silk through it plus the colours are bonny. It is just the process of knitting....knit, purl, knit, don't look away, purl..zzz

I look at other craft blogs and feel so inadequate. Other people seem to whip articles up in no time at all and are enthusiastic.
I knit because I sometimes feel comatose with boredom on a winter night once the little one is in bed and the Farmer has fallen asleep on the sofa.
The work outside tends to knock the last remnants of energy from us once we come inside to the heat yet I feel a sense of needing to do something that does not demand too much physically.

The colours of the wool remind me of the early days of autumn when there are flowers in the garden and heat from the sun on your back and the dark russets and browns are the brackens which curl up and hide from the winter.

Today was good though. I felt the warmth in the wind.

Cracking the secret.

The weather is actually starting to become foolish.

We have had sleet, rain, sunshine and a wild west wind all in the space of a few hours.

The bonfire had to be abandoned - unlit and miserable. The wind, at first a gentle breeze, soon whipped up into a frenzy and God, was it cold.
The thaw has left the farm under thick mud and it is difficult to walk, nay, wade your way hither and thither with the usual posse of mooching ducks/ chickens/ cats at your feet.

Last night I sat in shock and could not get warm at all despite the Farmer piling hot water bottles and thick eiderdowns over my semi- hypothermic body.

I cracked it today.
The secret is six jumpers, thick tights and two pairs of trousers. Three pairs of socks (makes it difficult to put on wellies though), two hats and a woolly scarf to keep them on.
And the dung brown duffle.
Yes, you can barely walk properly for padding but, hey.

Sailed through the elements, me. The only exposed part was my eyes but I managed the feed/ repair jobs without falling over.
The Farmer was working inside the big shed, inside a heated tractor so was oblivious to the cold. He does not seem to feel it as badly as I do. Actually, he does not seem to feel the cold at all.

We finished up and went into town for more Champion Tup Mix plus a few vital supplies for ourselves. I have been like a zombie since we ran out of coffee a few days ago and I have not woken up properly since Saturday. Caffeine was Vital.

Now, is it just me or does anyone else get the Dude having a Crisis on the tills? Today, I appeared to have Withnail of Withnail & I fame.
"I appear to have offended someone in a past life" quoth Crisis Dude. He was having a mini bitch about working in a supermarket.
He was having his moan just as the effect of wearing six jumpers and two trousers hit me like a firestorm in the Sahara.
"I actually think I am going to die" I croaked from under the beenie hat. (Pulled down low as it was a bad hair day). I knew my face was lobster red and sweat was starting to pour down said lobsterness.

"I am destined for greater things" said Crisis Dude, ignoring the fact that I was dissolving before him. I could not get the plastic bags open and started to faff. A queue was forming and people were Looking.

Oh, it was SO tempting to rip off all six layers, wildly pull my hat off then run naked and screaming out of the store and miles away from Crisis Dude but we needed the coffee so the clothes stayed on.

"Why me, why do I always get Crisis Dude/Dudette, why do you never get the person who hates the world and vents their spleen then lobs the shopping in a rough manner through the peep thing"? I asked the Farmer.
He and the little one were all happy waiting in the car while I ran in for the shopping. They were eating oranges.
"And I overheated in there. A near death experience, actually".

I saw a whisper of a secret smile flicker over his mouth.

"I don't know lass, maybe you just have the knack".

Half way home and once I had removed three of the jumpers and my brain had cooled down to less thermo-nuclear temperatures, it dawned on me.

"You very rarely do the shopping! Well, not the angst inducing shop where people with attitude lurk at the tills. You shop for fun things like sump oil and wheel bearings".

I have cracked it!

The Farmer says he will do the next few supermarket shops ('because they are a cinch'). The little one and I shall eat oranges in the car and roll the window down if it gets too hot.
We will laugh and take our hats off or maybe our socks if we get bored waiting. We will not be freaked by Crisis Dudes who intend in plotting a small revolution or uprising between teabreaks.
There will be no breaking of sweat....There now, it's out and said.

Oh, please tell me that it is an overdose of woolly jumpers and not being a 'Lady of a Certain Age'.... ;)

The harsh light of reality.

The harsh light of reality has shone over the farm.

It is standing there, pointing a finger at all the hidden faults which were covered by the thick blanket of snow and ice.
The thaw has pulled the blanket back and exposed a multitude of sins; broken guttering here, burst drains there, missing slates, little heaps of rusting machinery...

The Spring work has come suddenly and we have hit the ground running.

A few days ago, I walked around the farm with a notebook and tried to list "What needs doing", then realised it was a bit futile and you could just whirl round blindfold and open your eyes to something which needed attention.

It is like a farmyard with hundreds of demanding children. "Me, me look at Me, come and spend time with me".

The elements have nibbled at paint and metal and left oxide bruises all over the place. The farm looks battered and hungover from a very wild night out.

The fields have been under attack too - moles have been busy under all the snow and there appears to be more brown mole heaps than grass.

Where on earth to start?

It is also bitterly cold with a lazy, icy wind blowing. The wind cuts through the many layers of clothes I have on and bites earlobes, fingers and nose. It renders the dung brown duffle coat as useless as if it was made of chiffon.

I plan to build a big fire today. The old rafters can be consumed by flame and return to the Great Shed in the Sky. They are so riddled with woodworm that they disintegrate when you pick them up and it is sad in a way. They once held the weight of a proper slate roof and sheltered many a beast from the hard elements and now they crumble to dust at the touch of a hand.

I can smell snow on the wind and the highest hills are dusted with a covering. It is still winter but it wears a false mask, a Spring like face with hidden arctic agenda.

I wish I could throw this winter on the bonfire and make it go away.