Looking back.

I wonder how many people have been reflecting on the year which is almost over?

It is strange to think that the New Year has already happened in Australia and New Zealand but we are still in the dying throes of 2010.

It has been a mixed year on the farm; this year we grew oats as a crop instead of barley. The maltsters have rejected our barley (and most other Scottish barley) for two years prior to this one. They said it was because the grain was too damp but they were inporting cheaper barley from Denmark. Millions of tons of Scottish barley ended up as feed for cattle and none went to the Scottish whisky market. Shame on the maltsters for almost ruining many a small farm.

This year, the oats were rejected too. Too wet.
The cattle and sheep are eating them (and I will admit to keeping a sack for ourselves as they are damn good oats!).

The ongoing fight with the landowner continues. One day we will have a farmhouse which is habitable and no longer dangerous. We will have clean running water and proper utilities.
We will not be bullied into leaving, regardless of the pressure to do so.

We have improved ditches, mended drains, planted trees and protected vulnerable areas. The reward has been a visible increase in wildlife and over the farm, red kites whirl indolently, a snowy owl hunts, there are various raptors, a woodpecker plus we once saw a pine martin. (Only once).
There are otters by the burn, salmon in the bigger river and lots of toads in the marshy places.

We have been lucky with the harvest and the sheds are stuffed with sweet hay plus good dry straw for bedding.

The cattle continue to thrive and the latest addition - a sturdy light brown calf, munch contentedly in the big shed.

The ewes are in early pregnancy and we hope the flock will increase next Spring. I sat in with them today when they were all eating and just enjoyed their smell and warmth and couthiness.

The little orchard has established well and hopefully the young apple trees will survive this harsh winter.

We are all a bit battered by the winter, the politics of farming and the feudal attitude of some and we know there is a bit to go still but we will continue our work and turn with the wheels of the year. Old cogs, us.

The Farmer and I will have a glass of Sloe gin by the fire, this evening. We will kiss at the 'bells' and I will try not to cry when I think about those we have loved and lost.
We will travel into the New Year together, the Farmer and I and our bairns. New steps down an old, familiar road.

I hope 2011 brings happiness, peace, health and prosperity to you all. I wish you all joy and love.

The dreaded lurgy

The water supply has finally come back. Properly.

There has been quite a dramatic thaw and the hill is showing patches of old heather and bracken. It is the perfect environment for the Arctic hares and there are a lot of them in this area. The little stoat has changed into his winter coat and prances about in the snow like a tiny, mad Emperor.

The Farmer and I have caught the lurgy from the children. We both feel as if we are wading through treacle whilst wearing an iron lung.
Bags of feed become Sisyphean burdens, filling the water troughs akin to Prometheus and his liver problem and lest we forget, the Stables of the Minotaur and the mucking out of The Dung.

The fire has been lit, all the radiators cranked up to full, hot water bottles filled and once the animals have been fed and watered, we will not be moving too far today.
We will wolf down painkillers and have ten minute updates to one another on who feels the worst. We will punctuate our conversations with coughing and moans.......Oh joy.

 We can sit still and watch the little birds peck on the feeders at the window and if we are lucky, the red squirrel.
That is the sort of tonic we need today.

The book

I felt a bit tired of the ongoing winter and festivities today.

The winter, although technically only a few days old seems ageless and drags its slow, decrepit, icy body in a stiff walk. You become impatient and wish it would hurry up, loosen up and be on its way.

The house feels too warm, outside too cold and flickers of irritation settle like dust on the mantlepiece.

You want to rest but too much needs done. The children bicker and need placating. The Farmer is preoccupied and a bit cross. He worries that the ground is now so frozen, it will be months before it thaws enough to accept a crop.

The Farmer takes the children and PieDog for a walk and I choose to stay at home.

I'm not sure where to make a start as the entire house needs blitzed but I begin in the living room and eventually it begins to look acceptable. I allow the icy wind into the warm living room, just to freshen things up and for a moment they seem unsure whether they should mingle or remain in separate factions like my blood family at the weddings or funerals of strangers.
The icy wind no longer hesitates but rushes in and seeks out every corner. It has a sweet smell of honey and rapidly dominates the room.
I quickly close the window and the fire blinks in surprise as if to ask "What just happened?"
The chill wind has left a freshness but there is no hint of warmth nor the promise of Spring. "Not quite yet", it mocks.

I find a book under the pile of clutter on the table. Clutter shaped into a sculpture by large and small hands. It seems a pity to destroy its amorphous shape somehow as it illustrates the gathering of important things to each member of the family. Each object has helped us on the journey through the dark months.

The book is completely empty inside. The pages smell fresh as if they too were hastily embraced by the icy wind.
I stare for a while and then begin to see what is written.

I see notes and plans on our future year. Our optimism that the crops will be accepted by the ground.
I see childish drawings of fabulous creatures and impossible buildings and boxes with wheels which become the very latest Massey Fergusson.
There are shopping lists and memos of dates which will seem Very Important. There are phone numbers and addresses.
There are dreams written down hastily in the middle of the night so I can remember them in the morning.
Private thoughts and quotes which wrench a chord in your heart; they are all there.

The pages are as virginal as the fresh snow which has fallen outside and has yet to be walked on. You know the ground is there somewhere and trust that it will bear your weight, your burdens and carry you safely to your destination.

The book has the potential to articulate your day and plans for the future. It has the potential to share some of your burden. Your secret, whispered thoughts.

I hope the next year passes as smooth as the new pages of the book or will it be like the old book, bashed, fat with mementos, lists, battle scarred and weary...

I hope for the former.

The morning after the day before.

I hope you all had a lovely Christmas.

My moment of peace yesterday was indeed brief and it ended up being one of the busiest days in a long time.

The Farmer had a bit of a day.
He and our youngest son had gone to settle the cattle on Christmas Eve; it was reasonably early and the little one was a bit over excited so the Farmer thought it would be a good idea to let him 'burn off some energy' then he would sleep well.
Some hay had fallen on the ground and the cattle could not reach it so the Farmer went to scoop it up but did not notice that our son had also gone to scoop it up using a large shovel that he had found.
The little one missed the hay but accidentally smacked his father on the side of the head with the shovel.

We managed to get our son bathed and settled for the night then I set to work on the Farmer's stoved in face.
"Do you think it was a message to get him Moon sand, or else the nose gets banjoed?" I asked as I stitched his wound.
I was using an old fashioned butterfly 'stitch' where there is no needle but you catch the wound using thin strips of plaster fashioned into a butterfly shape. He was lucky not to have been hit right in the eye.

On Christmas morning, the big container of water ran out.
The tractor had a puncture.
 Santa brought Moon Sand.

The Farmer could not understand why he was given 'a wee musical iPoddy thing' as a present and felt a bit disappointed.
"I won't listen to it, you know".
"No you won't. You will have a job getting a tune out of it to it because it is a camera".

The day seemed to pass so quickly between feeding the animals, mending tractor tyres, refilling the water container, feeding the family and Coping with Moon sand.
The parsnips caught fire.
PieDog stole a big lump of marzipan.
Colin the chameleon's heat lamp broke.

I enjoyed Christmas Day but in the evening, I felt as if I was wading around wearing two huge watermelons on my feet instead of slippers.

The Farmer and I caught up with each other about 11pm. We enjoyed roughly five minutes peace then the little one woke up and was brought downstairs which was a big mistake as he immediately got torn into the Moon sand and took on a second wind.....

Now it is Boxing Day.
I love Boxing Day as there is no cooking, just reheating. The manic excitement has gone for another year, crackers have been cracked, shattered nerves have been rested, Moon sand hoovered, cattle fed, wounds are healing and there is a big box of chocolates in the fridge.
There is even a full container of water! It does not get any better than this.

Happy Christmas

It is early and everyone is still asleep.

In a little while, our daughter will waken up and remember that it is Christmas Day then come hurtling down the stairs.

The little one fell asleep quite early last night and when I went to pull the covers which he had kicked off (and check that he really was sound asleep),  I noticed he was clutching a tiny card which his sister had made. It said "Please wake me up tomorrow, love Rosie xxx".

I am enjoying the peace and quiet.

In a short while there will be squeals, noise, lights, excitement and wrapping paper nests on the floor and I can hardly wait.

So from this temporary bubble of calm, I want to thank all of you who have been so kind and supportive to our family during the last few weeks.
Thank you for your messages and shared experiences and thank you for your love.

The amazing Mumsnetters who have held out a virtual hand and helped our family get through a long and tough winter.
The messages from countries on the other side of the world. I was astonished that the little blog travelled so far. All those messages brought warmth and hope when things got cold here.

Our family wish you peace, happiness and lots of love this Christmas. x

Twas the Night before Christmas

'Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house,
not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse".

Many of us will have read Clement Clarke Moore's poem to excited children, on Christmas Eve.
They know they must go to bed to fall properly asleep but they dare not miss a single thing, especially a glimpse of Father Christmas himself!
Stockings are hung on the fireguard, mince pie, milk and a carrot for Rudolph, everything is ready but they have to be asleep before the magic happens.


Twas the night before Christmas that my son was born.

Twas the day before that when the first pangs of labour began.

It was not the easiest of births as he lay in a frank breech position, his tiny feet touched his mouth, his head using my stomach as a pillow. He was reluctant to leave this comfortable place.

I was so young and very scared. Terrified.
The midwives came and went and so did my awareness as the gas and air dipped me into a twilight sleep.
The Sugar Plum Fairy came to see how the labour was progressing.
A host of angels with golden wings hovered.
My Mum arrived.

"Mum, I can see angels and the Sugar Plum Fairy, am I dying?".....
Mum explained that all the midwives and doctors had dressed up as it was almost Christmas Day and No, I was not dying.

They all began to sing "Silent Night" and to this day I cannot help but cry when I remember them singing.......it was the most beautiful entrance that a Christmas child could have.

He was born by section just before midnight.

On Christmas Day, once I had sort of come to after the anasthetic, the nurse brough me my tiny bundle.
I could not believe that the child who rested heavily in my womb for all those months, who kicked and moved and who shared his very soul with mine, was now in my arms.
He had wisps of blond hair and fat golden eyelashes. He grasped my finger with his tiny hand.

He is 28 today.

The magic of the night he was born has never diminished. The powerful love which hit like a punch, has never disappeared, only grown.
I write this for Mothers everywhere, who know and understand and share this feeling. Those of us who have laboured and have loved.

The only thing I will ask you, son, is if you would read 'The Night Before Christmas' for your younger brother and sister tonight?

You see, I have such a job seeing past the first two lines. My eyes blur and my voice is stolen from my mouth but I really want them to share the magic too.

I'm sure you understand.....

Several shades lighter than perfect.

Perfect seems to be a very popular word this week.

Every celebrity chef is advising 'how to cook the perfect Christmas dinner', estate agents demonstrate how to have the perfect home and how to make the perfect jelly for the perfect child, using a seaside bucket as a mold.

Christmas trees in glossy magazines are perfect. They are colour coordinated and are set off by colour coordinated gift wrapped presents.
Fashion articles tell you how to be stylish yet warm and how to look perfect in the little black dress.

Perfection appears to have flown past the farm....it swooped past with its immaculately trimmed wings and thought "Naw. I'll away and see the neebors".

Perfection sends it's cousin - Slightly Chaotic, to the farm instead.

The Farmer's wife is in a bit of a burach.
(Only the Gaels could invent a word which describes beyond mess and chaos.)

The Farmer is in the throws of bad flu and Off His Feet.
He has a wicked temperature and wild glazed eyes. He coughs and splutters through the night and sleeps a lot during the day.
That said, he dragged himself into the cowshed, yesterday, when his wife also had wild glazed eyes and wicked temperature; not born from flu, I hasten to add, but from the Fear of being chased by Badass Cow and incomprehension of operating the tractor with the stab forks.
The Eldest son helped but is in a dark place just now, he wears his grief like a black mantle. It is a year to the day since his loss.....
They will both have to drag themselves round today and every day as Christmas is a normal working day on a farm.


She tries to make the farmhouse look festive but the paper chains keep snapping and falling off the ceiling. Some of the fairy lights refuse to work and sit there in a huff. The tinsel is now tin, singular, after the PieDog chewed it. And the baubles are all in a tangle but pinned en masse to the ceiling so as 'No one takes their eye out on them".
One of the baubles is real glass, you know, and you can never be too careful....

The little tree sits on the only table high enough to prevent PieDog launching an attack on it's bedecked branches.
Golden Christmas crackers are hidden in the big cupboard for fear of Sabotage from the younger family members.

The house adopts an air of a hospital ward at Christmas; walls brightly decorated and glittery things hang but underneath the glitz lurks the worry of unwellness.

The little one has caught a secondary virus and sleeps beside his Dad on the sofa during the day. They are both too tired to see the glitz.

It is not perfect.

Today, after everything has been done, I will insist the Farmer goes back to bed, properly under the covers, dose him up with things to get his temperature down and plenty to drink.
The wee one can have a little bed in the living room. He fluctuates from very listless to very energetic and would jump all over his Dad, so best keep them apart for a bit.

My daughter (who is still shaking off a bad cough) likes to sit with her colouring pad and crayons, sealed off from the noises of the house with her iPod attached to her ears, hugging the fire and keeping warm.

It is not Kirsty and Phil perfect. The mince pies are not Heston perfect and nobody wants them anyway.

If I can get them all back to health it will be good enough. Perfection is unattainable and unrealistic. It picks at our psyche as the raven picks at carrion and we are with feelings of inadequacy and despondence.

I will be content with good enough.