The soloist and the choir.

I am delighted to see the emergence of landaction who are asking if they may lend a democratic voice to the people of Bute and Applecross. These vast estates are rather confusingly owned/ run by either trusts or companies. Sorry about the confusion but hereby lies the crux of the problem.

Who actually owns these large estates? Such obfuscation as to who has a say in matters which affect so many tenants yet unlike other important decision making meetings, minutes and members of boards are never mentioned. Those affected, namely the tenants, are never included in any aspect of these meetings.
Who owns us? Is it a trust, a grandchild or someone else? It is rather disconcerting to be in the dark as to who our owner is. Owner!

Say, for example, a board member of an estate had outside interests which were in direct conflict with the decisions made at a closed estate meeting yet there was no way of knowing their input and the decisions, possibly through ignorance, broke the law.

I am stating this hypothetically as, of course, this would never happen! Perish the thought! That said, there is no way of knowing.

Why the secrecy? Why are tenants excluded from either having a say on the way their very lives and livelihoods are directed or how they may add a valued input?
An area can be bought and sold without people knowing which could affect the tenant's right to buy.

Could fear have anything to do with it, fear and control?

Certainly, on several estates in this area, there exists a mindset whereby you do not vex the laird. Heaven forbid! I have seen with my own eyes, the fear of speaking out. The fear of eviction, loss of livelihood, homelessness. For airing a valid grievance!
In private, conversations are bitter, grievances often fiery, injustice recognised and voiced, yet the public voice is hushed.

Why this oppression? Surely in the 21st century, speech is free and uncensored?

Why would a tenant farmer be silenced by Media House of all places?

If that tenant had simply asked for a roof, clean water and recognition of an illegally resumed area of land, why the heavy handedness?

Why use fear and bullying tactics?

I recognise fear and bullying and have learned through experience not to feel fear. There are far more positive and productive methods of  achieving an aim using non oppressive techniques.

An open voice is one method. A collective open and supportive voice is better. The soloist may sing sweetly yet the power of the choir reaches the soul.

There is nothing to hide, is there? We all ask for transparency and what is best for a community to thrive, schools to repopulate, businesses to grow, employment to be solid and prosperous. A community input brings the produce to the table.

Let's look at these hidden minutes of past meetings and see where it all went wrong? There are many in the community who could offer so much to the benefit yet as it stands, a nameless handful call the shots.

Let's try singing from the same hymnsheet.

testing

• Am testing      the new layout of blogger and all the things on the top line

i don't think I like the new layout lurid colours might come in handy. michty.

The tattie bogle

This morning saw the ground crisp with frost and the air carries a faint scent of snow.


It is a typical 'tattie' morning.


The tattie man has been round to spray off the potato shaws hoping that the energy will now go into the potato and make it grow, ready for harvesting in a few weeks time.


The potato is such an integral part of my upbringing; we ate them, gathered them, roasted them on a fire on bonfire night, used them as small pocket heaters on cold days and they were used as an object of fear to coax reluctant children to go off to their beds and sleep. More of this later.


In the early 1960s, I had just started primary school and we lived on a cotter house on a farm in Angus. Mum was at home with my younger sibling but got roped in to the tattie picking on the farm.
There were two ways of doing this, one was to physically pick up potatoes which were unearthed by the tractor and the other method was to sit on a large machine which fed the potatoes over a big belt then stones and rotten tatties were removed by hand. the latter was a bit 'fancy' and only a select few (or good workers) were promoted to the machine.


I remember my mum, hair tied back with a scarf, oldest clothes carrying a pail to take a boiling home, my sibling in a pushchair with the other young bairns.
We lived off stovies and thick potato soups then and you could smell what was for tea as you walked down the farm track.


Jumping forward to the 70's, the Tattie Holidays were a long break in October where almost all the children had to go tattie picking to earn money for winter boots and coats.
You started early, the bogie would come at 6.30 am so you had to be ready with your 'piecey', usually a sandwich and a wee tartan flask of kia-ora or the like. We all waited for the farmer, pretending to smoke as the chill morning froze breath. It was frowned upon to be too grandly dressed and we all wore hideous nylon anoraks with wafer thin lining and diamond stitching.
Our bloody cat had attacked mine with her back feet so I had lumps of white nylon fluff hanging out of the pocket.


The farmer would chuck us all into a bogie with an occasional square bale of straw for comfort then we would be ferried to the field.


http://www.tractor-photos.com/picture/number158.asp


Your dreel would be marked out with sticks and you picked within your dreel as fast as you could, throwing the potatoes into an oval plastic basket. Fully grown men would collect the baskets and tip the contents into a trailer.


If the farmer speeded things up, there were howls of 'being hashed' and the odd ripe tattie would be thrown with deadly accuracy at the cab.


Piecey time was great and we would sit with our friends whilst munching our sandwiches and throwing a silent thanks that the thermos flask had survived the journey.


The second day at the tatties was murder as you had seized up by then and come the morning, every muscle ached but the pain went after a while once you started picking again.


The money was quite good, the crack even better and once the picking was finished, people seemed to evaporate into their homes for the winter only to reappear in Spring.


The tatties here are all mechanised now. Massive machines do the work of the squads of old, the plastic tattie baskets are now used by myself for the washing or to hurl the wee one round the garden in a makeshift sledge.


This year, the tatties are much smaller, the yields are down and the ground is wet. Blight has been a problem for some and the tatties themselves need watching while they cook or they turn to soup.


The Farmer and I had been working at something but needed to go into town for a part. We dress for practicality and warmth and if you are in a rush to go into town, we are often halfway there when the howl goes up..."We look like we are dressed for the tatties!"


"Well, you look like the tattie bogle but I'm fine" quoth the Farmer.


"Oh, I wondered when the tattie bogle would make an appearance" I replied, miffed.


The tattie bogle was one of those mythical creatures created by generations of Scots who thought it was wise to 'fleg' or scare children into going off to their beds or staying out of sheds. If children had been told the truth eg "Don't go into the shed as that is where the paraffin and creosote are kept and you might blow the place up" but no.

"There's a tattie bogle in the shed/ under your bed" was designed to both keep the child out of forbidden sheds and make sure their feet were not on the ground as the tattie bogle would get them.


No wonder we are a nation that would fight it's own shadow! All these tattie bogles lurking in sheds/ under beds and other dark places!


Bogles aside, I'm making a big pan of stovies for tea. Siverside and thick slices of onion for the meat eaters, vegetable ones for me. Cooked slowly all day in a low oven so the smell hits you as you come in the door and your teeth start to slaver then you get big shiney eyes.


Just like the tattie bogle.

The nights are fair drawing in...

The year is passing so quickly and it would appear that Spring, Summer, Autumn and Winter all merged into one amorphous season.

It has been an utterly disappointing year, yields down, little produce in the garden, fields to wet to go and gather the harvest...I will leave it at that as it makes for such a demoralising read. So many farms have been affected and there is nothing that anyone can do about it. You just have to take it on the chin, tighten belts and hope for the change in the weather which never seems to come.

The wild rasps were picked before the birds took them all, the apples are in the process of being bottled or frozen, the potatoes are tiny this year, no plums at all and one solitary tomato which remains resolutely green despite my futile attempts to ripen it up with a banana nearby.

The little one and I have settled into a good routine for home education and I feel so pleased that he is learning how to read and write, bake and count, paint and garden, sing and play with happiness and confidence. We visited the school that we hoped he would attend but it really is too far to travel to, there and back, twice a day especially in winter.
He attends an 'after school' club and meets his friends.

I am not quite so hands on at the farm now and miss some of the work but it does seem the time of year for stocking up for the long months of winter, trying (and failing) to draughtproof this draughty barn of a house and mentally preparing for whatever Winter throws at us.
There is still plenty of work to be done but the bulk of our son's education has been my responsibility. That said, it is a joy to get out and throw myself into something where you can switch your mind off yet achieve a repair or maintenance and feel happily tired at the finish of the day.

One setback was when the farm water was turned off; no warning or explanation, five days with no water...coincidentally, it came back on today after I asked the nearby school what was going on.
Luckily we coped with ensuring the animals had water but these 'well educated' folk never seem to think about that.
It would have been mannerly to have written or phoned and even more mannerly not to be so rude and obtuse to people when they enquire.
Speaking of rude and obtuse, I spare a thought too for the poor landowner's agent who is worked so hard, he not only forgot to tell us the water was going off for five days but every time we phone, he is in a meeting. For seven years, always in a meeting. It must be great being Mr. Popular. Imagine!

Our hopes of clean water have been dashed. We hoped to have a water filter system in before the winter but have had an awful job getting plumbers to actually turn up to do the quote. We need two quotes for the council grant but they just will not come. One lady (a plumber's wife) who I spoke to told me that it was a waste of time, no plumber would turn up as it was petrol, time etc which could be used working rather than gathering quotes.
I'm terribly scunnered by this attitude but it seems to be the way in this part of Perthshire.

The plumbers have no idea what they are missing here as I would have offered them endless supplies of e coli tea or cryptosporidium squash. The offer is there, Perthshire plumbers...You filter the water and I will keep you fed and watered.

Our son is asleep now, lulled into an earlier bedtime routine by the turn of the Earth, itself. He sees it is darker earlier and falls asleep sooner. It is good to use the extra hours (ironically!) to catch up on my blog or cocoon under a woolly blanket and read.

These are the early days of the long winter months.

I think I will study "How to become a Brain Surgeon in six months" this winter.

Then I can offer homers to plumbers and land agents, of an evening.

Taking stock

Following on from the outdoor classrooms and learning from the seasons, I wanted to reflect on where I stand today.

Like many others, I wonder where time has gone and how best have I used the time.

Our daughter has recently turned 16 and has turned into a beautiful, confident and happy woman. Perhaps it was reflection on how fast children grow up but I thought of our lives when she was young and how they are now.

I ran a small croft plus a fairly decent gardening service when Rosie was tiny. We kept a lot of various poultry, hens, turkeys, geese plus a small herd of milking goats. The field which came with the house was divided between the poultry and crops. Rosie was always with me and helped collect eggs, helped to drive the goats to fresh pasture and learned never to go near the turkeys without putting up an umbrella. (It makes you look bigger than them and they won't chase you)

When we both moved up the glen, Rosie was at school and I continued gardening for people plus had enrolled to study medicine in Edinburgh. I had to get up extra early to feed a reduced stock, get Rosie's school uniform and breakfast ready for the childminder then travel the long road to Edinburgh each day.
While I loved University and would have plodded on with this arrangement, my father became unwell so studies had to be put to one side while I cared for him.

It was during this time that I met The Farmer; I had been able to offer part time shepherding to neighbours and we met when we were both helping a neighbour round up some cattle.
I asked him if he could use an extra pair of hands on his farm and he was happy to accept my help.

When I look at where I stood then, my tractor work was a bit rusty. We were taught how to operate and maintain tractors and machinery when I trained in horticulture, twenty five years ago. We were taught how to weld (and I wonder how many trainee doctors were accepted for university with a certificate in advanced tractor driving plus level 6 welding in addition to their Higher certificates!)

Under The Farmer's patient instruction, I quickly learned how to operate the various machines around the farm and found a confidence once it was realised that I no longer needed his help, that I could manage it on my own.

My eldest son was the main carer for my Dad but his escape from the difficult job of caring for a loved one with dementia, was to help out on the farm. He learned quickly and learned to love the peace which comes from long solitary work.

Dad was a meat inspector/ livestock officer and had taught me a lot about animals. I began going round farms with Dad during the 1960's and he would point out what to look for in good stock whether it was cattle, sheep or pigs. I became familiar with auctions, the complexities of a Caithness auctioneer in full flow, plus the abattoir. Dad was also an accomplished butcher and taught me about the carcass of an animal and how to cut it correctly for freezing or cooking.

Once The Farmer and I married then settled into raising our family and running the farm, we found a rhythm and got on with the work. All the skills that I had learned in my life were utilised to the max, even the hated book keeping.
Dad's lifelong teaching on stock became invaluable and he loved nothing better than to keep a watchful eye from his window or walk up to the farm to 'check the beasts'. "Fine beasts, those" he would say and that was praise indeed.

I walked into that farm a novice and now, ten years later, can honestly say that I am familiar and comfortable with the running of a farm. At first, it seemed like a baffling array of work but now I have learned that it runs with the seasons. You get into a routine (although every day is different) and very quickly one year morphs into another. "The same but different" springs to mind.

The Farmer has taught me how to shoulder the blows, how to accept failures, how to look for realistic alternatives as well as hands on farming. He has illustrated the complexities of our profession yet has prepared me well to cope with them.

I asked him this morning if my son and I were farmers. He thought about it for a while and then said "Yes". In his opinion we were. He felt everyone was still learning, including himself but this was a lifelong learning which everyone experiences.
He felt we had coped when he had been unwell and had kept the momentum going. We had stepped into his wellies and not missed a step.

I feel a huge sense of achievement today. Some days, it is important to stand and take stock, see what you have achieved.

Agriculture/ stock husbandry ought to be taught as part of the National Curriculum with outdoor classrooms available on farms.

Looking the future, when our Land is freed up from feudal shackles, the demand for land workers will soar. It would be sensible to teach this subject from a young age and even create an O'level/ Higher in the subject. Imagine the input from fresh new minds if the subject was really studied in depth on a national level. Imagine the progress and improvement for human and land.

So here I am, using my past as experience, standing in the now, looking to the future. Through a farmer's eyes.

School's out.

I have been very interested in the issues raised during the 'Scottish Six' debates by Lesley Riddoch and Andy Wightman last week at the Edinburgh Fringe.

Sadly, due to tatty rogueing, I could not attend however I feel passionate about one particular aspect of the discussions, namely huts, community allotments and the benefits for children.

We are extremely fortunate to have a nature kindergarten in Perthshire. The children are taught outdoors in rain, hail or shine. They wear Arctic snowsuits in winter or waterproofs and wellies for rainy days.
The nursery is found in a forty acre wood, rented from the local landowner. There are huts for the children to play or cook in, my favourite being the cooking hut, an open sided, circular, wooden structure with a fire pit in the centre, benches around the sides.

The children are taught how to make and respect fire. They are given proper (child sized) saws in order to cut wood, they are taught safety, environmental awareness, seasonal awareness, animal husbandry, maths in nature, cookery plus lots of play and tree climbing.They grow and maintain their own food - potatoes, salad foods, apples plus which plants help other plants and which ones are dangerous.

The children are happy, healthy children who have a wonderful confidence and a strong sense of community. They look after each other.

Once they have 'graduated' nursery aged five, they move on to local primary schools and the feedback tends to be that they are excellent at fine motor skills eg writing, the concentration is excellent and they show a maturity understanding environmental issues.

Our son should be in Primary 1 but as I mentioned in a previous blog, transport and boundaries were a bit of a problem for us so we are continuing his education outdoors and he is responding well.
Social contact with other children/ his friends is a vital part of his life, especially one who lives quite remotely so it is our responsibility to maintain a good social diary for him.

Parents know their children best. They recognise the individual personalities, requirements, strengths, ability. Mainstream education, in my opinion, tends toward a herd provision especially a herd kept indoors. Forgive the crude analogy; Asda may sell hundreds of pairs of size five shoes but are they any good for your feet?
I wish local authorities would be open to a wider vision on education; teach children outside, let them learn and grow their own food, be aware of the seasons and local food, open areas of rivers to be fished, teach them how to grow trees, make and respect fire, get fresh air and exercise and discover a wealth of interests away from electronic gadgetry and sedentary lifestyles.
The four 'R's' are not forgotten, far from it, they can be discovered in a different form.

There are millions of acres of land and forest in Scotland, most of it privately owned and heavily subsidised.

The answer seems obvious. Free up the land, teach the children how to work and manage it and my guess would be that children would respond extremely well.
Encourage parents to connect with their children by providing huts for shelter and social interaction just like they have in Scandinavian countries. Nothing fancy, just a decent wind and watertight, warm shelter. A bothy or the like.

Sorry, I still cannot do a decent link but here is a superb article on huts http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/2012/aug/17/cabin-fever-tiny-homes

We have the wealth of potential right on our doorsteps. The resources available for education and health. Retired land workers who have years of knowledge to pass on could teach agriculture, forestry, horticulture, fishing.

Heaven knows we need to free the land from the minority who 'own' it and create an equality for all the people of Scotland (and beyond).

Look beyond the inner classroom, past the restrictions of land ownership, past the X Box and computer, obesity and narrow thinking. Unite rural and urban.

We owe at least this to our children and their children.

A,B,C,Democracy

The Scottish schools have reopened for the autumn/winter term and many five year olds will be settling in to an entire new routine.

Our son should have been one of them but given our geography, there is an issue with transport and we were never entirely sure which school he should have attended in the first place, boundaries and the like.

So, he is being educated at home.

He is very keen to learn and although this is only day two, he has been learning and writing the letters of the alphabet. Counting was cunningly disguised as a cookery lesson and he had to weigh out ingredients, crack eggs, cut out the scone mix then lurked until they were ready for eating.

We made jam yesterday.

He is a delight to teach.

The television is switched off, no radio reception here so the house was in relative silence. When we stopped for lunch, I wanted to check the news and was horrified to read that the Westminster Government had warned the Ecuador Embassy that it would walk in and arrest Assange.

Putting aside any personal opinion on Assange - the violation of our right to democracy and right to seek asylum in the safety of an Embassy, plus the right to peaceful demonstration appear to have been trampled over.
If this is sabre rattling by the Westminster government then they are even more foolish than they realise. Two billion pounds spent on the biggest PR coup in recent British history, only to be undone on the instruction of William Hague.

The world is watching.

A million miles away, on our farm in the middle of nowhere, today a child learned how to write 'a', 's' and 'kicking kay'. He learned how to make scones. He learned what democracy meant and what happens when it is threatened.

He understood today's lessons and even better, had questions. "Why are they doing that?" was one of them.

It is one of the questions that many people are asking today and waiting for an answer. The sad truth is that a child, living in the back of beyond has already experienced a perception of so called democracy (or rather, the lack of) in his own country.

Remind me. Who owns us?

I cannot even answer that.