Inspired by Ms Sturgeon’s plans to have all incomers coorie doon in a Travel Lodge for a fortnight, we’ve developed our own quarantine wing here on the croft.
Like a little woodland holiday cabin, the three-sided, straw-floored shelter is a favourite spot for sheep and cows, whether they’re looking for respite from the elements or just for a good scratch against the timber walls.
Nestled under the shade of the pigs’ own wee forest, it’s the social hub for all our resident species, but now this residents’ lounge has been commandeered for the sole use of one wee lamb. He’s been given the unfortunate moniker, ‘Sick Boy’, not for any dodgy dealings that would see him star in the next Trainspotting movie, just because he’s not quite right.
In our flock of 17 Sick Boy has always stood out for the simple reason that he never signed up to the cliché of his species and refuses to follow the crowd. He doesn’t scamper to be fed at the shake of a bag; in fact he shows no interest in the thrifty amounts of cake and extra hay we feed his peers through this rough west coast winter. He grazes alone, forlornly in a far-flung corner, but seemed to be thriving in his Greta Garbo-esque solitude.
We might have given too much credence to his celebrity-styled aloofness and completely missed the fact that he was simply too stupid to get the whole bag-shaking-equals-yummy-food-equals-survival conundrum, because it turns out he also hadn’t worked out that gale-force-eight-plus-snow means seek shelter either behind one of our pretty stone dykes or in the little luxury chalet constructed for that very purpose. So after a particularly wild night last week Sick Boy, as he was about to be known, was found lying on his side on an exposed ridge far from any of his wooly acquaintances. We scooped up the soggy little bundle and carried him round to the shelter, introduced him to his new surroundings like attentive hoteliers, brought him fresh bedding, room service drinks and food then slid the gates across, ensconcing him in his self-isolation. He’ll be there till he shows some better survival skills, but it can’t be hugely relaxing for him. His entire flock plus three massive, pouting Highland calves are all giving him death stares, appalled at being locked out of their little club room. There’s plenty of shelter to be had elsewhere on the croft, whether cosying up at the edge of Piggy Woods, snuggling together between dykes or leaning casually against Hotel Quarantine – there is respite from the battering we take 11 months a year here on our Northern Atlantic hillside.
The wind makes everyone skittish. Every teacher I know will attest to the fact that children become positively feral when the beaufort scale veers towards its upper reaches. It’s exactly the same here on the croft. The pigs seem to sing along with the gales’ howling, screeching like banshees even when newly fed; the highland lasses have started sprinting up hill and down dale as if trying to catch the very essence of the wind; the sheep swirl in formation across the top of the hill, emulating the wild geese who have moved in to the field below, scunnered with the waves crashing on to the machair where they normally happily hang out. The only animal not thrown into a frenzy by the squally weather is the slothful Great Dane who refuses to venture across the threshold even if bursting for a pee. She has taken to her bed like a spoiled diva, only occasionally squinting up at the window to see if the weather has taken a turn to her liking. Looking at the forecast, she could be indulging in her own self-inflicted quarantine for some time to come.
The Softer Crofter 