Rootin’ Aboot
Just a few feet from our back door is the tropical equivalent of the magic porridge pot. A sweaty, leafy explosion has overwhelmed our Polycrub and it’s threatening to engulf the whole croft. The kitchen is doubling as a refuge for homeless seedlings that can’t find a spare scrap of soil among the unexpected profusion…
Tattie Tycoons
We’ve done the training, got the certificates and now we have a roll of pretty stickers… this Soft wee Croft is all grown up and ready for business. A cute little logo, predictably featuring one of our bonny Highlanders, has been drawn up and affixed to letterheads and packaging. Bound, inevitably, to be as instantly…
Swallie Pals
Right everyone, grab your granny, a woolly hat, balaclava and some fingerless gloves; Nicola has decreed that it’s time for a wee outdoor swallie. On a deck on a hill in a land far, far away there’s a beer waiting for anyone who can travel this far from civilisation without needing inside for a pee.…
Hogging the Lot
Well, my step-count for March has skelpt all previous lockdown records thanks to one monster sow and her gluttony. Splodge has a consumption rate that could only be rivaled by a rabble of journalists at a free bar. The chunkiest of our three little pigs is a storming specimen with a phenomenal talent for eating…
The Last Straw
Remember the days when a wee chap on the door was answered by: ‘Och it’s yourself, come away in…’ Now a knock on the door only heralds a delivery too big for the Postie to pop in our box. The oversize parcel usually makes a welcome clink as it’s placed two metres away by the…
Your name’s not down…
Although I’m still eating like a mamma bear planning a lengthy hibernation, it feels today like we might be emerging from our first winter here on the croft; the snowdrops are in full bloom and it’s been days since I’ve had to boot a hole in the iced water troughs. Spring may not have sprung…
A Wild Night at the Wooly Waldorf
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…
Thar she blows
So the pretty, white frost melted into welly-sucking mud and the sheep regained their sodden bedraggledness. The weather had remembered that here at the seaside it’s supposed to be damp and dreich. Only the cows were relieved to see the thaw; like weary celebrities they were sick of being constantly papped in their sugar-dusted, sun-dappled…
Polar Palaver
Our muddy and marshy fields have solidified into a sparkling white wonderland, alternately reflecting pink dawns and orange sunsets every day this week. It’s undeniably pretty, but venturing welly-clad onto this frosted loveliness is akin to tackling the north face of the Eiger in flip-flops. And it’s not just the humans that are skiting around…
Hogmanay Hoolie
Well, the hogmanay hoolie was Covid-kyboshed so we kicked shut the door on 2020 with a less traditional shindig. As the sun rose on the last day of this weirdest of years a muddy yellow digger trundled up our drive and made its way round the back. Its destination was the drying-green-cum-veg-garden that was now…
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The Softer Crofter 