I’ve been considering my options for some time now in the realisation that I have too many media platforms running concurrently. It’s duplicating content and taking too much time for me to keep everything current.
As such I’ve decided to move to Substack and will no longer be updating this WordPress blog.
If you’d like to follow me I’d love to have you with me. It’s a free community and platform and easy to navigate, full of good writers.
Toby has landed! A 7kg (15lb) bundle of puppy fat, sharp little baby teeth, silky ears and huge energy.
We drove him back from the breeder in Gairloch a few days ago and he’s been settling in over the last few days, getting more confident with each day that passes.
The cats are curious and defensive in equal measure. They’ve been getting really close to him, and at one point Freya actually head-bumped him, but at the eleventh hour we usually get a hiss and an arched back.
Toby is terrified of Freya and hides behind our legs if she approaches, less so of Ferg who is much more laid back. It’s early days.
As close as they get
He’s a happy little chap, tail usually wagging despite the sad expression. He plays and eats and collapses and sleeps lots, as most puppies do. He’s totally food obsessed, like most labs
Sleepy Toby
He has a couple of exercise sessions each day out on the croft, which he loves. Every tussock of grass is explored and thoroughly sniffed. He bumbles along happily, never straying too far.
This afternoon we felt confident enough to take him to a local beach to meet our friends dogs. He’s fully inoculated and able to mix.
I’ve got breeding, you know. And wet feet
He’s stolen our hearts already. He’s a good wee boy.
After the bake-fest that last year turned out to be I was determined to ramp it back a bit. I didn’t take early retirement and bury myself in the highlands to be up baking at the crack of dawn every day for less than minimum wage, however much I love providing cake for our local community.
As such, dear reader, the beginning of this year has largely been cake-free. I will restart making cinnamon buns for the local community stores next month, and perhaps some traybake cakes for our local coffee shop, but this year will be the year of crofting, and training, and enjoying Toby, whom we collect from the breeder tomorrow.
However, my love language is food, and whenever something awful happens to someone I care about, I make them a cake.
We have good friends locally who have suffered a series of awful catastrophes recently. So this morning in solidarity I baked them a lemon and blueberry traybake cake, knowing that they love blueberries.
The blueberries of course raced to the bottom of the cake tin despite being tossed in flour as the old wisdom goes. I’m forgiving that though, because the flavour is delicious and because it’s very moisty, as an expressive little girl once said.
After more research it seems that most of the breeders of Finnish Lapphunds have a very long waiting list for their dogs. They’re still a relatively unknown breed in the UK, so there aren’t many of them about. We may get onto a waiting list and still be here 18 months later and not getting any younger!
So I started looking at more common dogs. Labradors, to be exact. There are many more of these about and there is a local breeder at Gairloch, a few hours drive away, with a litter ready to go. Health scores seemed good, they were Kennel Club registered and they’ve been raised in a family home. We decided to take a drive out and see them with their mum a few days ago.
I don’t know what the collective descriptor is for a lot of puppies, but a tumble of puppies seems appropriate. I’m not sure that there’s anything more adorable than puppies, except perhaps kittens. All sharp nibbling milk teeth and rolls of silky fur and puppy fat.
The mum had a litter of eleven pups, and although some of them had gone to their forever homes, there were still half a dozen or so all running about chewing each others ears and tails.
Mum was a sweetheart of a dog, a fine chocolate brown Labrador, friendly and affectionate. This was her first litter at the age of three. Dad was a Crufts champion, a handsome black Labrador.
We’ve always thought that choosing a dog is a two-way process, and that we’d see if any of the pups chose us when we were interacting with them. And sure enough, two of the pack did. An adorable little black girl pup called Madge, who had the sweetest face, and the last remaining chocolate boy, who they’d called Derek. Both wanted our attention and followed us about, clinging to our legs and licking our hands.
We agonised over our choice throughout the two hour drive home. Both were happy, healthy little animals, well socialised and beautiful little bundles of mischief. I was seriously tempted to take them both.
But in our situation, where most of our local friends with dogs have un-neutered males, we figured that the practicalities of a young female in amongst all of them wasn’t perhaps the best way forward. She’d be constantly pestered when coming into heat and would need to be neutered herself at the earliest opportunity. So we decided on Derek. Although the name would have to go.
I thought of lots of types of chocolate when thinking of potential names, him being a chocolate lab. And what chocolate is super chunky, like our little pup? A Toblerone..
Meet Toby the Toblerone.
Those eyebrows make these dogs look perpetually sad, but he’s a happy little pup. Full of energy and life. Tail constantly wagging.
Here he is with three of his sisters. Madge was the one in the pink collar.
He has his final set of inoculations on Tuesday at eleven weeks of age then he’s ready to leave the litter. We pick him up next Monday to come to his new forever home.
We’ve got a week to buy dog beds, feeding bowls, chew toys and poo bags, so I’m on the case. Welcome, Toby!
We lost Bertie, our beautiful but grumpy little King Charles spaniel three years ago. He made it with us up to the island and settled in with us to the caravan whilst we built the house, but he was thirteen years old and getting frail. When he died we buried him on a quiet part of the Croft.
I still miss him. His energy, his insatiable desire for food, his big brown eyes (usually turned on you in a pleading expression for snacks!) his perpetually wagging tail. Dogs are such characters, such companions and we loved Bertie so much. It was hard to lose him.
We’ve been kept busy since building the house, fencing the croft and a thousand other things, but we’re starting to think that it’s time again for dogs. What the cats will think of that is another matter, but we feel that it’s time.
We initially thought of a rescue dog, but I’ve had experience of rescue dogs with severe behavioural problems because of what humans have done to them, and heartbreaking as that is I’m not sure that we would cope well if that happened at our time of life.
I’ve been looking carefully at different breeds and their characteristics. Most of our local friends have dogs too, which has been interesting to observe and has refined our wish list.
We want a dog that’s not too big, not too small, doesn’t bark a lot, with a happy nature rather than being manic or crazy, intelligent and easy to train, and that needs a moderate amount of daily exercise rather than four solid hours of walking a day. One that likes the water, as being close to the sea I can’t imagine one that wouldn’t like to swim. One that’s hardy and can cope with the cold, wet weather that we have up here at 57°N.
There is no such thing as the perfect dog as everyone has different ideas of what constitutes perfect based on their lifestyle and preferences. Most folk here have border collies which are lovely dogs, but they’re extremely energetic working dogs requiring more exercise than we could comfortably commit to.
I was watching a YouTube video some months ago of a couple in Norway and in that there was a beautiful dog bounding around in the snow. It was a Finnish Lapphund, a dog that the Sami people use for herding reindeer.
I was quite smitten.
Research showed that this is a medium size dog, generally very healthy, not too barky, loves people and would make a terrible guard dog as a consequence, with average exercise needs, a thick double coat that sheds twice a year, loves the cold and wet, and loves to swim. It has a smiley face and is very intelligent.
I’ve queried some owners forums about how their dogs cope with ticks, which are prevalent here, and discovered that the nordics are rife with them too and that they cope well.
We have identified a couple of good breeders in Scotland and are hopeful to get onto a waiting list for a puppy soon. We’ve been advised that even if we’d like two dogs that it’s better for training purposes to have a years gap between the dogs to help them bond with the family and so that the older the two can help with training the younger.
I don’t do dry January. I never have. I drink a lot less than I used to since the menopause, which put paid to being able to live through the next day, but I still enjoy a glass of wine or two occasionally.
I blame living in France. A meal without a glass of wine was just unthinkable in French society and the habit has stayed with me.
One of the reasons that I’ve never stopped completely is the lack of a drinkable non alcoholic alternative.
Fizzy drinks are either too sweet or filled with artificial sweeteners which are even worse for your health. Fruit juices are now considered mainly to be fruit sugar, although back in the day a glass of apple or orange juice used to be considered healthy. Water is fine, but it gets a bit boring. Homemade cordials made from hedgerow fruit are delicious, but I can’t make enough of them to last more than a few months.
What was missing was something that felt a bit celebratory for a drink in the evening.
A mix of botanicals and rosehips, this is made in small batches on the Isle of Harris by AS Apothecary. I sometimes have it on the rocks, sometimes as a long drink with soda water or sparkling water. It tastes delicious and it’s not too sweet.
It’s seen me through the festive season and I’m still enjoying it so I’ve just bought a couple more bottles to keep me going for the next few months. Result.
Now that the snow has cleared and the rain has stopped (temporarily) thoughts have turned to the croft and the growing for this year.
January sunshine has given us a boost and Hugh is out digging up the last of the winter vegetables so that we can mulch the beds ready for spring planting in a few months time. I suspect that the remaining beetroots will be far too woody to be edible, but we’ll see.
I wasn’t going to buy any more seeds but I couldn’t resist trying a selection from Seeds of Scotland, a tiny enterprise of two people growing their own seed based on plant varieties acclimatised to the Scottish conditions.
I’ve already got lots of lettuce seed, but who could resist something called Hyper Red Rumple Waved? It’s just not possible.
Let’s hope for a better growing season this year than the washout that was 2024. I’m hoping for extra outdoor beds and proper indoor beds to be built in the polycrub so that I can retire the lick tubs after four years.
And I haven’t given up on the squash growing. It’s got to be possible. All speed ahead with Red Uchiki Kuri and may the powers make it so!
January is ramping up to be a month of spectacular sunrises. It’s almost as if the universe is doing it to give us a reason to get up on these cold, dark days. Once upon a time I’d have said it’s in compensation for giving us Brussels sprouts to eat at this low point in the season, but I’m a convert now so I’ll have to find another whipping boy.
The last two mornings have displayed spectacular skies, glowing deeply pinkly-orange-crimson as the sun slowly rises over the mountains of Knoydart. I can feel my heart swell with the sheer beauty of it.
We sit at the breakfast table in silent awe, sipping our coffee and watching natures light show perform in front of us through our big windows.
I’ve always hated Brussels sprouts – I simply haven’t been able to tolerate their bitter taste. As a child I’d refuse to eat them and my parents would insist that I swallowed just one before being allowed to leave the table. It became a battle of wills. I mean, how much additional nutrition would a single brussel sprout afford anyone?
In desperation I’d try all the usual strategies that children who don’t want to eat their food use – chopping them up, covering them in ketchup to mask the taste, hiding them under other vegetables on my plate – but my parents were resolute.
I remember being made to sit at the dining room table for hours, staring angrily at my plate. Swallowing the little bitter balls actually made me retch. My father was a stubborn man, and he raised a stubborn daughter, so the whole sorry process took hours. It was traumatic.
As an adult I made sure to never eat a brussel sprout again. Until this year.
As a crofter I’ve been growing vegetables enthusiastically for the last few years, and in the spring last year a friend swapped a tray of spare seedlings with me in exchange for some tomato plants. I wasn’t paying enough attention and it was only after she’d left that I noticed she’d slipped four brussel sprout seedlings in with the tray of kale plants.
My first Brussels sprouts
Not really thinking this through I just dug them into the brassica bed, not wanting to waste them. It seemed rude to give them back. I then forgot about them completely.
As is the way with plants you don’t really want and who receive no love and attention, they grow like wildfire. Soon these four seedlings had muscled past the kale with determination and were towering over the bed like strange green aliens. At this point I did consider digging them out, but again mercy for a living thing stayed my hand.
Around September we noticed that they’d started to change and watched in fascination as the stems started to develop green sproutlets along their length. The kale died back and got eaten, but the sprout plants, now a few feet tall, ungainly creatures, kept going. We harvested our first sprouts this week. I should have done it sooner and a few rotted on the stalk, but I was really nervous about it and kept putting it off. If I harvested them I’d have to face the trauma of eating them, wouldn’t I?
We harvested them, still covered in snow. I roasted the first batch in the oven last night with lemon zest and parmesan.
I had promised some friends a traditional steak pie for New Year’s Day, but for various reasons it didn’t quite happen. Instead we had a belated celebration of the New Year yesterday and with it a steak pie of some girth and magnificence..
Making a big pie is a bit of a marathon, especially if everything is built from scratch. but it’s so worth it.
Firstly the feather steak was sourced from a local, organic highland butcher – two one kilo pieces of shoulder steak, well marbled. This I trimmed and cut into proper sized chunks. None of the thin slivers and oddly shaped offcuts that you sometimes get with supermarket trays of stewing steak.
Feather steak
Next this was tossed with flour and seasoning and seared in a skillet, then popped into a baking tin in a slow oven with water, bay leaves, garlic, paprika and onions. It was covered and cooked on a low heat for two and a half hours. I would have used my slow cooker for this but I couldn’t fit it all in.
Blind baking the pie base
Meanwhile the pastry was being made. I chose a rough shortcrust for the base, sturdy enough to hold the filling together. This was rolled out, blind baked then glazed with egg wash and baked for a further five minutes to help create a waterproof coating for the pastry. We don’t want any soggy bottoms here..
The pie filling was thickened with cornflour and the seasoning adjusted, then cooled and tumbled into the pie crust . I can’t find my pie birds, still in the unpacked boxes in the shed I think, so I improvised a toot-toot chimney with greaseproof paper to release the steam.
The top was actually shop bought puff pastry. I could have made it but I really didn’t have the energy, and a good shop bought all-butter puff pastry is as good as anything I can make at home.
Top on
I like to add little embellishments to a pie with the offcuts of pastry that are left after trimming. Channeling my inner hedgewitch artist and all that. And so leaves, balls and curly things got added.
Et voila! Forty minutes later, bronzed deliciousness emerged. We ate it with roasted broccoli, carrots and lashings of gravy. All except Hugh, who bizarrely is not a gravy fan.
The final pie
It was a huge pie. We have half of it left after four of us ate and even had second helpings.
The insides Demolishment in progress
I feel that we’ve marked the coming of the new year in suitably robust fashion now. Which is a good thing, as I probably won’t make a pie like this again for another year..
The tree has been plucked of its lights and baubles – they’ve been wrapped and stuffed into boxes for another year. The tree itself, an artificial one, has also been dismantled and put to bed in its cardboard box.
The room looks quite bare now depleted of fairy lights and sparkly things. But it simultaneously feels good to be a little more uncluttered again. A new year, a clean, new feeling.
Both cats love a cardboard box day and have been doing their level best to get into all of them.
A world of new smells and tactile deliciousness, they’ve spent the morning crawling all over them and have quite enjoyed themselves pulling on shreds of packing tape and loose labels.
Ravencroft Skye 