Tag: croft

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A spiky start

With the house build we’ve had little time for the croft tree plans or vegetable bed preparation beyond the most basic of plans for zoning and starting to think about grant applications for the trees and deer fencing.

Having said all of that, whilst our days are taken up with working in the house I’ve started on the croft in the smallest of ways. It just felt necessary to do something.

We’re planning for a berry bed, and also edible hedges.

To this end I’ve just received the first dozen or so cuttings of japanese red gooseberry, jostaberry and green currants, and have stuck them in a barrel of soil positioned next to the caravan to root up ready to be planted out into beds late next year.

If the deer don’t eat them (and you’d think that the thorns on the gooseberries would be enough of a deterrent, or am I deluding myself?) this should give them a bit of an early start.

These will be followed with raspberry, honeyberry, cloudberry, black currants, blueberry and strawberries early next year. And maybe the start of herb pots in the spring for the herb beds. Once we have some windbreaks in place.

We have also picked up some willow whips from a neighbours’ prunings, and as an experiment we’re going to plant them in the exposed boggy bottom of the croft over the next few days.

We’re treating these as sacrificial trees, as a test. We’ve had conflicting local reports about the need for and the effectiveness of deer fencing. It will be interesting to see whether these young trees get decimated and whether we have to wait for a further year to fully deer fence the croft before we can attempt sensibly to plant any young trees further at all.

A slow and spiky start. But it’s a start.

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Powered by Flapjacks

I have many half packets of nuts and dried fruits that travelled with us from London, and which I don’t really have space for in this little caravan kitchen.

Oatmeal, dried apricots, pecans.. So I made flapjacks.

I’m not going to pretend that these are healthy with the amount of butter and golden syrup that they contain, which is more than the oatmeal could ever compensate for!

But as a pick-me-up, elevenses, or snack when energy levels are getting a bit low, they hit the spot.

Powered by flapjacks.

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When it rains…

When it rains here, it really rains.

The croft feels like a giant sponge, the grass squelchy underfoot as it tries its best to absorb the huge quantity of water being thrown at it from the sky.

Yes, that’s horizontal rain.

When it’s like this, no waterproofs that I’ve ever come across will keep you dry for long. It’s best to retreat indoors for a cup of tea and wait it out.

We have pools of rainwater everywhere. The burn, which normally trickles gently through the hills at the back of the croft, has become a foaming torrent of water tumbling its way to the sea.

This is an older video from September, with the burn in medium flow. Now it’s about twice as full, I just haven’t been brave enough to make my way down there for a more recent picture.

Wish I could send you some, Green Goddess 🌿.

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Chilly morning routines

As winter bites, we are settling into a kind of routine for survival in the caravan.

Our lovely but ancient spaniel was very confused and disorientated by the move to the croft. It’s not surprising really, as he was essentially an urban dog.

Here he forgot his house training and when he did go out, he’d stand in the wind and rain, ears streaming out behind him, rooted to the spot, seemingly not knowing where to go or what to do. He’d taken to leaving puddles on the carpet during the night. Not good.

Husband has been getting up in the wee small hours to let him out, which seems to be working. Bertie (!) is settling into new routines gradually and has even been seen bounding around in the horizontal rain as he accepts this new “normal”.

The mornings are the most challenging of times here. The static is cold from several hours overnight with no heating, often only a few degrees centigrade in temperature, and the bed is at its warmest and most comfortable.

When I can avoid it no longer, I get up. I layer up as swiftly as I can and wrestle myself into a warm robe, trying to expose as little skin as possible. Then it’s through to the tiny kitchen to put the kettle on for a pot of hot coffee to nudge us into consciousness.

Breakfast is my domain.

It’s usually a bowl of porridge with banana and maple syrup, or eggs and toast, or if we have good fresh bread, a butty with local cheddar (that’s a sandwich for those readers not from these shores).

It takes us a few mugs of coffee to get going enough to enjoy joined-up words together and be able to plan the day. By now the temperature is usually up to around twelve to sixteen degrees Celsius and it’s feeling less arctic.

We watch the weather and sip our coffee, chatting about build plans or deliveries for the day. We read the news online but at the moment are more absorbed by our own new, little world as we work together to start to establish our place in it.

It may be like living in the cold wash, fast spin cycle of a washing machine at the moment, but with every day it feels a bit more like home.

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Eating our local deer

The news spread that the local village store had some estate venison for sale this week, so I hot-footed it over to see what was available.

I picked up a 500g pack of diced venison (no haunch of venison for us as we have no way of roasting it right now 😕) and decided to make a venison ragu for dinner in the slow cooker.

Deer are a problem here on the island. They no longer have any natural predators and as such their numbers are out of control. There is talk of reintroducing lynx to the Highlands after many hundreds of years of extinction through over hunting, but nothing has yet come of it because of farmers concerns for their sheep.

What there is in place is a selective culling programme across most estates, and when that happens Clan Venison appears in the local outlets.

It’s cheaper than Highland beef, totally free range and organic, almost fat-free and very tasty. And every deer we eat is one less to eat our baby trees when we plant them next year. What’s not to love?

I cooked the venison with red wine, red onions, chopped tomatoes, peppers, garlic, juniper berries and a sloosh of balsamic vinegar. Four hours in the slow cooker. I forgot to add the chestnut mushrooms that I’d bought.

Divine.

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The stone

Ever since we first walked the croft two years ago and and fell in love with it, we’ve been intrigued with the small, bare outcrop of stone that we have on the southern slope.

We’ve always wondered what it is. We are built mainly on shale, which appears all over the croft. But this isn’t like shale, which is a layered, crumbly rock.

It’s a very hard, smooth rock and with a slightly crystaline structure.

Local geology maps show that we are sited on an outcrop of Lewissian Gneiss, one of the world’s oldest rocks. But it doesn’t quite look like the stripy gneiss that I’ve seen elsewhere in images.

A helpful islander (thank you Julian!) who is also a geologist offered to come and have a closer look for us when he was in the area and confirm what it was. He explained it could be granite, or gneiss – it was difficult to identify from a picture.

He popped over a few days ago and we had a socially distanced chat. He’s confirmed that it’s definitely gneiss. I would have been happy with any diagnosis, but I really happy that it’s what we thought it was.

There’s something comforting in knowing that your land contains some of the oldest rock in the world.

As old as the beginnings. As old as the legends.

That’s just so cool somehow. 😎

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Storm Crows and the Raven

I’m sitting in the static watching the rain and wind bluster across the Sound.

It’s a wild one out there today and I’m happy to be wrapped up indoors and sheltered. Husband is busy installing the boiler (how excited am I for hot water one day soon that I don’t have to boil on the stove!) and the spaniel has assumed his prone position by the fire. It’s not a day to be working outdoors.

In the field looking east across the hillside there are a large number of crows, all wheeling and soaring together, an impressive sight. There must be at least thirty or forty of them, collectively called, I believe, a murder of crows. I’m convinced that they’re playing in the wind.

Occasionally one will take off and hover in almost motionless balance, trying to hold its own against the force of the wind before tipping its wings and allowing itself to be blown backwards and upwards across the hill. The others then do the same in sequence, like dancers in a ballet . It’s definitely a social activity of some sort!

We also have a raven. We may have more than one, as they’re often in pairs, but we definitely have at least one.

I heard it calling yesterday morning, a gutteral, deep sound quite unlike the crows. I’m so pleased to hear that it’s still here. We named the house Raven House because we spotted a couple of them overhead when we first visited the croft.

Such enigmatic, intelligent birds. They seem very at home here on these rainswept hillsides.

And according to legend, where I discovered that they are the symbol on the MacDonald Battle Flag, whose lands we are on, they’ve been here since time immemorial.

I like that.

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Once around the slow cooker

Two chicken breasts, a pepper, and a non-working oven? No problem as long as you have store cupboard staples and a slow cooker.

Spicy chicken with tomato and peppers cooked in the slow cooker for four hours with basmati rice to the rescue for dinner.

Husband brought in the box with my kitchen spices today for unpacking.

As I unpacked I added in a generous scoop of dried chilli flakes, a tin of chopped tomatoes, smoked paprika, onion, far too much garlic to be sociable, smoked salt flakes and a little sugar.

Luckily he didn’t bring in the canned goods box or I might have been tempted to chuck in some tinned pineapple. Maybe that would have been a step too far.. 😏 A tin of borlotti or butter beans would however have been a worthy addition.

The slow cooker did the rest.

Served with a spoonful of Greek yoghurt as a balm to the heat, it was one of those ‘once around the cupboard’ dinners that went down well after a long day.

I can’t wait to source some local venison to make a venison stew soon. I’m sure that there is a bottle of port in the boxes somewhere found at the back of one of the London kitchen cupboards before we moved. I’m thinking beef bourgignon but with venison. And mashed potatoes.

We are eating out of bowls most of the time now, like four year olds. It’s just easier.

Just don’t ask me for chicken dippers.

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Mud glorious mud

The torrential storms of the last few days have reduced the area around the caravan to a patch of deep mud.

It was supposed to have all been filled in with Type One, but at the last minute in August before the static arrived we realised that the area prepared for it was two metres shorter than was needed, and an emergency digger evacuation had to take place.

Which didn’t leave us time to backfill that extra area with aggregate. And which has now rendered access to the front door of the caravan almost impassable. It’s like the Somme around there. Wellies sink several inches in.

And of course although the spaniel could go the other way around the caravan to gain access, he always dives straight in to the mud pool. Nice.

So my task today whilst husband was working hard on the caravan was to wheelbarrow tonnes of type one around to the mud patch and shovel it manually into the vast, mud-sucking void in order to gain some traction and slightly drier access.

I couldn’t do it. I managed one barrow load and my knee was so stiff and painful that I had to stop. I’ve clearly over-estimated what I can do seven weeks after knee surgery and after several months of inactive lockdown. Another job for my poor husband.

We need this to be able to manoever the mattress into the static and have a better night’s sleep tonight! Slightly damp sofa cushions aren’t the best way to ensure a restful night, even though we were well wrapped up and cosy in our quilt in front of the fire.

Thankfully the weather gods have smiled on us at last and the next few days are forecast to be mild and mainly dry.

We will overcome. I just feel pretty pathetic right now.

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Everything aches..

The first job we’ve had to do is to make the caravan habitable. For those of you that have been reading for a while, you’ll know that we were given a free static caravan in September, which was a hugely generous gesture.

However, it was very basic and hadn’t been lived in for a while. We had it transported to the croft and had to leave it empty for a further two months until we were able to move to the island, which didn’t help in the habitability stakes..(if that’s not a word, it should be).

When we opened the door for the first time on Saturday it was quite clear that it was damp and needed drying out before we could move in.

Storm Aiden made the process of working on the caravan too dangerous for the first few days that we were here. It needed levelling properly before we could do anything inside, but the 60 mph winds were rocking it like a boat. We had to wait until the storm passed.

The morning dawned calm and bright and the wind had at last dropped considerably. Husband had managed to secure the caravan so that it was safe to work in, and hooked up the propane supply to the gas fire so that we could start to dry it out. Whilst he worked on preparing the electrical supply I started the seat repairs and the painting.

As we suspected, everything ached by the end of the day. We are more unfit than we thought!

We got back to our B&B room weary in body but happy in spirit. We’re here at last and making progress, however slow that may seem.

We will get fitter as time passes, and despite the aching limbs and backs it’s still all worth it to be here.