August 19, 2014 § 2 Comments
I became a Yes voter, although I didn’t know it at the time, on February 5th 2003. Prior to that I had been a fairly staunch Labour voter, staunch in the limited sense that, as a mid-twenty something, I’d only really exercised my right to vote a handful of times before, most importantly to help bring Tony Blair to power in 1997 and again in 2001. But on that particular day I sat and watched the U.S. Secretary of State Colin Powell give a speech to the UN Security Council that attempted to provide the Bush administration with some semblance of credibility to launch the ill-fated Iraq War. I’m not the smartest person, I’ll admit, but I clearly remember shaking my head and calling him a liar as I watched his improbable testimony, consciously told, a litany of bare-faced lies that were later to be confirmed as such, unambiguously, over the coming years. The same lies that the UK government, my government, tried to foist on us with their own version of dodgy dossiers and obviously doctored ‘intelligence’.
Ten days later, on February 15th, I took the day off work and marched alongside tens of thousands of others (estimates vary between 50-100,000) in Glasgow to protest the road to an illegal war the U.S. and with it my country, the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, had undertaken. On the same day across the world tens of millions of people were doing likewise in thousands of other cities. The Labour party were holding their annual conference at the Glasgow SECC that same day and the march had chosen the venue to end its journey, a chance for people, the voters who had placed these politicians in government and power, to have their voice heard and their numbers in protest physically seen. These were people I had voted for and I looked forward to this rare opportunity to express my beliefs in person, right at their door, to witness democracy and freedom of speech in action.
Instead, the Labour party attempted to refuse permission for a PA and staging outside ‘their’ venue, ‘our’ leader Tony Blair rescheduled his speech to avoid speaking at a time we would be outside his conference and by the time the marchers had gathered outside the building to call our elected officials to account over their planned action, he had fled the city. It was clear we would not be listened to, worse still, we would not even be spoken to. Right there, right then, I realised how naive I had been. Something wasn’t right, something was very wrong. Westminster as a system of democracy was broken. Voters do not really have a voice, power does not truly reside in our ballot paper or our right to call elected officials to account, democracy in the UK is an illusion. Those in power in London will do as they see fit, or as they are told, first and foremost. Their interests are no longer ours.
The Iraq War remains the bloodiest of stains on the UK’s already grubby hands and Westminster will never be clean of them, with an estimated half a million deaths and an ongoing legacy of violence, hatred, terror and civil rights erosions established now in our name, as citizens (or subjects) of the UK. These MPs, current and former, who voted for parliamentary approval for the invasion in March 2003 are completely complicit in its predictable outcomes, no amount of self-rationalisation or mental contortions can exonerate them from their guilt. I was only 28 and I knew it was wrong and laden with lies, so these men and women of education and standing, those who claim to be humanitarians, socialists and ordinary, good people can have no excuses. I wonder how they sleep these days. But even supposing I could dismiss this gross perversion of democracy and foreign policy as a horrible mistake by those in Westminster, I can’t ignore the decades of disastrous behaviour in either the preceding years or those that followed. From Thatcher and Blair to Cameron and Clegg, it’s obvious that truly nothing really changes, nothing gets better, the gravy train just rolls on with slightly different drivers and with slightly different speeches and policies.
I believe that both Conservative, LibDem and Labour governments are now permanently in thrall to big business, the same corporations that are fuelling our rampant consumerism, trampling on workers rights and destroying our environment, these companies themselves only beholden to creating profit for their shareholders and nothing else, bribing and lobbying politicians as they do so. The massive financial industries thrive on debt creation, pulling billions out of the ‘real’ economy to maximise balance sheets and directors earnings, leaving governments at their mercy rather than the other way around. Our media is now mainly propaganda, the news fed to us like entertainment, issues twisted to become black and white stories and the approved side rammed down our throats without nuance. Such is their power that once again our government simply acquiesces, shaking hands and taking orders from media giants, spinning and burying stories to meet the wishes of the few and not the many in order to hold on to their own power. Who’s left to vote for? With Miliband’s Labour Party unable to return to its roots in any significant way, there’s just the Green Party I suppose.
Meantime we persevere. We get up and set to work, we try to enjoy life and each other as best we can. We might not be earning very much because our wages have stagnated, we might not be able to afford as much because food and energy prices are continuously rising, we might have less rights because our government wishes to make it easier to sack us or work on zero-hours contracts, we might have less freedom to protest or speak out to try and change things, we may never own a house because we’ll never make the criteria for a mortgage, our schools might be less than great and our healthcare poorer because of cuts and austerity, our safety-net might be taken away as our government cuts down on welfare for the unemployed and those unable to work. Meantime our elected officials repeatedly fiddle expenses, flip houses, game the system, take bribes and walk out into well-paid jobs in the businesses they were beholden to while MPs. But it’s not too bad right?
It’s not too bad that all our emails are being read and stored by national security agencies, that all our phone calls and texts are documented and screened and that, by proxy, our movements are tracked by our new media devices’ GPS. That the majority of us work all week and then hand most of it back to pay over-inflated rent, mortgages, council tax, electricity bills, gas bills, mobile bills, broadband bills, income tax, insurance, road tax and dozens more overly expensive outgoings. A necessary part of life yes, until it becomes clear we are not paying the fair value of the services we receive but rather we’re routinely and grossly overcharged just to increase company and shareholders profits or keep the mercenary CEOs on board. Our taxes flood the Treasury coffers as they waste billions through unnecessary spending on everything from unnecessary nuclear weapons to failed ID Card schemes. Lives have been wrecked and dreams destroyed by the avarice of those who continue to believe it’s back to business as usual for them, earning wages most of us can only dream about, while preaching to us about Austerity, vilifying the poor and weak by shouldering the blame for their mess on the disabled and unemployed.
The bigger picture isn’t much better. Take the now unquestionable issue of man-made climate change and the lack of any impetus to do something serious about it as tens of thousands of species begin to die off and our planet blindly stumbles through disaster after disaster on our way to the big one, whenever that, inevitibly, will be. We pollute and destroy through our enslavement to possessions, allowing companies to ride roughshod over man and beast, and their habitats, alike. As we sit in front of our TVs each night, or stare at our iPads and phones, we watch kids playing football on a beach get murdered by million pound hi-tech weapons and schools and hospitals be destroyed with civilians in them but our government just stands by and says nothing of consequence. They encourage us to mourn our war dead but not the dead of others. And we do very little either, impotent as we all now feel we are.
Such is the madness that I’m not sure everyone sees it, or wants to see it. It’s so frightening that the security of immersing oneself in the relative safety of a good job, nice home and loving family makes for welcome apathy. Go to school, get to college, get a job and car, save for a house, get married, have kids, buy stuff, travel then post about it on Facebook. Rinse and repeat. Rather than address the immense lack of power we now have, we retreat into our own lives and hobbies, let ourselves be entertained by movies and celebrities and confine our outcries to social media and the odd heated debate over a beer or five. I’m just the same, sometimes I think that’s the best I can muster too.
But September 18th feels different. It is a very easy way to begin the challenge of changing if not everything, then a whole lot. It feels like a chance to start over, to begin a new way of doing things, to change ourselves and those around us. I honestly do not give twa hoots about Saltires, bagpipes, kilts, haggis, Braveheart, Jacobites or any other Scottish nonsense. My heart doesn’t swell to Flower Of Scotland, tartan leaves me cold, I’m not that keen on Burns poems, in fact I’ve just as much in common with Geordies as Jocks. None of this is about nationalism for me, in fact one of my greatest fears over this independence opportunity is that Scotland becomes some Brigadoon-esqe extension of Edinburgh. I’ve got no axe to grind with England or the English (my sister, bold brother-in-law and top notch nephew are 3 Lions I love dearly), nor the Welsh or the Irish or anyone else for that matter. I’m not that mad about the SNP or Alex Salmond, truth be told but it’s just not about any of that for me.
It’s about being part of a new democracy that works, that represents my values and speaks with my voice on a world stage. And does the same for everyone else too. A system that puts its citizens ahead of its corporations, that believes in spending on social care and not weapons of mass destruction, that looks after our environment and those who live in it. I want to live in a country that is not obsessed with global hard power and excessive individual wealth but rather on that which seeks to make the world a better place, in the short time we have left to do so. I know for a fact none of this will happen with a No vote, I know that as far as human beings go, we are indeed better together, but the truth is, as people tied to Westminster and all its myriad of failings, we most certainly are not.
I’ve been hugely encouraged by the lack of apathy in the referendum debate, on both sides, in particular the work of The Common Weal and the potential I’ve witnessed for an engaged civic society in future years. But I’m scared this will be lost through a No vote, a final nail in the coffin of disillusionment of our country. We’ve been told repeatedly that it will be bad, it will be a disaster, that we can’t have this and we can’t do that. And we’re told that from the heart of the very institution we are trying to rid ourselves of, by the very people who would lose most from our independence. Is it any surprise they say these things, that they lie and spin and corrupt the truth to meet their own ends? Is this not what Westminster and its associated institutions have always done? The truth is we can do all this, we can be a successful, independent nation and we can do it with our vote and if we work together again. They won’t make it easy and it won’t be without its challenges but once the decision is made and the people have spoken we will make it happen and for once Westminster will stop and listen to our voice. And I have just a little faith, in the face of all the opinion polls, that something might happen against all odds.
We have a rare and unique chance, it will never happen again. Certainly not in my lifetime. Failure to grab it will be the final blow for many in my generation, those who have stuck to the rules, worked hard and yet never gotten to reap the rewards. Those of us who think voting is a waste of time and are repeatedly proved right. As we approach September 18th I see and hear them raise their voices, people are engaged, if a little weary of the rhetoric! I’ve been listening to everyone, Yes or No, to be honest more closely to the naysayers, looking for the arguments that might convince me I’m wrong. I’m disappointed, in a way, that it has never come.
Where do we go from a No vote? Nowhere. I realise not everyone agrees with me and I truly respect their views. I admire the solidarity shown by many of the more stridently socialist minded among them, their belief that separation is wrong and nationalism is divisive, that we should all stick together for the greater good. I wish I still felt like that but it’s a sham of an argument with no teeth left under the current set up down south and even moreso when espoused by the sort people who, in reality, enjoy more of the champagne than socialist side of their conveniently vocal but undemanding political views. I sincerely wish those saying No Thanks would offer an alternative, put forward a positive vision for the future but instead they’re even more vague, uninspiring and wishy-washy than the pipe-dreamers they excuse seekers of independence of being.
For my part, I offer the crazy idea I hold that independence will only strengthen our bond as human beings no matter what country you call home. I believe it will allow us to lead the way, to lead by a new example, blaze a path that others will be inspired to follow. I believe it will lead to a system where people will feel empowered, able to have a say, argue and resolve their issues without braying and paper waving. I believe a new way of doing things will bring politics back to life for us again, where it will no longer be a dirty word or a concept shrouded in mistrust and apathy. It’s a crazy notion, having an ideal, setting a lofty bar, dropping the cynicism and embracing the possibility of something better. But it’s also a brave one. Pioneers are often the few rather than the many, and I hope if enough of us are brave enough, where we go as a new nation with higher ideals, others will undoubtably do likewise, empowered, confident and truly with us, truly better together.
And come the worst case scenario, that evil Alex Salmond, a man with no blood on his hands despite a lifelong political career, leads us into a tartan Tory-esque hell, that economic armageddon befalls us, that the oil dries up and our UK neighbours turn their backs on extended hands of post-referendum friendship, that life grinds to a halt and we are forced to admit our gold was that of fool’s, then one solitary silver lining remains…when we take to the streets to make our grievances known it will only be as far as Edinburgh we’ll need to travel to make ourselves heard again, we’ll do so in greater numbers than ever before and the politicians won’t be able to flee south to hide. And how bad could it be? Worse than the overnight decimation of our heavy industry was, worse than being dragged into a long and protected bloody foreign war, worse than being instrumental in the world’s greatest economic disaster, worse than an enforced austerity that brings families to point of feeding themselves from food banks, worse than continually suppressed wages and ever rising costs of living, worse than vilification of the most vulnerable among us by millionaires, worse than the relentless drive towards privatisation of our public services to make money for investors with institutions we funded from our own taxes? Some say it could be worse, I don’t think it could. But we’ve somehow survived all this, so we can survive the worst independence can bring.
The very fact that a decade later I can see and hear all the lies and manipulation again, like I did all those year ago in the run up to the Iraq invasion, confirms everything I thought then, but a hundredfold. And while the scale of the establishment’s deception and propaganda should scare me, it doesn’t, rather it fills me with the confidence that I, we, are right in our beliefs and correct in our faith. Not just a change but a revolution is required and make no mistake this is that opportunity. While I read and listen to those self same lying Labour politicians fill their newspaper columns and interviews with can’ts, won’ts, shouldn’ts and scaremongering, I know it’s only themselves who are scared. Scared of losing a seat on the gravy train, now that most of them are extremely wealthy and working for the businesses they represented while in government, scared of ordinary people wielding power, scared of change.
Whether it’s a Yes or a No on September 18th a change is coming for these people, one way or another.
I encourage you to make the change a positive one, one within your own ken and power, a vote to say YES.
September 15, 2013 § 3 Comments
The first year is over here on the croft.
Life has come full circle in more ways than one and now seems as good a time as any to look back on the journey through the last four seasons and, ultimately, bring things to a close.
Autumn, coming at the end of August 2012 was the first season here and saw the conversion of the old byre into a working loom shed and office from which to work. Sledgehammers were swung and walls ‘n’ stalls came down to make room for the double-width loom that was to serve as my financial means to an end while other plans were made. Some wood stain and whitewash later and there was a large, airy space from which to carve out a living. Livestock came next, a “starter pack” of three Hebridean ewes and a ram called Calan joined me, forming the basis of a flock that would grow to 19 beasts before the year was out. A wooden henhouse was commissioned from a local man and half a dozen or so chickens at just six weeks old procured to provide that crofter’s staple of fresh eggs every morning. A wee ginger cat found lurking in the croft grasses became an ever present new pal.
Winter rolled in quickly and the days were short and dark nights long. Weaving in the loom shed proved challenging, often done in the full get-up of thermals, woollens, waterproofs and fingerless gloves. When the wind blew in certain ways, rain and hail would accompany the peddling inside, the Ness gales blowing gaily through the cracks and crevices in the old tin roof. Bad weather affected the sheep too, with an outbreak of snow blindness, one girl almost losing her sight as a result. The classic Colnago Cross bike I’d relied on to get me back and forth from the local shop for supplies was of no use in the face of daily 50mph+ winds, a journey that took just 20 minutes one way could take twice that in the other direction. So an old jalopy was bought for buttons, probably the most impractical vehicle for any crofter to be driving on these islands. A convertible with slow punctures, ropey battery and a rasping exhaust, the back seat could hold one bale of hay and the boot a couple of bags of sheep feed at best. But it lasted long enough until the bank balance was back on track and a more up to date replacement was bought.
As quickly as it came in, the darkest season crept out and Spring was soon in the air. The grass that had so long been burnt dry and withered by wind began to grow green again, feeding the now in-lamb ewes in preparation for the arrival of newborns. The flock had been expanded with two young Hebridean / Jacob’s crosses towards the end of 2012 and Calan had carnally joined the pure Hebs around that time too, working his magic with the ladies and, unfortunately with one of the under-age girls after an illicit midnight escapade into their field. The result of his prowess was a brilliant lambing season that produced eight healthy lambs in total and no losses, two pairs of twins, a triplet and a single. With the weather improving there was some back-breaking work to be done breaking new ground for growing vegetables and after a bit of graft there were soon potatoes, onions, lettuces, beetroot, carrots, cauliflower, peas, cabbages and carrots in the soil. Time would tell if I’d reap what I’d sown.
Summer on the islands is always special, especially when the sun shines and the days are so long the time between sunset and sunrise barely registers. With the fields full of lush grass, the vegetables growing, hens laying and the loom singing it felt as if the hard part was over. Things were established, stuff had worked out, progress had been made. With a bit of wi-fi re-working I was able to move the office into the byre and online work reached a peak with half a dozen good clients paying monthly for various marketing, copywriting and social media projects. Visitor numbers to the croft took a steady uptick as dozens of schoolkids, art-school students, textile designers, photographers, journalists and old friends made their way to this far north-west outpost to see what was happening. The sheep were sheared with the help of a neighbour and the village roads were full of activity from tractors to tourists. Sunsets were many and there was even a period of midnight barbecues and books read by twilight in sandals, shorts and teeshirt. Imagine that.
As summer faded and the forecasts began to take a turn for the worst the cycle of the seasons had almost made its full revolution. Other local crofters brought home their peats and stacked them ready for the colder months ahead, something I failed to get organised enough to do despite having a peat-bank and the tools, if not the time or manpower, to do it. A regret I’ll now end up paying for, literally, as I fork out cold, hard cash for coal instead of this free fuel I could have had. The declining days were heartened by a harvest of my own making. Some things had thrived, predictably the traditional and hardy root veg of potatoes, onions, turnips and beetroot. Other things failed miserably like the green beans and carrots who struggled in the dense soil. Lettuces of all kinds were a bumper crop and filled plate after plate as they were cut and came again but the high hopes for the kale and cabbages were dashed by the double predations of cheeky chickens and cruel caterpillars. In spite of these failings, the veg growing has been a wonderful experience, something I never expected to enjoy so much. Even with the bad weather looming and the ground now bare, I’ve planted out dozens of new late season seeds to see how they’ll fare.
It’s all been truly satisfying and deeply nourishing on every level. Like being plugged back into Life after a lifetime without access to the very basics of living. Fundamental truths have abounded, something only nature and quiet simplicity can reveal, and with them a real and profound happiness ensues.
Which brings us back to today, the point at which the whole process begins again. Another go around. It’s here that thoughts turn to future plans, consideration given to what has been learned, what worked and what didn’t, what has been achieved and what can be improved on. It’s also the time to reassess life more generally, set some new goals, alter plans and perhaps choose new paths.
Next year there will most definitely be a polytunnel present and more time devoted to growing my own produce. There will be more of the good stuff that worked growing in more of the ground, enough to fill store-cupboards and possibly even sell on. Raised beds will be built to use up the bad ground too. Better fencing and windbreaks need erected. Conversely, my previously held desire to raise my own meat has wained somewhat. While I have no ethical problem with killing and eating animals, (although I’ll admit the connection to my fellow creatures has deepened considerably) the practicality of doing so is weighing on me a little.
My intent was never to maintain a flock of hundreds and gain financial benefit from sales and grants, rather it was to simply have food for the freezer and at this level I’d far rather do the dispatching myself, here on the croft, than ship two or three beasts to the abattoir to go through the stress of the production line there. And I’d like to use a lot of the offal too, something prohibited by the official processes. But home slaughter has its problems too, I’m comfortable with the culling but skinning, gutting and disposal prior to the butchering presents challenges. Neither is ideal for me but at least I have until next year to make that particular bloody call.
There are also downsides to the financial and time commitments required to raise animals. I had hoped to have pigs on the go too for splendid charcuterie purposes but, as with the sheep, I’ve much to consider there also. Money is required for housing, feeds, vet bills, shearing, slaughtering, drenching, fencing…all of which makes me wonder if it’s worth it when I can buy a perfectly good, locally raised carcass (or three) from one of my neighbours. The two obvious reasons for continuing down these animal tracks are the fact it brings the 5 acres of land here into use and also that it’s very enjoyable. We’ll see how it pans out but the level of animal management right now is more than sufficient for my purposes. Except perhaps for bees, I miss my inner-city beehives so getting new colonies on the go needs to be prioritised.
Which all brings me to the big con of this new way of life.
Time is money, there is no way to earn unless I am working and the simple fact is that I need to earn money. Every hour not spent working is an hour not spent earning. Much as I love it, weaving Harris Tweed does not pay well enough to justify doing full-time. It’s ideal if you’re supplementing a pension or using it to pitch into the family income as a part-time endeavour but to earn a decent living peddling under your own steam…forget it. The awful truth is I can easily earn more money (double) sitting at a desk than at a loom.
The second caveat is that I would like more of my own time and work for money a whole lot less. Livestock keeps me bound to the croft and after a year here I would like to get away a whole lot more. And I mean a WHOLE lot more. In the unplanned absence of a female sidekick due to rather unforeseen circumstances the goalposts have shifted more than a little. The prospect of living on the croft as a bachelor all year round fills me with fear! I’ve handled the situation admirably through a combination of cod-philosophy (pragmatism and stoicism with a smattering of Thoreau-esque transcendentalism mostly) but something’s got to give in 2014 otherwise I’ll go crazy. I’ve also not seen enough of the world for my liking.
And so, inspired by Chris Guillbeau I hope next year to work even more with the seasons, remain fully tied to the land but not be tied by it. To be able to work hard for two-thirds of the year, spring through Autumn and have the freedom to explore new cities and places for four months rather than four weeks of the year is the ultimate goal. Meet new people, do new things, keep being inspired and motivated and moved in this short life while still being true to my attachment to home and family and this croft I’ve worked so hard to get to.
An over ambitious dichotomy? An impossible undertaking? Another pointless pipe dream?
But I like a challenge and my baggage is light these days so what better plan than to simply face the horizon of one’s choosing and keep walking…
By 2015 I hope to build one of our Airigh dwellings on the croft and never have to pay a mortgage again. The sublet on the croft will have expired and I’ll be given the option to buy that too. A beautifully simple home, on the island I was born, working for myself, growing my own food and being able to travel when I want to.
Now that’s real freedom.
November 12, 2012 § 8 Comments
WordPress, Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Pinterest, Spotify…I seem to be everywhere and nowhere online and all at once and it’s been getting really difficult to keep track and on top of all the updates and connections needed to stay this “social”.
I’d been thinking that the blog here has sort of lost its momentum a bit, since moving back the impetus for the blog’s original purpose, namely researching and finding my roots and routes home to these islands has been lost somewhat. Instead of being a resource for exposing the islands music, art, culture and history to those who might also be interested, it’s in danger of becoming one of those island blogs where your day to day life gets written about and snapped and put out there for all to see…not really what I want or had intended for it. I’m also blogging about Harris tweed stuff over at www.harristweed.org/blog so even keeping this blog busy with tweed stuff would be just plain ol’ repetition.
So what to do?
Well basically I’ve picked a format, namely a Facebook page at www.facebook.com/OffTheCroft that will have a nice and simple, short and sweet, feed of goings on from life here on the croft and will be focussing my attention there from now on.
If you’d like to keep track of The Croft going forward then that’s the place to go, simply “like” it if so. If not feel free to keep checking back here to see if anything more heavyweight crops up. You never know…
Either way, thanks as always for reading!
PS You can always reach me via email at firstname.lastname@example.org
November 3, 2012 § 1 Comment
Yūgen is a Japanese word pertaining to a profound awareness of the universe which evokes feelings that are inexplicably deep and too mysterious for words.
The word itself is like an extension of awareness, the aesthetic perception which allows us to conceive of the vastness of the universe but carries it beyond into an inconceivably mysterious realm. The feeling of Awareness is induced by confrontation to the brevity of life, and yugen is initiated from the awareness that even ‘aware’ itself is an ephemeral thing.
Zeami Motokiyo’s description portrays a medium through which one may experience the unspeakably deep, stirring, feeling of yugen:
“To watch the sun sink behind a flower clad hill. To wander on in a huge forest without thought of return. To stand upon the shore and gaze after a boat that disappears behind distant islands. To contemplate the flight of wild geese seen and lost among the clouds.”
October 23, 2012 § 6 Comments
…Over The Hill
It’s been the most beautiful of days.
From sunrise, a fishing boat blinking past Port of Ness harbour, the sky grew from peaches and pink to ever-changing blues. It was frosty and hundreds of spiderwebs strung between the spikes of the croft reeds shimmered with fat beads of dew.
The air was sharp and cold and the nearest house, down and across the village road, was already puffing out peat-smoke which filled the air with its reassuring reek. As the sun rose so did a mist, settling into the hollows of croft land for miles around and Venus, alone, pinpricked the sky.
The rest of the day was cloudless and still, just sunshine, which burned off the fog and frost, and I worked outside all day just to be in amongst it.
And tonight everything reversed, the sun set in familiar deep colours, those eerie clouds of moisture rose again, the moon appeared.
As I locked the hens in their coop for the night I spotted the cat perched on a fencepost, silhouetted against the darkening sky, just taking it in also.
I’ve had more happy days in recent memory than in years of Glasgow living and for no other reason than nature provides.
I feel privileged to be here.
October 17, 2012 § 1 Comment
This is Eleanor Nicolson, she is 14 years of age and attends the local secondary school, The Nicolson Institute, here on the island.
She also sings songs and plays guitar rather damn nicely.
Here she is playing an original song of hers live.
Maybe they’ll rename the school when she’s rich and famous…
October 13, 2012 § 7 Comments
Last year I organised Glasgow’s first Tweed Ride and such was the demand for another one in 2012 it would have been rude not to oblige.
Being so far from the city meant that this time around I took a back seat / saddle and placed the event in the hands of two Glasgow chaps I knew would make a sterling job of it.
And that they did…
October 12, 2012 § Leave a comment
A new video from the new album of music by Lewis singer-song writer Iain Morrison.
Homeward is the first release from the forthcoming album ‘To the Horizon, Sir’.
It is available as a free download HERE
Weirdly, I’d penned a very short story a couple of years ago, having never seen this video, but now after watching it seems to tie up a little spookily…
He rose from his old armchair, in his family croft, sat on the shores of an expanse of sand, perched at the edge of the Atlantic.
Draining his glass, he slipped off his unknotted boots and thick woolen socks and pulled his navy geansaidh over his head. The jumper’s neck rasping at his own, tugging at his ears as it did when he was a young boy.
Stood barefoot outside his door he let his toes curl in the grass and faced the wan yellow sun which was slipping beyond the western horizon. Lazy evening clegs buzzing fore and aft, like four stroke engines far over the hill. As he walked away from his red door, ewes and lambs scattered over the rock strewn headland. He felt the dry heather now roughly caressing his soles and the mosses soaked like bathroom sponges, washed his steps.
Nestled between ridges, hunkered against the prevailings, the empty blackhouses stood. Walking through the mantle-less doorway, nettle beds held their sting as he reached down to pick up a great block of stone that once made up a wall. The roof and beams were long gone leaving him ringed in lichen rock, ragged tattoos of silvers and bronze.
Walking, stooped, across maram grass, whipping lightly in the evening breeze their in-curled leaves bowed at him, sphagnum gave way to machair. Clovers and dogweed kissed his path as his heavy steps led him to the beach where, like stars in the universe, below him they flowed countlessly.
The sands were hidden from everyone but the sea and in the rocks at its edge flotsam and jetsam stored up from voyages unknown lay. A long faded plastic box, marked STO NO AY COOPE ATI E, held a blue rope, plastic and faded and frayed.
Setting the stone down he sat once again and set about coiling the rope into embracing knots. His small fingers spun hitches and cloves from straight lines, unforgotten intricacies bound the block and kneeling now, the gniess tight in its sea-beaten grip, he looped the remaining rope around his neck, crossing it over his chest and tied tight at his back.
Taking the strain he rose to his feet and walked to the waves breaking on the secret shore. Razor clams rose beyond the waterline and the limpets and mussels clung to the nearby rocks opened wide while his footprints led to darker sands and seafoam.
Cold brine raced around his ankles hugging them as he walked on, knee deep now, up to his waist, the sea carried his weight, held him upwards, refused to chill his bones.
The waves of Uig broke across his breast and he strode firmly now, forward into deeper water.
His grey eyes lifted towards Hiort as the sky erupted into golds and burnt ambers. Water face-slaps him one last time, stinging his thoughts away one last time
Dropping his burden, rock that preserved generations, he was pulled down. Remembering, he released everything to the roar of tides and time. Arms raised, feet still grounded in sands, he breathed in.
October 12, 2012 § 1 Comment
I’d mentioned previously that there were six hens and a cockerel now on the croft.
Chickens are pretty much a basic for any crofter or smallholder and so after the wee starter flock of Hebrideans it was a no brainer to get some chooks on the go.
They reside in a hand-built wooden coop, nice and simple design, waterproof roof / lid, 4′ x 3′ x 3′ in size, roosting perch, single nesting box, small door, brass air vent…that’s it. The coop gets a good layer of wood shavings and a bit of straw, all very cosy. They are hemmed in by a 5m x 5m square run of dark green, heavy, nylon netting held up by spiked poles that allow me to move the pen around to let the ground recover from all their scratching and crapping. I’ll probably let them free-range at some point but this will keep them safe until they start laying and encourage them to keep to the coop and nest box when they do start dropping eggs.
I got the critters at 6 weeks of age which made them pretty scrawny, feathers not fully developed, quills poking through as if they’d been plucked alive in parts. Kinda gross really. This was their first venture into the open air and they still needed protection from predators (seagulls, cats, crows…) so I took a roll of small-holed plastic netting and added a a very small porch to the coop so they could hang out and find their feet, so to speak. They get fed growers pellets and whatever else they can peck up from the grass and ground, there’s water of course and I need to sort out some grit and poultry spice at some point I suppose.
I’ve been amazed at how quickly they’ve grown, every morning when they get let out at sunrise they seem to be bigger and better looking. They’re also much bolder, the protective inner pen is wide open now and they run around the main run doing their stuff. If they catch sight of the cat or a large bird flies overhead they bolt back under cover but they’ve been taking on thieving starlings who come near their feeder and generally look like they can handle themselves more. Yesterday the Ram tried to get at the feeder of food and ended up tangled in their netting but somehow doubt they felt able to take him on, but in future who knows?
There is one Rhode Island Red, two Frizzles and the rest are hybrids of RIR, Marans and Barnevelders and hopefully they’ll start to lay in December. Right now they’re just eating and growing and sorting out their pecking orders.
The weather here is cold, windy and wet today, they came out to eat and drink but haven’t ventured very far from their front door at all. I pegged a piece of off-cut tweed across the coop entrance as the prevailing was blowing straight inside so they have a bit of a windbreak at least.
All very exciting huh?
To be honest I thought they’d be pretty uninteresting, just good for eggs and perhaps one for the pot every so often but their behaviour is fascinating and I’ll happily kill a tea-break watching them chase flies or interact with their new environment.
They remind me of little dinosaurs…
There names? Dolina, Murdina, Kenina, Alexina, Katrina, Christina and Tiff Peaches.