A Croft in the Hills (9 page)

Dinner would be a picnic eaten on the doorstep that day, and I would make up for it by producing ham omelette and a cool salad at supper-time. I am thankful that eggs agree with us all and that
they can be made into an almost endless variety of dishes. An egg and a lettuce, bread, butter and milk—I think we could all live on those for ever!

One evening, after a blazing day, which had left us really limp, we noticed the sky clouding at sunset. Helen was asleep upstairs, the chickens and ducklings had all gone to roost. Everything
was very still and quiet and we were sitting in the cool of the living-room, looking through the papers, when I felt my ears twitch. I listened intently: it was the sound we had been waiting weeks
to hear—the patter of rain on the tin roof of the scullery. We jumped up and looked out. The branches of the rowans were stirring, a breeze was rising and the rain was hissing on the parched
ground. I think no sailor on a waterless raft in mid-Pacific ever greeted a thunder-plump as deliriously as we did!

In a remarkably short time the water-butt was overflowing. As we couldn’t bear to see this water going to waste, I struggled into gum-boots, mackintosh and sou’-wester and put every
available pail, basin and bath, in turn, under the overflow spout. Jim quickly bored a hole in the scullery window-frame, inserted a length of rubber tubing in the top of the butt, passed it
through the hole and into the sink. To see the sink filling with this lovely, soft rain-water sent me nearly crazy with delight. We rushed in and out carrying pails, till we were soaked to the
skin, our eyes bright in our gleaming faces. The supply of water we accumulated that night lasted us until the weather resumed its normal dampness.

We had a really grand crop of potatoes that year, at the cost of a deal of labour and anxiety. The field they were in had borne such an exceptionally heavy growth of corn the year before that
the weeds had been well smothered. It had been ploughed each way, in the spring, so that the tilth was as fine as one could wish. We had borrowed a ridge plough to open the drills. The planting had
been heavy work, but with three and a half of us on the job we had managed it fairly quickly. Then came the closing of the drills, a tricky operation with a tractor. The implement being in
one’s rear, it is the easiest thing in the world to knock the tubers out of place when covering them, with the result that they are liable to come up unevenly spaced, or through the side of
the drills, or even in the spaces between the drills. Many people prefer to use a horse-plough to close the drills as, by this method, you can see exactly where you are and have greater control of
your implement. However, Jim was determined to use the tractor and, at bottom, we applauded his courage, but our hearts were in our mouths as we watched the great, shining blades scattering the
nicely placed tubers in all directions.

After completing the first few drills, Jim got into the way of the work and the crop certainly seemed to be covered, Next day we went up and down the field with hoes, pushing an odd tuber here
and there into place. Then other things claimed our attention and we had to leave the potatoes to their fate.

Soon we began to cast an anxious eye over the field. Sure enough, the dark green, crinkled shoots were coming through the ground in the most unexpected places. The field, which had hitherto had
the beautiful symmetry of a chessboard, now began to look like something that had come out in a rash.

We refused to be dismayed. Each armed with a hoe, we worked up and down the field, pushing and scraping, until we had virtually transformed each drill into a space, and vice versa. The effect
was slightly irregular, of course, but when the plants came to maturity the leafiness of them hid the waywardness of their ranks and they were a noble sight. The heavy hoeing had killed every
would-be weed at birth and the potatoes had it all their own way throughout the summer.

The turnips, too, were good that year, though by the time we finished singling them we felt we’d been born with a hoe in our hands. Smack, pull, smack, pull we went, day after day, along
the interminable drills. We saw turnip seedlings sprouting in our dreams and wished the cows were not so desperately fond of the things. It was only the thought of being able to dump a pailful of
succulent slivers under the nose of a stalled beast on a winter morning that kept us going. A turnip is indeed a handy thing to have about the place in winter: it gives a savour to the family soup
pot; the hens love to peck away at one, when the snugness of their deep-litter house begins to pall and they’re longing for a little diversion; and the sheep will gladly polish off any still
left in the field, in the hungry gap of early spring.

We managed to keep the garden fairly clear of marauders that summer, though every time I went up to get a lettuce or an apronful of peas, I dreaded what I might find in the way of damage done
overnight. The black-faced sheep has all the instincts of a mountaineer and is quite able to scale, or barge through, an ordinary wire fence. Cows have elasticated necks, with an amazing reach, and
a distinct fondness for flower-heads of all kinds. Anything growing on the other side of a fence has an irresistible attraction for them. I sometimes wonder what they secretly made of the taste of
the luscious-looking nasturtium leaves they devoured. Then there were all the other garden enemies—the goat, rabbits and moles and hares. Even the chickens were most unhelpful; in the early
part of the season, when they were on free range, they would fly over the fence and scratch up the new-sown seed in a kind of demented frenzy.

One morning, I found Charlie, the horse, standing with a rather shamefaced, bewildered look in his eyes, in the midst of the trampled cabbages. It transpired that the children had left the gate
open the evening before, Charlie had wandered in, the gate had blown to and he couldn’t get out again. It was surprising, really, the small amount of damage he had actually done. I think
he’d had a conscience about it! Anyhow, he seemed glad enough to be released from his enforced captivity among the vegetables.

It was a minor miracle that even one carrot should survive in the face of all these hazards. Our appreciation of the perilous journey which each bit of greenstuff or root had endured, before it
reached the dish, gave an added savour to our meals.

All in all, that was a good year for the garden. The currant bushes, which a neighbour had given us, began to bear fruit. Mint, parsley and chives were all flourishing, along with carrots,
parsnips, radish, peas, beans, chicory, beetroot, spinach and all the usual greens. There were even a few knobbly cauliflowers. In his few spare moments, Jim had made a glass-house on a framework
of scrap picked up at the Inverness yard. I had high hopes of producing tomatoes in this and I did put a dozen plants in home-made compost in margarine boxes. But they took too long to ripen, in
the meagre heat, and only developed some rather tight, pale balls of fruit, which I made into chutney. However, I found the glass-house an excellent place for bringing on flower seedlings, and
subsequently it was put to other uses. It served as a brooder-house for day-old chicks and it once saved the lives of some weakly piglets. One year it grew a vegetable marrow and it now produces
strawberries and mushrooms and gives us some most welcome out-of-season lettuce. It has done much to add spice to our lives and it has become quite a landmark. Sun and moonlight glisten on its
roof, making it wink cheerfully across the landscape.

In a small enclosure off the garden Jim had placed our much-travelled beehives and he liked to talk bees with anyone who was interested. Every croft had its hive or two, but there were no real
enthusiasts in the district. However, word soon got round that Jim was bee-minded and he travelled miles to collect swarms. The real bee-man is born, not made, either you have a feeling for the
little creatures, or you haven’t. Jim undoubtedly has; he works away quite unconcerned among them, scorning hats, veils and other protective apparatus. There is only a short clover season
here, but the heather is right on the bees’ doorstep and they were soon revelling in it and laying up another small harvest for us.

Our cattle all passed another tuberculin test, but Hope suddenly became alarmingly ill. On entering the byre one morning for the milking, she lay down in her stall and refused to move. Her
stomach was swollen like a balloon and she was groaning in a most distressing way. We thought she had probably overeaten herself in the lush summer grass, and was blown. If that were the case, the
only remedy, we knew, was the drastic one of plunging a sharp instrument into her side, to release the accumulation of gases—and we knew it had to be done at once, if she was to be saved. We
looked at one another, wondering who would have the courage to perform the operation. Then, by great good luck, we happened to notice the vet’s car drawing up at Willie Maclean’s; he
was on his testing round. Billy was despatched with an urgent message and, within a quarter of an hour, the vet was examining Hope. She was not, he said, blown, the swelling, apparently, was in the
wrong place for that. With a mighty, combined effort we got her to her feet and he gave her a drench and told us to keep her in the byre, with her forelegs higher than her rear. We obeyed
instructions and she slowly recovered, but she had very little milk for some time after that.

We were thankful disaster had been averted. The loss of a cow, on a small place such as ours, can be a very serious matter indeed. The result of this mysterious affliction was that Hope failed
to come into season at the appropriate time. It is most important on a bleak, hill farm to have the calves born about April or May, so that cow and calf get the benefit of the good weather. To this
end, the cows must be served in early or mid-summer. With some beasts you can detect at once the restlessness which means that they are, in local parlance, ‘wanting away’. Immediately,
you sling on the rope halter and allow yourself to be dragged the up-hill mile to the bull’s domain. If you’re lucky, the one trip will suffice, if not, you may have to accompany the
wayward lady twice, or even thrice, on her nuptial journey.

With other beasts it is sometimes extremely difficult to detect the signs: they may occur only at night, when the household is asleep. You’re lucky, then, if a kindly farmer will allow
your cow or heifer to run with his bull for a lengthy period, to ensure satisfaction.

That summer, Hope had not the slightest desire to gallivant. In the end, in desperation, we had to get the vet to give her an injection, which had the desired effect of making her head
post-haste bull-wards. We have since spent many anxious hours trying to anticipate the moods of various members of our small herd and have often wished that artificial insemination were not such a
skilled and costly business.

On the rare occasions when we had leisure to lean on a gate, in those early summer days, we couldn’t help feeling a certain sense of achievement. The cattle and sheep were thriving, the
pigs were rootling and putting on weight. The lambs were all safely inoculated and bid fair to become winners. The hens and ducks were still laying hard and the new pullets were making good
progress. They were white Leghorn, crossed with light Sussex, and as trim and elegant as ballerinas. The potato and turnip crops were lush and green. There was a ripple through the young grass and
the oats were showing a milky sheen. There was much to consolidate, much to improve, but we felt we had at least passed a couple of milestones on our road.

CHAPTER VIII

FIVE YEARS A-GROWING

O
N
a hill croft, once the turnips are singled and the potatoes ridged, there is a lull until hay harvest. On the low ground, the hay is usually ready
soon after the turnips are done, and the lull is between hay and corn harvests. With us, getting in the hay is generally a very anxious and long-drawn-out affair, which may well go on till it
overlaps the cutting of the com, so that we’re very glad of a respite before the grass is ready.

With most hill-people this respite takes the form of an expedition to the nearest moss to cut peat. A bus-man’s holiday, if you like, for the work is hard. Still, days at the peats do have
a feel of jollity about them. For one thing, they mean a change of scene, as some people have to go several miles to find suitable ground. Then it’s work all can share and very often men,
women and children from several crofts will join forces, the men to do the cutting, the women and children to stack the peats to dry. Food will be taken and a fire lit from old, dry heather roots,
to boil the dinner kettle. There is always much leg-pulling and wise-cracking— communal work always goes with a swing.

Later in the year another expedition will be made, when the small heaps of peats will be built into larger ones. It is rather like making stocks into ricks. Then in the autumn the whole lot will
be carted home and built into a stack near the house door. It’s a harvest that hasn’t much worry attached to it. Even if the weather is so bad that the peats never really dry out, they
will still burn reasonably well. There is also a definite sense of satisfaction in making oneself independent of the coal-merchant. We should have liked to have cut peats that summer, but there was
still a lot of pioneering work to be done in the way of fencing and draining and this had to have priority.