Stop Press from Plockton

Bored with Brexit?
Troubled by Trump?
Petrified of Putin?

I have just the thing for you today!  Let's turn to the pages of the West Highland Free Press, and read about the controversy currently raging in the village of Plockton*, where local crofters have applied to reinstate the right for their cattle roam freely around this popular tourist destination.

It seems things got heated at a public meeting held to debate the issue last week, and some folk were worried about potential for disease, and gardens being trampled on, and roads blocked.

If I were a Heilan' Coo I would like to live in Plockton and roam up and down the main street, never mind any disruption to traffic and nuisance caused to nervous visitors.

But I guess the local bovine population did not get a say in the matter.

*As the crow flies, the pretty village of Plockton lies 15 miles south of our Torridon cottage; by the twisty West Highland roads, it is a good 45 miles.

It was all going so well...

So the second leg of our drive to Nottingham started so well when Gail, for once, actually ordered a 'proper' breakfast AND even agreed to divvy up the bacon into something approaching equitable shares (weight for weight at least).


Then we had an early lunch in the agreeable town of Richmond, North Yorkshire, where at the Crossview Tea Room on the market square the waitress recognised how I was on the verge of collapse through starvation and brought me my very own plate of sausage.


Approaching Nottingham, Gail decided we should go for a walk beside the River Trent before calling in to see Human Granny, and as we passed tbrough a field where cattle had recently been grazing, I saw fit to adorn myself with some locally sourced pastoral perfume, as for sure HGY would want to meet me smelling my best...

But Gail saw things differently and I was subjected to an uncalled for dunk in the river. It was small comfort to learn that the Trent is now, unlike when Gail was a child in Nottingham in the sixties, relatively clean and so I was unlikely to catch some nasty pollution related illness. When we returned to the car I was pleased to note though, that the smell of manure still lingered.

Imagine my shock and disappointment when we arrived at Human Granny's care home and  I was made to stay all alone in the car for the duration of Gail's visit...

Sheep Shenanigans with the Suffolk Stupenda

Who knew a SHEEP could be such a drama queen?

Let me tell you about the goings on at Banchory Show this weekend.

So Gail and I arrived at the main arena in time for the judging of the 'Cattle, Sheep and Horse Champion'.

First into the ring trotted a most handsome Clydesdale, understandably voted the show's top horse.

He was shortly joined by a rosette laden and deliciously beefy example of the bovine family. 

But where was the sheep?

Absolutely sign of the show's Woolly Wonder.

The judges conferred anxiously and, by loudspeaker, reminded the sheep that her presence was required.

But a diva knows that to keep her public waiting is part of the performance.

After several more minutes a quad bike towing a trailer slowly drove into the ring...

...and, amidst much kerfuffle, an ORANGE coloured Suffolk sheep finally emerged.

She stood there patiently while her human entourage knelt down to place her hooves in the correct position.

Now talk about high maintenance. I mean, even the 'Best in Show' types at Crufts don't DYE THEIR FURS!

I can just imagine what my rugged Shetland sheep pals in Torridon would have to say about her...

Well I know you'll all be wondering which animal won overall, but I can't tell you 'cos at this point  I was distracted from the judging by a cheeky wee foxy called Blaze.

Blaze, we learned, comes from Granddach Kennels like me. You'll notice his tail is docked. At nine years old, he was born just before a total ban on docking dogs' tails was enforced in Scotland.

Quite a feisty chappie I must say, although I'm really not sure why Gail kept muttering "two of a kind all right"...