It's never dull down on the Croft. I'm wandering down the road - in the middle of the road, just because I can - and I hear the familiar crakin thud of sheeps head against sheeps head. Again and again. Although there's something different this time the rhythm strange. Arrhythmic perhaps. Junior sheeps is getting a right seeing to by the older fellas. They are all rams you see and the lady sheeps were put a little too close for ignoring at this time of year so the 'boys' thought it was Saturday night in Stornoway time. No sooner had two rams collided when the third one bashed in - often into random fallen bodies. I hate seeing this despite having seen it several times before. Mr Crofter ventured into the ring and had a few stern words to say, but they weren't listening. Couldn't care less what Mr Crofter had to say. So Junior was separated from the other two and put in another field. That calmed things down a bit. At least until the other two started at it later on. I came home
On the Isle of Lewis off the west coast of mainland Scotland lies a croft inhabited by an English off-comer. His Mum and Dad live nearby and help him run the croft. This is a photographic record of their lives as it unfolds.