You don't have to go to Spain to see people dancing with bulls. Up here in North Tolsta on a particularly wet and windy day, The Crofter decided it was time to move the four coows from over there [pointing just behind my head] to down there. 'There' in this case being his croft. The coows were not too keen on the move - especially the bit then they had to walk down t'road. The bus coming past didn't help, neither did the dustbin lorry. Mr Crofter Sir was getting a tad anxious as were the coows who retreated to the lower field.
It was a little later I heard the familiar rattle of The Crofter's tractor coming up the road. I put on my waterproofs and shot down the field to record the action. It seems the idea was to load the recalcitrant beasts into the big trailer and tow them home. First a holding pen had to constructed using hurdles and rope. The beasts lured in with a morsel of food and then trapped there before the layout of the pen changed to enable The Crofter to get the coows into the trailer. Two went in without too much hassle but Hyacinth had other ideas. She really was naughty, repeatedly flicking her horns at him in a most un-lady-like manner and then charging The Crofter who fended her off with a hurdle and an over-confident 'Ole! or two. All the time Esme ran hither and thither creating more havoc. Eventually Esme had got rather pufffed out and retreated the relative warmth of the trailer while The Crofter, The Crofter's pater and I wrestled with Hyacinth, taking care not to lose and arm or an eye. We won in the end and the coows are now ensconced on the croft down t'road.
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.