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Oooh, that snap looks a tad grainy. Nice though isn't it?

Tis Dad Crofter tickling the ears of some piggie - a visiting beast of a Gloucester old spot flavour I think. Or maybe filling the water trough. Possibly.

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These three guard the croft with a right old racket every time one wanders down the road towards them. They are not doing their longevity much good I can tell you. The one at the front makes a run at me every time I turn my back. Typical!

Dad Crofter is fine since you ask. Doing the feeding and stuff despite the rain and what have you,. There's a storm coming in later in the week so no doubt he;ll be tying things down before then.

And there's the Great Man making his way to the Tooth Factory on a sunnier day. With a bucket of builders tea to keep him from dehydrating or something.

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Not sure if Mum Crofter was inviting me to climb into the firebox of the stove or what!

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Sheeps. They are still here although they haven't got a much of a look in recently. Maybe they will soon. I'm right off the geese, one of whom took a dislike to my boot and tried to eat it with my foot inside. And Colla with Tinga went off down the croft well out of sight.

That's the woollie-back sheeps above. Not sure what flavour he is but he is a big boy so to speak. Quite makes the Hebridean sheeps look tiny. Although they still look pretty - with or without the straw accoutrements.  I think they were meant to be eating it. Or maybe not. How am I supposed to know? eh? The crofter was in his own tooth factory hutch and didn't tell me.

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Mr Crofter Sir is happy. As happy as he gets anyway. The tooth factory is warm and he has work to do. Dad Crofter is out feeding the animules and Mum Crofter is keeping the hoose in order. Outside, in the newly wind-proofed byre, young Colla is doing splendidly with Tinga somewhat calmer than she generally is.

 In the tooth factory

A cold wind is blowing hard across the village making an uncomfortable stroll down the road. The ferry from Stornoway has already been cancelled but, we have no snow here at present.

You know, it can be difficult to come up with something new at The Croft. I've been snapping down there for years now, the film negs are overtaking the summer parlour up here at Wiesmier Towers. Forgive me if it all gets a bit samey!

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Hopefully, The Crofter is still speaking to me despite my naming mistakes. I've yet to go down the road to see him as, although the sun is shining there's a bitter wind coming off the Minch so I spent the morning playing the in darkroom.

Dad Crofter appeared.

Dad Crofter at lunch

Hope the hens are still laying as I need some more eggs. And, you never know, I might even find out what flavour the little coow is and what it's name is going to be. Come back later!


Later; The little coow is a boy. And his name is Colla. 

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I have an apology to make; I was wrong. Totally  wrong in that it wasn't Hyacinth in the Byre but stroppy Tinga. I should have known. I was told after all and she did look really aggressively at me and everything. The way Tinga does. It was a coow though. I got that bit right.

But now we have another couple of pairs of legs to wonder about. Little leggies and two with white socks. See, Tinga in all her stroppyness and the like gave birth to this little coow of unknown flavour yesterday. It looks lovely from what I can see - only one doesn't get too close to Tinga - most of all when there's a little-un about.

Tinga shaking her head at me!

So I stood with Dad Crofter gazing at the little white-socks from a distance, with a long lens on the camera [there's a first time for everything!].

 Ahh, look at those little white socks

Oie! Don't come too close.

Mr Crofter Sir is currently perusing the Shetland Norse names book for young coows as I write and no doubt will come up with a suitable name once it's flavour has been ascertained.

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 Dad Crofter wondering

Hyacinth is in her byre at the moment, waiting perhaps so as to sprog. We shall see. All the same she likes the byre - dry and warmish. Warmer than the apportionment anyway. I mean, look at her, does she seem content or what?

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Meet Ilja [ill-ya]. He's Fluff's new friend, plucked for the obscurity of the flock at large to keep the young Fluff company now that Rambo has gone to another place. Seems to have settled in nicely - or so it seems as they trotted round the paddock that is their home at the moment. Close enough to Mum & Dad Crofters housey to get their regular toast in the morning and still gaze at the girls in the next croft.

 Fluff and Ilja come out the sunlight at me.

And then scamper down to make sure the girls are still in the next door croft.

Meanwhile, over at The Crofter's croft, Sue is preparing a stew for tea. I was so impressed I came home and threw one together for us - minus the meat!

Crofter dad was tickling a mixer into life or something technical like that in the back end of the out-house or whatever it's called these days. Maybe he was oiling it. Who knows? Not me that's for sure!

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Turk reigns. He may only have one eye on account of a vicious chicken attack but still he reigns. Reigns with his harem using nothing but terror. As a result some of the chickens are in cages now to protect them from retribution. It's not all the chickens that Turk and his family don't like but they are now mostly all kept out of harms way. Ducks? Well,  ducks are ducks and seem to be unaffected. As of yesterday anyway.

It's raining again by the way and I think it's never going to get light this year!

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Welcome to 2013 on The Croft o'er here on the Western Isles.

It's started anyway. One biggish blow took off the plastic from the polytunnels and the guttering from the coow shed as well. Which is a pity since Hyacinth has taken up residence there again as there are suspicions there may be a sprog coming. Hyacinth seems very content - except when I show up. The mud is building well.

On the down side, I have to report that Rambo, the ancient Ram of this parish who had been hobbling around crofts for nigh-on 15 years passed away peacefully in his sleep last night. He will be missed - not least by Fluff who has been his constant companion of late. No flowers please.

Mr Crofter Sir, before the blow,