Tales of Wigtownshire and Beyond

What I’ve been thinking about this week:

1. My weak will. 
2. Not telling tales. 

Last week, Ivie and I were in Glasgow for a couple of nights. He’s just turned 28 (I know, I’m such a cradle snatcher) so we had a wee jaunt with some very vague plans, mostly revolving around food. 

We had booked a Japanese restaurant for Friday night where we had to reign in our enthusiasm and not order one of everything. We were fairly smug about our chopsticks technique, even under the influence and went back to our hotel merry and with full stomachs.

Teppanyaki drama

 Our plan for Saturday was to pop into Kelvingrove on the way to watching Newton Stewart play Glasgow Accies then head for Thai food in the evening. 

• Kelvingrove – yep, walked in just as an organ recital was beginning, which included some Very Serious Music. And Star Wars. 
• Rugby – yep, although we got stuck in the bar before the match as the after-lunch speaker was blocking the doorway WHILE SLAGGING OFF SELKIRK WOMEN! 
• Thai food – not a chance. 

It turns out I’m very easily led. By which I mean, the conversation at kick-off (and every conversation thereafter) went something like this:

Lorna/Jo/Lorraine/Ivie/Russell/everyone else: “Would you like a drink?”

Me: “No thanks, I’m a lightweight.”

“One won’t do you any harm.”

“Oh, go on then.”

Evil

The wine and conversation both flowed pretty well and there was a wee chat about my blog. It’s always nice to get a compliment (thank you) and I did my best to reassure the travelling support that I won’t share everything they say or do. The blog mainly exists to take the mick out of Ivie and me, to be fair, and I’m not into throwing anyone else under the bus. Unless they’ve slagged off Selkirk women, obviously. 

Turns out John McNeillie wasn’t quite as concerned about throwing people under the bus. Or Clydesdale. I’ve just finished reading his book, Wigtown Ploughman, which upset folk in the Machars when it was published in the 30s. He didn’t shy away from the harsh realities of rural life or concern himself with changing the names of the farms or the families that ran them. No-one escapes the violent temper of the main character and there was little heed of the notion of consent, although it did lead to changes in the law to protect agricultural labourers. So, not all bad then….

Bit of light reading

Thankfully, my own modern(ish) ploughman has very little in common with Andy Walker, except perhaps his love of the land and satisfaction in a job well done. 

And I doubt I’ll have 40 books under my belt unless I do nothing else but write from now until eternity. But at least most folk in the Machars will still be talking to me. 

Lights Off

What you should know: 

• Being from the Borders doesn’t automatically make you a collie. 

• You’d think I’d learn. (Or maybe not, based on past experience.) 

I’ve had a farmery couple of weeks by my standards. July was a bit of a write-off what with having covid and all (I’ve now stopped having toddler naps in the afternoon, which is progress) but I was put to work almost as soon as I tested negative. 

It was already an unusual Saturday, in that we were going out to an Actual Thing later that afternoon. Jim Smith was in Dumfries and we were off to see him with some pals. For those who haven’t heard of him, he’s a stand-up who’s also a farmer. Or a farmer who’s also a stand-up. We saw him at the end of 2019 and I got almost all the jokes. Fast forward to summer 2022 and I got Every. Single. One. Disturbed or proud? I haven’t decided yet. 

I was trying to conserve my energy for chatting on the way to Dumfries and then laughing once I got there so I’d had a lie-in and taken the dog for a fairly short walk. Then Ivie uttered those dreaded words: “Could you come and help me with something?” 

I’d agreed before having the sense to ask what the something was, which Ivie was probably counting on. 

Not invited

Earlier in the week, the ewes and lambs had been separated into different fields. The lambs are getting too big to get underneath the ewes to feed and don’t need the extra nutrition any longer. 

Later in the week, the ewes and lambs had reunited in the same field. Our job was to un-unite them. 

“Shall we take Isa (the border collie)?” I asked, hopefully. 

“Naw, it’ll be easier without her.” 

What I should have said at this point was, “Easier for who?” (or ‘whom’ if I was feeling all fancy). 

Not running gear

The short version of events is: 

• Ivie drove around on the quad. 
• I ran around in (not just) my wellies. 
• He should have told me to wear a sports bra. 
• Sheep are endless and stupid. 
• They ended up back in the same field later that night anyway so we shouldn’t have bloody bothered. 

Thankfully, the animals stayed where they should at Wigtown Show last Wednesday (the four-legged variety in any case). 

Peggyslea Clydesdales

It was a grand day out, and after two years of no show because of lockdown, it was great to catch up with so many people. It’s a very efficient way of seeing farmery folk (and Ivie’s relatives) all in one place but come 3 o’clock, my post-covid batteries ran down and I was ready for home. As you can imagine, Ivie was not quite ready for home so I told him I’d pick him up any time before 10pm when both my phone and my light would be going off. 

Guess how many people Ivie asked for a lift between 10.01pm and midnight? Nope, he's no idea either.

On With the Shows

What I’ve been thinking about this week:

• Agricultural Shows.

• Fitting in.

Although I wasn’t at last week’s Highland Show, it has got me thinking about the three agricultural shows I’ve been to in my life. 

Around 1985 I attended the Yarrow Show in my Selkirk High School Band debut. That's me on second horn. I was very proud. 

Some 20 years later, I went to the Highland Show, which I’ve now been to twice. They were very different experiences. 

The first time was with my mum. It was a grand day out, with men shimmying up poles very quickly, sheep and cows with rosettes and impressive caber tossing. And a life-sized haggis…

Fast forward to 2019 and it was a completely different kind of grand day out. I’d just arrived back from a week in Majorca and was wondering how easy it would be to wheel my suitcase the mile or so from the airport to the showfield. Luckily, Ivie surprised me at Arrivals so we got there much quicker than if I’d had to find my own way. 

I have an appalling sense of direction, which is deeply ingrained in my DNA. There is much family folklore of Giblins being in the very wrong place at the wrong time but those are for another day. Suffice to say, I was once in Ohio when I thought I was in Pennsylvania. 

Anyway, we Ivie found the car with no trouble, I dumped my suitcase and in we went to the Show. 

Well, nothing had prepared me for being at an agricultural show with an actual farmer. I had assumed that he would want to have a close look at machinery at some point but I hadn’t bargained on going to each stand and being plied with free booze. They sure know their audience.

And then there’s the bumping into people. Obviously, I’m used to us bumping into someone Ivie knows wherever we go (including Tokyo, for goodness’ sake) but this was on a much larger scale. We couldn’t walk 50 yards without stopping to talk to someone about machinery, spread rates or something else farmery. There also seemed to be a lot of jokes without punchlines. 

Entrance to the market where we heard, "Hey, Ivie!" 🙄🙄🙄

Knowing people or in some cases, being related to them, also meant being led what felt like ‘backstage’. It was a whole new world of people rushing backwards and forwards while huge Clydesdales awaited their turn in the ring. I was hastily introduced to lots of people and handed another glass of wine. And then asked where I was from. 

There was some initial confusion that I wasn’t from a farm or from Wigtownshire but no-one seemed to mind and I kept being handed alcohol. (I may also have suggested that Ivie had exhausted his romantic opportunities locally so was forced to look outside the Shire for his next attachment…).

The story was much the same at Wigtown Show on the couple of occasions I’ve been - meet people, look at tractors and drink. It’s Ivie’s perfect day out, really, and these days, I don’t feel I have to stick around when the chat gets too farmery.

I even joined Wigtown Agricultural Society this week. I’m not entirely sure what it entails, to be honest, other than I won’t have to buy a ticket on the day. And now when people ask where I’m from, I can say The Spittal and they’ll know exactly where I fit into the world. 

Ice, Ice Baby

 What I’ve been thinking about this week:

• Socialising

What I haven’t been thinking about:

• Fertiliser prices

Over the last few weeks, it feels like that world has started to open up a lot more. I’ve gone from being a bit anxious about leaving the farm to looking forward to seeing other people. I’ve still got some anti-social tendencies but they’re more personality-related than covid-related. 

For the last couple of years, we’ve all been making our own entertainment at home. Being middle-aged, ours has revolved around drinking wine, eating salty snacks and laughing at our own jokes. Now that we’re comfortable being out and about much more, I’m cutting down on the frazzles so that my going out clothes still fit but I’ll hold on to the vino and hilarity if you don’t mind.

Last week, we were at a curling club dinner to celebrate 50 years of the local ice rink. (There’s a sentence I never thought I’d type.)

Over 300 people were packed on to the iceless ice rink for dinner, drinks and a lot of speeches. It was a good night, catching up with people we hadn’t seen for a long time and being in the same room as a lot of Olympians and shiny medals. There was a shout-out to all the clubs represented and I was more than a little disappointed that ‘curling widows’ wasn’t a recognised group in its own right. 

What I’d forgotten about socialising in the outside world with Ivie was the topics of conversation. There’s a lot of crossover between the curling and farming communities so inevitably the chat around our table turned to lambing, silaging and fertiliser prices. In fact, one couple even had to leave early because a cow was calving at home. Another sentence I never thought I’d type. 

Very expensive, apparently

I like to think I can hold my own a bit more these days when it comes to farming chat. Gone are the days when I didn’t recognise anything or anyone being discussed and drifted off in my own head, circling back when we got to more familiar ground (or asking really, really stupid questions). Having said that, there was the party where the men I was standing with got on to different brands of wellies and which cattle breeds were their favourites to cross. Even I couldn’t fake interest in that. 

What’s changed, though, is that I know more people and I can go off and find someone who wants to talk about the important things in life. Like Sewing Bee, the age spaniels finally calm the **** down and how long it’ll be before we’ll need varifocals. I told you I was middle-aged. 

Ambitious stick carrying

Here's Tae Us

What I've been thinking about this week: 

1. 2021
2. 2022

Let's face it, Christmas and New Year haven't quite been what we're used to or expected. Without getting too maudlin, I think we all figured we'd had our Asda Smart Price version in 2020/21 and this year would be more Tesco Finest. Still, we're here and that's the main thing. 

For the last few years, I've done a review of my year. My friend sent me this link in late 2014 after my first full year in Dumfries and Galloway and I've answered the questions every year since. Yesterday, I spent a day in my shed thinking about questions, such as 'what was your favourite compliment?' (that people laugh at my blog) and 'what did you do for the first time this year?' (lambed a ewe). 

It's also quite interesting looking back at how things have changed (for example, from 2018 when Ivie and I were Never Living With Anyone Ever Again). 

Any excuse for coloured pens

To be honest, I was enjoying being on my own without the puppy bringing me her new favourite toy to play with or Ivie asking me what was for tea. 

Rudi and Ted (thank you, Fishers)

Sometime in the afternoon, Ivie appeared at the door of the shed. I was about to grumble to leave me alone when I saw that he had a bottle of gin in his hand. Not just any gin either. Delicious local gin, Hills and Harbour, which is distilled just along the road. 

I welcomed him with open arms. (It was a bit too early for open glasses but it was a start.)

Unopened. For now. 

If you're a regular reader (thank you), one of the things you might have noticed is that there have been fewer blogs in 2021 than 2020 (21 vs 44). Sometimes it can feel like the same things are happening on the farm as in the previous year (I know, no sh*t, Sherlock). But then something surprising happens...

I wondered aloud where Ivie had come across a bottle of Hills and Harbour at 2pm on a Monday afternoon in January. What I actually said was, "How have you got that?!" in a slightly accusatory manner. 

It turns out that a nearby farmer had borrowed a tup to introduce some new blood into his flock. He'd returned the tup and two bottles of H&H. Thankfully, that allayed my fears that there was only one bottle and we'd have to drink it all before anyone mentioned it to Ivie's brother. It would have been quite a challenge but we'd have faced it head on. At least until we were face down.