Crofting chaos as pigs dig for freedom

They have an open-plan log cabin, an expansive woodland playground, daily food deliveries and stunning views, but it seems that’s not enough.

 

The pigs have itchy trotters and all bets are off each morning when it comes to the porcine headcount.

 

Like Steve McQueen and his pals these guys make their great escape via a system of secret tunnels.

 

Our regular patrols around the pig perimeter show no signs of potential escape routes, yet each morning roll-call flags up some missing persons.

 

Their getaway efforts are pretty much in vain, however, as at the first sounds of bucket-filling the thick bracken in the neighbouring field erupts with a cacophony of grunts and squeals, and the AWOL crew come thundering home.

 

They are none of them piglets or weaners any more, yet their Houdini antics seem that they would only be achievable by animals much more petite than our strapping big boys.

 

Their rooting and foraging along dykes and fences leave wee dips in the dirt, but only a fraction of the size of our guys’ girths.

 

Yet they escape every single day.

 

To be fair they’re not packing a bag and jumping on the 926 to Campbeltown, they’re just digging up the adjacent drying green, but it’s a pain in the backside. Literally.

 

One of the regular culprits thinks he’s an adolescent Labrador and constantly jumps up on whoever of us is unfortunate enough to be carrying the bucket of feed.

 

Try carrying kilos of sow rolls while climbing a fence and heaving tonnes of cattle-handling gates into a configuration that will allow the return of these reprobates. Then try that with the encouragement of a hefty Tamworth headbutting your bum.

 

Oh well, they’ll be due a trip to Mull in the coming months and eventually a wealth of Christmas hams will materialise and we’ll miss their fun and frolics.

 

It will be time then to indulge their larger, hairier neighbours with a bit of attention as the Highland cows have been disappointingly independent throughout the summer.

 

They’ll saunter over for the occasional bit of grooming or a wee scratch and a chat, but mostly the summer’s plentiful water supply and abundant grazing have made us pretty much redundant recently in terms of cattle management.

 

But we’re prepped and ready to go when the thermometer drops and the girls look to us for their catering requirements.

 

A lorry loaded with 150 bales of hay pulled up in the village last week and we joined two sets of neighbours to offload it on a dark and dreich night.

 

We made a great team filling each other’s trailers with plenty of heaving, chucking, stacking and occasional counting  - when we remembered.

 

Somehow it was less fun the next day back on the croft with the trailer stranded on the drive a seriously sweaty and peching distance from the hayshed.

 

One by one we lifted, lugged and laid the 50 bales in their winter home and maybe felt just slightly smug at the fruits of our labours, but surely it would be a sad and pathetic person that would then perform a sneaky web-search entitled ‘hay bale stacking calories…’

 

(600 per hour, if you’re asking).