CROFTING

 

CROFTING

Crofting wasn’t the dream life they’d envisaged. The stony ground broke tools and backs, the sheep vanished into the hills, and they couldn’t even give the fleeces away.

That first winter they hardly spoke, neither wanting to be the first to admit their mistake, then Morag found the spinning wheel.

Fergus washed the fleeces, Morag spun, and in the long evenings they knitted by the fire. Scarves and hats, bedecked with hopeful pom-poms, sold enough at the Christmas market to restock the freezer, and there was just enough money left for a bottle to celebrate their first year as crofters.

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My mother had a spinning wheel for many years - she still has a cardigan of very fine wool which she spun, dyed and knitted herself. Her hands, sadly, are too arthritic now, and her eyesight too bad, to do any of the many crafts she once enjoyed, but she's content. I've spent the past few weeks sourcing a new care home for her, as the one she's lived in for three years is closing. She's settling down in her new place, though it's bigger than she's used to, and at 97 her memory isn't great so she gets lost, but as she says to me, "I'm perfectly capable of asking for help, dear." And she is!