CULTURE
never lost a cow, nor has there been a refusal. ‘A good slap on the water with an oar and they know what to do,’ says Ian. Sadly Katie recently passed away. ‘I lost my wife two years ago and miss her terribly,’ says Ian. ‘It’s the croft and the cattle that keep me going.’ And so it comes to the big event. Staffin is
usually quietly dignified, but today there’s a feverish whiff of expectation in the air. Ian, his sons Angus and Calum, friends Ally, Andy, Alan, Donald-John and half a dozen more islanders sit in Stenscholl’s tiny kitchen. Clus- tered together in the dim light there is much discussion of previous drives. ‘Don’t mention the red bloomers Herdy,’ calls one. He didn’t. I ask how they know when Ian’s ‘big event’
the heady 550-yard crossing to Glenelg on the mainland were walked on to lowland markets. Now that there are three cattle markets in
Portree each year, the long walks are gone. Yet Ian’s Limousins and Aberdeen Angus are still driven over to Staffainn because they return from their island getaway in wonderful condi- tion. ‘They come back looking like buffalos’, says Ian’s son Calum, who helps run the croft when he’s not running his popular tearoom. Their venerable bull, who goes by the high-
Clockwise from top:
Calum Macdonald and his cows hit dry land; the swimming of the beasts always draws a crowd; a post-match dram in Stenscholl’s tiny kitchen .
falutin’ name of Murray Gallant, bides his time at a neighbouring croft. ‘Only the girls get their feet wet,’ chuckles Ian, ‘Old Murray concen- trates on getting the other bits wet!’ Ian took over the croft in 1958, married local
lass, Katie, raised three sons and three daugh- ters and has been moving cattle every year. He’s
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will happen. Do they study the tide tables, moon charts perhaps? ‘Nah,’ says Ally, ‘we just phone him.’ The whisky bottle does the rounds, the shortbread stays in its packet. ‘Time for action,’ says Ian suddenly, and off he goes. A varied procession of vehicles winds its way
half a mile along the single-track coastal road beneath the croft. Ian and Pip the collie ride in the 15ft wooden fishing boat, which is towed to the water by quad bike. Across the water, ears are pricked. Seven-
teen beasts spy the activity and begin to line up above the now-exposed tide line. Among obso- lete fishing net poles they stare balefully at the gathering horde of locals. ‘As soon as they see dad’s yellow jacket, they know what’s coming,’ says Calum. The boats are launched. A beach has
appeared, where there was none a few minutes before. A seal pops up to watch proceedings; on
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