William. Just William. In Cromor.
The snow has gone. Disappearing overnight with just a mere thwop-miow in the night as the stuff slid off the roof onto some poor unsuspecting cat - probably.
With an air of an escapee, I set off with my dear Eve down to see William and Gemma to witness the Cromor 'moving of the sheeps' or some such local custom. We arrived too late after the pleasant but longish drive south. The sheeps had already been taken from up there on the moor and put up there on the moor with a brief interlude in the fank by the loch for something. Something which I still haven't grasped. I asked a few times but my understanding of 'sheep-talk' - wedders, gimmers and the like - is not up to the speed of crofters and I remain in ignorance. William had a lovely time though and obviously had dressed for the part too.
After soup and a fine chat William, Eve and I had a fine stroll over those there moors alongside the loch looking out over the Minch and the fine mountains of the mainland.