成人快手

Each morning noo, when I wake up and open the bedroom curtains, I`m greeted by a half dozen eggs on the lawn. They are duck eggs...ducks, no` the brightest o` creatures, will lay their eggs any auld whar, and then walk off and leave them tae the crows.
Well, I`m no` ower fond o` crows, and would like no` tae attract them tae the garden if possible, so yours truly toddles oot o` a morning in her jammies and slippers, tae collect the duck eggs and bring them indoors.
I dinnae actually like the taste o` duck eggs meself...too `eggy`...but I hand them on tae folks wha` dae.
And noo oor chickens are well intae laying, wi` the lighter nights and longer days, we hae a wheen o` hen eggs. There`s nae point in selling ony tae the local shops, just aboot a`body here keeps hens and has eggs. So each year I`m looking for 101 new things tae dae wi` hen eggs.
So far, I can only manage these...I pickle big jars o` eggs, when we hae visitors later in the year and go for island walks, they always like, packed in the picnic basket, pickled eggs.
I seperate the yolks and eggs and put them in the freezer in big bags. See, ye can tan skins wi` egg yolks, it tak`s the place o` auld fashioned brain tanning. So I store eggs to help mak` buckskins.
I bake! Cakes, biscuits, onything which has eggs in the recipe, I bake and freeze.
Aside frae that though, I am fresh oot o` eggy ideas. We hae mair eggs than we can eat.

Och and see there! On the telly this morning, the weather report. All o` the UK basking in sunshine, temperatures tae grace a summers day on the beach.
Then I look oot the window...it`s chucking it doon, misty, cauld and damp.
I reckon they should mak weather reporters tak some kind o` course in reality whar they could at least phone up some wee chappie in the North Isles and ask him what the weather is really doing that day. Tsk.

Each morning I am serenaded by the wren which is nesting in an auld ivy covered pillar aside the hoose. For such a wee bird, there is a hearty voice! I love tae hear, each spring, the wren and the blackbird sing. Like liquid gold they are, songs full o` sunlight and ease and long balmy days.
Though, in reality, they are marking their territory and sending oot a cross atween mating calls and `let`s fight!` tae other birds...
We hae a lot o` wild birds aroond us. A lot o that is due tae the fact that they are used to feeding off the grain we put oot for the poultry, none o` which is grudged in ony way. So most days the place is full o` sparrows and starlings, blackbirds and gulls and the moorhens wha` seem tae hae adopted us and are almost tame enough tae pick up noo. Ower by the pond at the side o` the track we watch herons fish, wi` that lovely kind o` auld mannish patience and watch swans glide across the glassy water, or the smaller wild ducks, all backsides-up as they feed off the bottom o` the shallow bit of water. Aroond the pond are flag irises, which mak a bonny sea o` yellow and green later in the year, and wild flowers like ragged robin, wild orchids, clover and vetch....Orkney is always a richt bonny sight each year, a carpet o` wildflowers atop a sea o` green, what we lack in hill and forest we more than mak up for wi` this display o` colour and scent.
The landscape wakes up this time o` year. Birds mate and fight, the soil warms up and enfolds the seed, and the whole feel o` the landscape is kinder, more amenable tae us humans wha` need tae mak a living off it. There`s a fine energy aboot the place that cannae be dampened doon even in the face o` yet another rainy day.
I wouldnae trade the song o` that wren ootside me window for anything this day. Ye can keep your big cities, wi` the hustle o` ower mony folks and the roar o` ower mony cars. I`ll keep the sound o` the sea kissing the shingle shore and the pure, clean song o` the birds.
It`s a fine life, being a hermit.