I Can't Explain
Life on an eight-acre croft on the Orkneys means that tough decisions have to be made even before you've moved there.
Sacrifices have to be made and we are going to have to get used to it - how, otherwise are we going to send pigs to slaughter, wring chickens' necks, drink lager instead of Guinness and so on?
The first casualty is The Beast, the 30-year-old Series II Land Rover that I bought a few months ago mainly to make me look like a farmer.
I've had the chassis welded, it's passed it's MoT, but it's not really a practical proposition. Bouncing along at 40mph is great fun, but I'm not convinced it's the right vehicle for us. We now have the chance the buy a K-reg Land Rover Discovery. Less romantic, but very much more comfortable and far better at the business end of things such as towing and generally getting to places without breaking down.
The upshot is that the first person to thrust £1,500 into my hot and sweaty palm will get the keys. Sad, but there's no place for cry-babies in our situation.