The Man Himself.

Since my father has been a major influence on the food I eat, I feel it is almost necessary to write a little about him.

My dad is a legend. He has worked with the biggest supporters of Scottish Farming, and still does. He works alongside the NFU (National Farmers Union) as an Agricultural Insurance Assessor. I sometimes accompany him to these jobs, and work as his scribe, taking notes where he sees fit. He was chairman of the Young Farmers in the Garioch area for many a year, and he is still friends with many of the folk he knew through it. There is barely a farmer in the North East of Scotland that my dad doesn't know.



My father still works on the farm I grew up on and will do until his last breath, as is typical with his generation of workaholics. I admire his dedication to his work, and what he can produce from the land. As a beef and lamb farmer, he spends his Summer (and Spring, Autumn and Winter!) days roaming the fields, aiding animals to deliver the best offspring they can and in turn, creating the best profit for himself. Don't believe the hype, though. Most farmers are not as wealthy as you think. But, they are richer than most of us in ways we can only dream of.

I always used to say my dad could grow anything. And it's true. For the past few years, the weather has always hit at the worst possible time in Aberdeenshire, meaning entire crops of barley, oats and wheat are ruined or are too high in moisture to be used for the high-priced jobs like malting (producing whisky!). However, my dad seems to have uncanny ability - or superpower - to know when to strike the crops at their best. He knows to wait just that little longer and ends up producing fantastic quality grain when everyone else has to send theirs for feed or seed. It's the same with growing vegetables. He used to be well known for his swedes - or as we all call them here, neeps. His neeps were huge, sweet and just beautiful simmered with a sprinkling of sugar, mashed with a drop of cream and served with brisket or haggis. His tatties were famed for always being just right. He continues to grow tatties and neeps for himself and his livestock, but age and time are holding him back a little.

There is only one thing in the entire world that my father cannot grow. Parsley. It's the bane of his life. Even me, the one who can (easily) kill a cactus, can grow parsley from one of those pots that Jamie Oliver has in Homebase. But the master himself struggled for 5 months to get one measly seedling, then promptly gave up. It's not often that I see my father beaten by something, but parsley did it.

Over the course of his farming life, he has been battered, bruised and broken at many points. He suffered a broken arm, a few broken ribs and and a lot of bruising after a cow broke free during a difficult calving. Only 8 months prior, he was squished by a bull against a brick wall during feeding time. He walked away, nearly, after being found in a crumpled heap on the ground. The diagnosis? A broken collar bone, two broken shoulders, countless broken ribs and a concussion. And yet he STILL persists on working close to these humungous animals without a care in the world.

When he broke his arm, I had turned 8 a matter of days beforehand, and I remember vividly that he had a lot of the old-style cattle passports to sign and send away. So me, being the dutiful daughter, helped him sign every single one, and to this day, I could pretty much imitate his signature. I dated every one for him and he struggled to sign them while I sat and giggled at the funny words he used.

Yes, my pop has had a fairly hard and traumatic life. He is also very accident prone which was proven over the past year, when he has dislocated the same finger twice, broken his nose, fallen out of a tractor, been kicked in the hand (by a cow, may I add!), and has ended up smashing his own drivers window open to unlock the car after Jo, his new collie, locked himself inside with the keys.

As a daughter, I will never fully understand my dad. But that's the way it should be.

A.