The Highlands, Part One: Kingussie

I'm rather pleased with my decision to go to Scotland through an independent exchange program rather than through my home university, despite the added expense. This year, the program arranged a tour of the Highlands which included several off-the-beaten-path stops, including this one at a working sheepdog farm in Kingussie (pronounced kin-YOO-see).

I've recently been back to Kingussie since my first trip there in October, but visited the town itself rather than the surrounding farmland. Charming though the village may be, I much prefer the countryside.

Situated at the foot of the Cairngorm and Monadhliath mountains, Kingussie offers a fabulous vantage point for my favorite type of photography: landscapes. (Truth be told, I like them because they're easy; if you've got a gorgeous subject and a decent camera, you're almost guaranteed a good shot.)


Looking out over one of the pastures. While most of the animals paid us no mind, this lone cow watched us in complete bemusement. She must be a newcomer.

[Allow me to apologize early on for the photo quality. Actually, scratch that. I refuse to apologize for portraying Scotland as it truly is: hazy.]

After explaining some basic commands and introducing us to the twelve or so Border collies under his stead, the shepherd gave us a herding demonstration. The dog being used for this exercise, appearing as a small, black-and-white blip to the extreme far left of the frame, is the current defending Scottish national champion. We were unwittingly in the presence of greatness.


Shhh...if you listen closely you can hear what they're saying. Do you hear it? It's a language older than the hills, one that precious few bipeds have ever heard:

Baa-ram-ewe, baa-ram-ewe. To your breed, your fleece, your clan be true. Sheep be true. Baa-ram-ewe.

[I don't give a flying fig if not a one of you finds that chuckle-worthy. It's enough that I crack myself up.]

After corralling the sheep, the shepherd selected one from the flock and rather unceremoniously flopped her hooves-over-horns on her rump. He then proceeded to shear her with some very crude clippers and invited us to come and take a stab at it.

For those of you taking notes, the type of sheep raised on this farm was the Scottish Blackface, a hardy breed characterized by its unisex horns, ability to graze on even the crudest of pastures, and successful careers in vaudeville.

The next few shots are for my boy, Peter, who was unable to join me in the UK this semester. [pours Courvoisier on the ground]

This curious little guy braved the pack of collies and decided to pose for some photos with us before being swiftly rounded up by an eager pup.

Peter, I tried to get him to come home with me, but wouldn't you know it, the farm looks none too kindly on people who try to carry off their sheep. Better luck next time.


I also got to spend a little quality time with one of the older dogs during the demonstration. While I'll always be a cat person (please note the distinction between "cat person" and "crazy, old cat-lady"), I took quite a liking to the sheepdogs.


PLEASE READ BEFORE PROCEEDING:
This final segment features images containing overwhelming and/or dangerous levels of preciousness. Diabetics and patients with heart conditions should consult their physicians before viewing. Pregnant women and nursing mothers are urged not to view these images, lest the maternal instinct strike with renewed vigor.

I have to hand it to the shepherd, he was a marketing genius. After fannying around with the sheep, he popped into a barn and came out carrying what can only be described as a Weapon of Mass Seduction: a bucket of puppies.

Yes, you read that correctly. A bucket. OF PUPPIES.

Cue the deafening "Awwwwwwwwww!" from the ladies in the audience.

Don't be alarmed, ladies. That squishing noise you hear is just your ovaries contracting, flooding your bloodstream with estrogen. Gah, baby animals.