You are currently browsing the monthly archive for July, 2008.
I thought it time I updated you on Ness, my wolf dog’s, progress. After Jilly’s death she was slightly at a loss and began to return to her wilder roots. Jilly, as you probably gathered, was, after me, top bitch in the pack and my right hand man in all things farm; she made sure that the other dogs knew, without doubt, she came first. Ness respected this and tagged along watching Jill with eagle eye – strong pack members gave her the security she needed to feel comfortable and more at ease.
Gradually, though, over the months she adapted to the new situation. She is bright and acutely sensitive. Quick to learn she now understands that a lot of her instinctual behaviour is not acceptable and tries her hardest to keep it under control – sometimes with heartbreaking effort.
All regular friends and visitors to the farm have a strict Ness code they’ve had to adhere to. They must not look her in the eyes; they must ignore her; and they mustn’t touch her (she will not tolerate being touched by anyone who is not part of the family or pack). This along with firm and frequently repeated instructions has made her an almost socially accepted dog and if some parts of the code are occasionally overlooked by visitors she’s able, for a short while, to contain her natural instincts.
The other day we had a visitor. Having been inside chatting we were all going out for a walk around the farm. Ness was waiting for me at the back door (she’s taken over Jilly’s sleeping spot by my boots). Greg, our visitor, stepped out to put on his boots and noticed Ness’s happy expectant face. Mistakenly thinking it was directed at him he began to stroke her head…Ness froze, her eyes looking for mine beseechingly; I put up a warning finger and silently shook my head mouthing ‘No’. I held my breath. I could physically feel the tension she was under, but she kept control. As he finished and was moving away to talk to Robert I watched horrified as she opened her mouth wide and proceeded with hugely controlled deliberation to enclose it around his leg! So very gentle was it – thank god – he had no idea.
She won’t, unfortunately, ever be a working dog as it’s this part of her instinct I’ve had to curtail. But seeing her bound across field and moor with the grace of a deer and the speed of light I know, at heart, she will always be wild and free.
The other day my mind refused to see a piece of very simple mathematical logic and try as I might I was unable to grasp the concept; though strangely I can easily do the calculations mentally if I don’t think about it!
I should explain. I’m dyslexic and so are my sons to varying degrees. This is not the convenient ‘middle-class syndrome’ that abounds in schools - ‘oh little Johnny’s brilliant – truly brilliant. It’s just that he’s dyslexic and his teachers don’t understand.’
Ours, so it’s believed, is genetic and has been passed down my mother’s side of the family. We have early documentation of it in a great (or is it two greats?) uncle of mine who was a well known and outstanding Victorian/Edwardian engineer.
Of course in my mother’s time no one gave it much truck and she believes the ‘cruel and unsympathetic’ way she was treated at school gave her a complex for the rest of her life. I know it was her own bad experiences that made her aware and sensitive to the possibility of me being dyslexic.
I was never allowed to think of it as a shortcoming - though I suspect that many of my teachers would disagree! It can be annoying and challenging even now - especially when I’m under pressure - and this hasn’t changed with age.
We, the boys and I, had trouble with simple sequences; the alphabet, days of the week, months of the year, hours, minutes, seconds and certain mathematical equations and tables as well as the transposing and reversal of letters and numbers . I also have very bad eye to hand co-ordination in specific things like throwing and catching balls (well anything actually) and playing tennis whereas in others it’s better than average – such as drawing, balance and archery! A strange thing indeed.
To help my sons when they were young I used to tell them that they were lucky to be dyslexic. It was an advantage. They had two ways in which to see the world, their own and the conventional one which we all have to learn. They thought this was great. I also found it useful to give them different answers to things that people expected them to know. For instance to the ever popular question ‘And when’s your birthday?’ Instead of the date, which they had no idea of, they could reply with ‘At the end of the summer holidays’ or ‘after Christmas’ and so on.
I was asked by their school if I could help other children in the same situation since I drew from first hand knowledge and could understand more easily the way they ‘saw’ or comprehended. I found this very rewarding, although doubtless my methods would be frowned on in some circles today.
I guess it’s all in the NDA.
Today was the day; the hay was dry enough to bale. Brian’s little baler was playing up and would only spew out rock-hard bales weighing almost as much as me! Watching our shocked faces as we attempted to lift them, Brian joked it was to our advantage (Oh yes?), as the cost of baling has skyrocketed he’d saved us a fortune by squeezing another third into each bale; something I’ll be paying for every time I attempt to lift a bale this winter! We were mighty glad we just had the one field. We have become soft. Back along when I had dairy cows we had to get in around 5000 -6000 small bales – that really was work!
All baled up
Olly tying down the load
First load ready to roll. We were carrying about four miles back to the farm, hence the added insurance of tying down the hay. Not that this was going anywhere it was so heavy - we worked out this little load weighed almost four tonnes!
I cut a meadow for hay on Saturday. I don’t do a lot, around 250-300 small bales for the sheep. Sheep are not keen on wrapped haylage, even if it’s dry and sweet, they will eat it if pushed though much prefer good old fashioned hay. At last, after weeks of ‘yes we can’, oh, ‘no we can’t', those fonts of all knowledge, the weather stations, predict four to five days of dryish weather (of course leaving a 10-20% error margin for rain just in case those super-advanced technical pieces of seaweed are having an off day).
Coming back from turning the hay a second time late yesterday afternoon I was confronted by two very dejected bored dogs waiting for my return in the yard. Feeling guilty I rushed them off for a quick walk. Going past the woods I notice the ground was covered with large patches of golden leaves. Funny. I thought and went for a closer look. Not leaves but carpets of chanterelles! Quickly taking off my cardi I began to pick - but there were too many. I dashed back home to get my basket and a knife. I picked and I picked.
Last night we had omelettes with chanterelles, tonight it was chanterelle risotto, tomorrow it’ll be a chanterelle strogonoff. And, to boot, I have trays of them drying out in the sun and on top of the Aga. A totally unexpected delicious bonus.
I was falling gently into a misty drifting twilight world between sleep and wakefulness. Robert was already asleep; soft, warm-slow breaths on the back of my neck. A noise startled, pulling me away from that place. I desperately wanted to resist it.
“Errh…phone” I mumbled into the pillow “phone”
“Whassat? Whaa?” slurred Robert
We’d got back late for a Thursday evening. We’d been over to see some friends after supper; it must have been around twelve by the time we got into bed.
“Phone!” I stagger unsteadily out of bed, bumping into the chest and slipping on the rug.
“Light on?” murmured Robert from the depths of the duvet “Didn’t hear. Sure?”
We once tried to have a phone in our bedroom, but because of thick cob walls and a dodgy connection that was ungetatable we gave up. Sometimes we hear the phone at night and I guess sometimes we don’t. Often it’s a misdialled number or a hoax.
I drunkenly stumbled the stairs to the study, fumbled for the light, but missed the call. It had gone onto answerphone. No message. I dialled 1471 but my brain hadn’t hooked up yet and the numbers meant nothing. Shaking my head and slapping my face to reawaken the blood supply I was about to redial when the phone went again.
“Hello?”
“Mum?”
“Oll – what’s happened?”
None of those things that are meant to happen happened. My heart didn’t stop. My stomach didn’t plummet. I didn’t feel sick. I didn’t turn to ice.
“I’ve crashed.”
“Are you okay?”
Those words - so futile – are you okay? Are you broken? Are you bleeding to death? Has your head, your body or any of your limbs been scrunched, torn, flung across the countryside? Is anyone else hurt, maimed, dead? Are you going to live? You are my child. I bleed when you do. Every one of your hurts hurts me…more. I love you.
“Are you okay?”
“I think so. Yes, I think so.”
He had also, unusually for a Thursday, been over to see some friends too. He’d decided to come home via a different route. They’ve been resurfacing all the small back roads and as he rounded a bend he hit a thick layer of new gravel and went into a skid; the wheels locked, he careered up a short elevated track to a field entrance, which flipped the car over bouncing it on a salt/gravel box, throwing it onto its roof and rolling it over again down the hill. It came to rest on the driver’s side in the middle of the road. He managed to crawl out of the passenger door.
Seeing it there, bottom side up across the road, a broken, skewed crushed metal box spewing forth glass, fuel and radiator fluid started the icy fingers of shock moving through my body. How he came out of it unscathed I don’t know. That no one else was involved – another miracle.
We managed to turn the car upright and tow it with the truck to a safe place near by. The next day in the light we would deal with it. Now back home, sweet tea and bed.
Robert and I felt peculiar yesterday – strange, disorientated and off-kilter. Olly, who I thought might be battered and bruised once the initial shock wore off was, still, miraculously, completely unscathed.
not olly’s car
I began writing this in response to comments in ‘cull or not to cull’, but decided to publish it as a post in its own right. I have researched, read about and discussed the problem of bTB at length - with vets, farmers, scientists, ecologists, conservationists, people living, but not working in the countryside and those that do, city dwellers and politicians. I could give facts, figures, excellent examples and analogies for and against both sides of the argument. Personally I am, of course, subjective…I have a herd of cattle I care about hugely and are at risk; I also have a passion for wildlife. And I have to make a living from my work.
The question of whether or not to cull badgers is a complex one. It ain’t half as easy as many people make out. Quite simply, it’s not black and white. The science is uncertain, the risks are large, and we are dealing with emotions as well as facts. If we are going to find away forward, it will depend on us being open-minded, listening to each other and respecting each others’ values. Above all, we must be prepared to move our positions, to get off our high horses, to let our eyeballs settle back into their sockets. Far too many of us are entrenched: a position, for or against, has been taken, and that’s the end of it. If we are to get on top of this disease, for the benefit of all - people, cattle and badgers - we must start to pull together, use what evidence there is, consider the practicality of the various options open to us, and reach consensus on the way forward. It won’t be perfect and certainly won’t be easy, but it’ll be the best we can do.
…jellying, pickling, picking, plucking, topping, tailing, chopping, washing, packing, boiling, setting, and pouring. It’s been a processing factory in the kitchen over the last couple of days. All currants, gooseberries and a second crop of rhubarb were ready and waiting to be preserved in one form or another. As we’re hanging around for the weather to come right to take in a field of hay for the sheep’s winter feed (sheep are not fond of wrapped haylage, even if it’s sweet and dry) it seemed the ideal time to make sure the larder shelves are on their way to becoming well stocked for any eventuality.
My in-between-waiting-for-things-to-happen job has also been to finish putting up the shelving in my office, sort out the horrendous piles of ‘very important’ papers which I then have to dare myself to throw away (usually put into black plastic sacks and stored for a year ‘just to make sure it’s not needed’ before they’re burnt!).
And now I’m bushed with aching back, dirt-streaked face and hair full of cobwebs from retrieving books in waiting (office used to be Will’s room).
well, we had to sample!
I’ve had over a week to let Hilary Benn’s decision on a ‘no badger cull’ sink in. It’s coming around to my own herd’s bTB testing time again and I can feel the anxiety and worry beginning to build. This year there’s the added unknown of bluetongue vaccination and concerns that this could throw up more inconclusives or possible false positives. Oh happy times.
Maybe I’m a very simple soul or perhaps I’m missing the point altogether. But surely it’s staring us in the eyes - there is no perfect solution. There isn’t a ‘given success’ or some nice, easy erradicatrion programme. And there isn’t a course to be taken that will make everyone happy
bTB is out of control. A suitable vaccine is still years away (and only now they decide to throw extra money at it?), so forget that as an immediate solution. 28,000 cattle were killed last year, 14,000 have already been killed this year with the figure thought to rise to around 40,000 by the end of the year at an expected cost of £80 million to the taxpayer. Will the escalating killing and ever-increasing restrictions on cattle movements have an effect if it’s just one sided? Well of course it will, eventually, when all cattle have been culled. And yes, I am being facetious.
We need to do something.
‘Reducing the density of badgers over large areas (>100km2) where there are high levels of TB in cattle reduces the incidence’. ‘Removal of badgers is the best option at the moment to cut the reservoir of infection in wildlife, but vaccination will be vital in the longer term’. Sir David King’s main conclusions as reported by the Farmers Weekly.
Surely it’s high time all interested parties worked together and stopped this childish posturing? Here we are looking into the jaws of a recession, worried about food security, an energy crisis, possible wars and climate change. So, for pities sake, let’s get together; work out how we change certain farming behaviour and practises to minimise risk of bTB spread and have a sensible cull that will be effective at reducing bTB without causing nugatory destruction of badgers or unnecessary cruelty.
Whilst Robert was hobnobbing with royalty at the Royal Show last week I had one important thing I needed to do.
I wanted to lobby someone, anyone on the Natural England board of directors about the lack of Higher Level Stewardship (HLS) agreements being granted to small and medium sized farms. So bumping into a board member I’d had contact with several years ago gave me the perfect opportunity. Though no sooner had I started to speak she announced that she was not the person I should be talking to and firmly introduced me to Natural England’s chief executive, Helen Phillips.
Well, you can’t get better than that. Now it was up to me to make a strong, cogent case for fellow farmers up and down the country. As luck would have it she was having a heated discussion with the head of policies from the NFU on this very subject before my interruption. I had no idea at the time. Serendipitous.
I was blanked…. My nerves quivered. But no, I thought, this is vitally important, get a grip and get on! So I did. And she listened. And took notice. We agreed to keep in touch. Below is an excerpt of my recent correspondence to her…
From grass roots level this is how things appear. When HLS was first floated the take up was, I believe, mainly by farms that had no previous history of environmental schemes. These first payments were often substantial and included restorations of barns and the like. Then those whose Countryside Stewardship agreements were coming to an end applied, encouraged initially by your staff. You can imagine their surprise, disappointment and frustration when few were successful. It seems that only those applications with SSSIs or many habitats, footpaths, etc were successful. Hundreds of small to medium-sized farms like ours have been left in the lurch, while the large estates often owned by pension companies or similar have been granted agreements – with very large holdings it is, of course, much easier form them to accumulate the necessary points.
The impact on those many, many farms across the country which have not been successful (or indeed have been discouraged from applying), has been significant. They have adjusted their farming systems to meet the needs of their Countryside Stewardship agreements, often with much enthusiasm, only to find themselves high and dry and without a much needed source of income. Many have really delivered the wildlife and other goods that you are seeking. Some are now going into the red and having to resort to commercial farming of the land. Given the good budget settlement from Europe and the Treasury this rejection is hard to swallow. Meanwhile, the large estates and pension funds are benefiting, but will they show the commitment to the environment that us family farms will? I doubt it!
If it helps, I can explain what has happened on our farm. We had a Countryside Stewardship agreement for some 16 years, covering nearly half our land, but when we re-applied a year ago were unsuccessful because we did not score enough points. This despite much of the land being designated a County Wildlife Site, having a magnificent flower-rich meadow, supporting good numbers of dormice, barn owls, snipe, tree pipits, marsh tits, etc, and being crossed by a public footpath. What galled was the fact we were told ‘we were just not good enough’! Please come and see for yourself. I’d like to show you…
So all you farmers out there in the same situation as us – take heart if you can; speak to the various organisations concerned, keep on pushing and perhaps those elusive agreements will be forthcoming…
Today’s my mother’s 86th birthday. I gather together a small bag of things that might stimulate or trigger a memory. Soap – translucent - looking like a giant wine gum; a small bunch of lavender from the garden; a chocolate heart; rose scented powder; a card depicting a stylised branch of apple blossom similar to the ones she painted on silk scrolls when I was young.
Will and Kat made a card with a photo of them both; they’d strewed and sewed it with buttons and beads making it tactile and surprising.
I bake scones with buttermilk, butter and eggs and take them over for tea along with strawberries, clotted cream and homemade jam. The dogs come too.
She is happy and bright and twinkles when I arrived. This is a good day for her. We sit and chat; her about nothing yet everything that means something; I about something that means nothing. I open cards and presents that have no real significance. Her eyes travel to a far away place that buzzes and pulses with a life’s worth of memories. When she returns she looks at me with such intensity and depth I feel the one that has lost connection.
She eats the scones. I feed her small mouthfuls and see how she savours the sweet soft crumbly texture; I watch delight as she tastes a morsel of strawberry; she screws up her face with pleasure.
She tires quickly today. There has been much excitement. As she drifts into sleep I sit and stare and stare and stare at her face…I’m overwhelmed.
On Friday I went to the Royal Show; not a show I would generally choose to go to. Once a showcase for some of the best examples of British livestock and businesses in the industry, now prohibitive costs and soaring overheads have taken it out of the reach of most exhibitors leaving it to corporate bodies, supermarkets and ubiquitous market stalls to fly the flag.
But I was going for a reason. It was the launch of Hedgelink, a partnership of organisations and individuals leading and supporting the conservation of the UK’s hedgerows, and a project that Robert has been closely involved in over the years and one he’s passionate about. Prince Charles was going to be at the launch. Robert had asked me to go along with him.
nigel with the new hedgelink banner and dvd
We left the farm at the crack of dawn and had a happily uneventful drive up to Stoneleigh, the Royal showground. The day was perfect too. No rain, just sun and clouds with a breeze. The launch was taking place on the Natural England site which is an impressive acre or so of various ponds and plots giving examples in how to encourage wildlife and diversity on farmland and in your garden. The whole was a serene, peaceful green oasis in an otherwise confusing array of stalls and roads.
Leaving Robert to fluster and muster I went off to do a reccy of the showground and inadvertently became caught up in the Prince’s and Duchess’s arrival! I duly shook hands and murmured complete nonsense while being once again taken aback by Charles’s approachability and the genuine interest he shows when talking to people.
Prince Charles with a group of very happy schoolgirls - they were chuffed!
I’ve had contact with the prince before. It was nearing the end of the 2001 FMD outbreak when a small group of us were invited to have tea with him on one of his supportive visits to a devastated West Country. He had apparently followed all my weekly TV video reporting on Countryfile; knew intimate details of my stock and farm; displayed real understanding of the trials and tribulations I and others had been through. In other words he cared, and there was no indication of doing lip service. I like that, a good egg.
Back to Friday. The launch was due at 1pm. Robert was beginning to show signs of stress when a steward appeared and announced the Prince would be there in a few minutes as he was running well ahead of schedule. The place was immediately seething with a plethora of paparazzi and a surge of people. The line-up had only just organised itself when the prince and his entourage arrived. Feeling small and insignificant with my diminutive camera against a bank of monstrous super-zoomed beasts handled by hardened push-hardest-and-shove journos I was startled when I found myself being asked by his personal aide if I’d like to stand practically next to the price to take my photos!
robert shakes hands with the prince
It was a great success. Hands were vigorously shaken; smiles were stretched across faces in wallace & gromit-like proportions; Prince Charles grinned and crinkled, spending a good time with each member of the team discussing the work they had done in creating Hedgelink and the DVD ‘A cut above the rest’. He’s an avid supporter of the hedgerows in our countryside and went away clutching his copy of the DVD.
the prince discussing the finer points of hedgelaying
Having just watched the DVD. I can honestly recommend it to any of you that have even a tiny interest in hedges. It’s beautifully filmed and presented. The clear, practical information is easy to follow and holds your attention to the end. Even though I have a fair knowledge of hedgerows gleaned from Robert I found there’s lots which will make me look at hedges and hedgerow trees in a new light. To see excerpts of the DVD follow the link and also to order your free copy.
Well done Hedgelink!
four spotted flycatcher babies (you can just see the fourth behind the middle one) the day before they flew
We waited with bated breath for the rare Spotted Flycatcher to return this year. Our swallow numbers have plummeted and we feared for the flycatcher. On the 15 May we heard a familiar ‘tich tich tich’ outside our bedroom window – and sure enough there he was safe, well and nest prospecting. Surprisingly he settled for an extraordinarily sensible nest site too, in the apex of a small open fronted barn-shed outside the kitchen window; one that’s well protected and safe from predators. His mate soon joined him. We had a ‘birds-eye-view’ of all activities – nest building, clutch laying and sitting, hatching and feeding. Last weekend there was huge excitement and activity from both parents as they encouraged their fledglings out of the nest on their first flight. A success! Hopefully they will manage a second brood too. Watch this space.
Another rarity - the Lesser Butterfly Orchid. We found a small group of these rare and beautiful flowers in Hannaborough moor. Aren’t they something?
We are behind. Due to bluetongue vaccination we decided to leave mucking out the cow palace until after giving the cattle their second dose. Bringing in and sorting out different groups of cattle is a mucky business so it seemed only sensible to wait.
no, unfortunately, it’s not trained to muck-out by itself…I jumped out to take the photo.
Today the forecast was for rain, which is perfect weather for mucking out. The mess made by the bobcat remains moist, doesn’t stick like chewing gum to the concrete and can be scraped off without use excessive amounts of expensive mains water.
To prepare the yard we first have to remove all gates and posts – about fourteen large gates and seven small. These are stacked outside and are pressure washed and disinfected once the yard is finished – the rain helps to soften and loosen the hard encrusted dung on them too.
I have mucking out with the bobcat down to a fine art and once I’ve cleared a good start area I motor through in a couple of hours. The tedious part is pressure washing and scraping – neither Olly nor I have found a quick, efficient method – it’s just a rather dreary slog.
Olly pressure washing
The farm is filled with the deep, rich sweet smell of wholesome organic farmyard manure, nothing like the acrid stench which often pervades the countryside. Ours is truly worth its weight in gold!
rich brown gold!
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