Category Archive

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.

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.

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!

yesterday as the grass began to dry

Yesterday emotions ricocheted. Trepidation in the morning as clouds loomed over the farm; to the beginnings of buoyancy as they were cracked apart by fingers of sun and blown by a drying wind; to sheer relief as I heard the grass begin to rustle under the tines of the turner.

transferred worry

The first fat drop of rain fell at six o’clock, by seven it had been joined by the multitudes. I’d somehow managed to keep away from the compulsive-weather-checking so Olly filled me in. We were experiencing the edge of a massive low travelling across Ireland. Intermittent showers were expected throughout the night till seven or possibly ten the next morning…this was turning into my worst nightmare.

I was up at five this morning peering out of the window at the moist wet world. Whilst checking the sheep the heavens opened. I was despondent, dejected and downhearted.

olly takes over turning this morning

By nine this morning a healthy wind was beginning to blow although the sky was still heavy with oppressive dark clouds. A plan was made. Turn to lift the grass of the ground and let the wind and air get to it. Row up where the grass could continue to dry and if all was well bale, and wrap late afternoon.

clouds and grass all rowed-up in path field

Nature, thankfully, had almost finished playing with me. By mid-day the wind was blowing with purposeful single-mindedness, the sun shone hard, the clouds scudded and the fast drying grass smelled sweet. I felt jubilant. It was going to be okay after all.

lining up

The bailer moved in at five and as I write the zee-zee-zee of the wrapper working in the dusky dark is music to my ears! The biggest ‘thank-you’ in the world to all you positive thinkers, for a monent there it was touch and go!

The die is cast. The decision made. I’m a wreck and will continue to be for the next few days.

Desperate not to experience another year like last year and determined to make some good quality forage I’ve taken the bull by the horns and…cut. Now if you believe in the power of collective thought, or even if you don’t, would you mind willing the weather right for this week. Please.

Yesterday in a squally, red-face gale we visited a Devon Wildlife culm grassland site looking for the narrow bordered bee hawkmoth, its eggs and larvae when a well-worn, well-known, well-fingered length of grubby tattered thought began to unravel in my head. It goes something like this ‘oh god, I think I should cut’; ‘should I?’; ‘must go home, must check the long range weather forecast’; ‘it’s way too early’; ‘no it isn’t’; ‘I should go for it’ and so on and so forth. Stupid, wavering, indecisive but once ‘that’ thought has lodged itself I know I’m in for the annual stressathon. And despite having to make the same decision every year, it never gets any easier – in fact I think it gets worse!

Once home Robert drops me off at the top of the lane so I can walk down through the fields and make my assessment. I’m pathetically unsure…not enough, too short, good quality, go for it, wait a week, its okay, yes do it, no don’t. Back at the farmhouse I seek reassurance on the computer. No joy there – rain on Wednesday…or wait, is that Tuesday? Clouds, oh no, wait a minute its good there’s a high. Hang on, this one says different. Oh sod it, what should I do?

I’m alone on this one – everyone backs away with those dreaded words ‘Well, I don’t know. Don’t look at me. It’s really up to you’

I phone Andrew, my neighbour and contractor, he’s expecting my call. ‘Hell-lo, ummm, just washing my hands and saw the sun suck up water. Not a good sign. Father walked through though, said there was a high’. Everyone is jumpy because of last year and the thought of constant summer rain.

After a great deal more deliberating, heart and forecast searching, walking over fields, staring at the clouds and asking for guidance from whoever controls these matters I decided to decide and…cut!

concerned for my mental state!

The sheep moved further into the hidden hollow she’d found herself in a secluded section of overgrown hedgebank. Dense bramble rush thistle and fern help her feel safe. She was uneasy, weary; the flock’s restlessness and agitation had muddled her mind. She circled making a small nest in the middle of the impenetrable foliage, lay down closed her eyes and began to cud.

Sometime, a short time, a long time, she was not sure, she became aware of noise. The sounds of the flock moved closer and louder; it made her edgy alarmed eventually the flock passed by and all went silent. She didn’t stir. Her foot was hot and painful. She pulled at a young bramble shoot, slept, dozed and chewed the cud.

During the night she heard a vixen move close, hunting for her young. She smelt the musty sweetness and heard the rustle of the leaves. A young rabbit screamed. The night moved around her pocket of safety. Ears alert she listened for familiar sounds, nothing was recognisable. She stayed put and nibbled at her leg above the tender foot.

It had been light for some time when she emerged. She felt calmer now and the day was grey and damp. She’d been hiding for almost twenty four hours. She became aware of the emptiness of the acres around her. Silently she moved through the high rush in an effort to locate her companions.

Cattle were moving along the lane. She heard shouts and calls. The barns echoed with noise and commotion. Unease was beginning to return. She’d been unable to find the flock and unusual cattle activity was making her jittery. She made her way to the boundary fence down into the gully. Slipping and sliding along the steep sides she gingerly picked her way along the shallow water. Though she wasn’t happy walking in the water the coldness soothed her foot. She found a shallow mossy bank that was familiar and which led her into a small enclosed field. She stood in the middle looking at the cattle and people passing the gate.

She was now at a loss and continued to stand in the middle of the field. Some time passed until she heard the truck and people. The person she knew opened the gate and called to her, she felt safe and answered. But now there were two people, slowly coming towards her with sticks. She felt panic rising and tried to escape to the mossy bank. She was wild with fear; she couldn’t reach the bank so launched herself into a low tangled mass of willow branches. She knew she was going to die.

The heavy weight of a body landed on her. Fear made her go limp. Pain whizzed up her leg as her foot was cut, stung as spray fizzed. Motionless she was lifted into the truck and bounced out of the field. Time moved again, the truck stopped. The person she knew made her jump and she landed in another world. She stood looking, unmoving and silent, at her flock. She put her head down and began to graze.

brown hare

Still hush. I woke this morning to silence. I pulled back the curtains; the yard in front of the house was littered with a confetti of rose petals looking for all the world like pale pink snow; flags and rushes around the pond were askew and bent; tossed, trashed leafed branches scattered hither and thither. Rubbing gritty eyes I wandered to the window overlooking the back garden. Leaves were strewn across the grass, broad beans collapsed, showing their downy silver underbellies whilst the washing hung in heavy sodden droops, now leadened and deadened after a night of wild dervish dancing. The first gentle fingers of sunlight touched the farm with deceptive normality.

Wrestling on clothes, head cotton-wool and eyes still grainy. I splashed cold water. Fumbled for socks, jacket and waterproof trousers, pulled on wellies and went to let the dogs out. No excited morning greeting today, they were almost self-effacing. Patting my thigh I indicated we were going to check the cows, calves and youngsters in Flop Meadow…

Let me take you back to yesterday when wind and rain threatened - starting, stopping; spattering and retracting; dark clouds ominously collecting overhead then blown hither and thither only to bank up once more. The youngsters (still on home farm; sitting out the three weeks before their second BT vaccination on Friday) had broken through into our hay crop. Having managed to climb a vertical hedge bank and stomp-stamp-crash a newly laid hedge they then ran helter-skelter in excited grass frenzy through the meadow. Collecting them up and remonstrating with them I decided to put them in with the steadying influence of the two freshly calved cows and calves. The field was secure, there was enough grass and it was just for two days. But more chaos ensued. The yearlings, still wound up, were particularly drawn to Ginny and her week-old baby; they stampeded around her in raucous enthusiasm. Ginny was distraught and desperately tried to protect her calf from this overbearing interest. Give them a few minutes I thought and they would settle. But no, as the storm, wind and rain gathered momentum so did their high-spirited behaviour. Ginny started up a rhythmic bellowing, the youngsters echoed her, whilst the calf tried to find peace and quiet in an impenetrable patch of rush and thistle. Strangely there seemed to be no interest in the other calf and cow who continued to graze and rest calmly on the periphery of the goings on. My presence seemed to increase their agitation so I took to squinting at them through hedge. Even though Ginny’s bellows continued all day and into the night occasionally booming over the raging wind nothing untoward was happening to her calf.

…and so back to this morning. All appeared calm as I opened Flop meadow gate, albeit the grass was flattened and skewed by the wind and rain. But my presence seemed to rekindle their bizarre behaviour. Odd? I’ll have to move the cows and calves out, I thought, as I headed off to the truck to check the rest of the stock.

There I found ewes and lambs clustered around the top gate in Cow Moor. Unusual. As I appeared they too began shouting, calling and surging around me, pushing to get out of the field. This was weird. They had grass, they had water; and they’ve certainly experienced worse storms than last night, yet they were tense with anxiety. Maybe I’ll have to move them too, I thought, as I drove down to check the main herd in the River Meadows.

These would certainly be happy and contented I thought; sheltered from the worst of the wind and rain with ample grazing. How wrong was I? As soon as they saw me walking over the field they started towards me, ears forward semaphoring madly, restlessly regrouping, high-stepping and collecting up their calves. I sensed the beginnings of herd panic and sent the dogs back to the truck as it could become dangerous for them. I tried moving amongst them making soothing sounds and reassuring noises. But they would have none of it. They continued to shout and move nervously about looking around for an imagined threat or imagined enemy. What was going on with all my animals this morning?

Calm, contentment and peace has now returned. What had affected all the stock? A brewing storm? The full moon? Or maybe the approaching summer solstice? Possibly a touch of all three – I haven’t experienced the like of it before.

Isn’t this extraordinary - it’s an Azure Damselfly roost beside one of our ponds. Looking at these it’s easy to see how myth and legend of fairy abound. They reminded me of…oh, what’s it? Ah yes - Harkness, Captain Jack…mysterious Torchwood. The Dr Who spin-off series set in Cardiff. I remember seeing an episode where gruesome, gargoyle fairy-like beings (bearing uncanny similarity to these damselflies) wooed and enchanted young and old in the effort to abduct and absorb them into their wicked ethereal other-world, where plans were afoot to consume the earth as we know it – well, loosely!

Imagine being woven into a web of illusion, confusion and enchantment and led, pixi-mazed, unknowingly into quietly lethal sinking bogs! The stories flourish of incidents similar to this even on Hannaborough Moor!

The Emerald Damselfly - extraordinary, but definitely more insect-like.

Broad-bodied Chaser dragonfly exuvia (larval casing)…macabre and ghoulish.

I’m going to tell you a secret. It’s a secret that’s been simmering away, weaving in and out of our lives since Christmas. No big deal but with the potential to be life-changing. Robert has been granted his voluntary redundancy.

Let me fill you in. Robert has worked for government’s arm of nature conservation since his late twenties. The organisation, then known as the Nature Conservancy Council, reinventing itself as the new-improved English Nature during the nineties and recently morphed into its present guise as Natural England. The organisation has changed hugely over the years and its latest remodelling and reshaping has resulted in a slimmed down version of the original – which, of course, is in line with government thinking. Robert needed a change and when the organisation decided to float its scheme of voluntary redundancy, due to cut backs and a shortage of funds, he applied. Why? For no other reason than he wondered what would happen!

He was told he wouldn’t get it. He voiced his objections. Papers were reshuffled. He was informed he has been moved to ‘group one’ (the most likely candidates) only to be told several weeks later that once again he didn’t stand a chance. You get the picture? Our life was on hold. Did we move forward with plans or did we put all ideas on the back burner? Negotiations continued, another deadline came and went – still we were none the wiser. We tired of the ‘yes-it-is’ ‘no-it-isn’t’ game. Got on with what we do best, but still, in the background, was this unsettling possibility. Then, last week, out of the blue, and when we really did think nothing would happen, he received an email that congratulated him of having had his redundancy…approved!

In a chaotic mix of exhilaration and downright fear our lives have been thrown into space and fallen earthwards in a plethora of ideas. Already I’ve had the builders round, been in contact with Business Link and talked to friends that have been party to the last six months uncertainties, embryonic thoughts and ideas.

Watch this space. Could it be a move to the West Highlands of Scotland to run eco-holidays? A vineyard in Provence? Or will it be converting the farm to total self sufficiency in all forms of energy, water and food, alongside an eco residential build and a green oak teaching facility? Whatever, these will be challenging, life-changing decisions.

bog pimpernel

On Monday, as I was busily trying to clear umptytiddlyone important-must-be-done-immediately stacks of paper on my desk, Ginny decided to calve - at last. She was two weeks late and though not unusual in my herd I was a little concerned as there have been rumours that Bluetongue vaccination can cause problems to the unborn calf; though I suspect this would be at a much earlier stage in the pregnancy.

As she decided to calve at a convenient time - in daylight, during the morning, in fine weather and in the shade of an oak tree almost under my office window - I was able to take photos of her during the entire labour.

Particularly interesting is the interaction between Ginny and Imogen. Being together, away from the main herd since turnout, they have settled well, formed a strong bond and have shown no distress; a little unusual as they are not from the same dam or cohort and were not closely connected within the herd.

Normally a cow, free-ranging in a grazing herd, will take herself off to an isolated secluded spot to calve, but Ginny positively encouraged Imogen’s company; so much so it reminded me of human birthing partners!

She lies down to begin pushing contractions

contractions are strong and rhythmic

the waters burst - she cleans up

nearing the end

the most enormous heifer calf - seconds old!

introductions are made - this is unusual behaviour, generally the freshly calved cow will see off any intruders.

first wobbly steps - searching for the teat

bliss!

On Sunday it was Open Farm Sunday, and we went to visit a farm. It was in a beautiful hilly, undulating part of Devon, a part I’m not too familiar with and so very different from around here. Red, dry, stony land that drains far too efficiently and as a result suffers from drought. The farmers there think of it as marginal land, though to me it looked like an answer to a prayer.

It was a large arable and grass farm sporting a huge renovated farmhouse surrounded by landscaped Japanese gardens, red brick walls, laid brick drives and wrought iron gates. It receives substantial payments from set-aside and various agri-environment agreements. It’s heralded as an environmental flagship farm.

My impressions? One of wealth and prosperity. The farm has served its owner well in acquiring all manner of subsidies which I felt were not an actual necessity in the survival of the farm or the farmer. What did I feel it was delivering in terms of environmental benefits? And value for money to the tax payer? Not a lot. True it was in a beautiful part of the country and the views were stunning, true it had a fine example of a catchwork meadow and true it had some interesting swards. But nothing spectacular or mind blowing. I felt the farm lacked purpose or soul and was being managed to prescriptions laid out on paper without any real raison d’être. No stock, no vibrancy, just neat, polite management filling coffers from the public purse.

I know I’m being harsh; there were plenty of people, especially families with young children, who were really enjoying their visit. It was a good day out. The farmer had worked hard to make it a success, and it was.

Nevertheless when I think of the thousands of farms on the poorer marginal soils of England that can deliver as much, or more, in terms of the environment, landscape and biodiversity by using only a fraction of the money that’s being handed out to some large prosperous farms, I wonder at the injustice of it. To these marginal farms government/public support can make the difference between sinking and swimming.

I know very well that subsidies are not there to bolster up bad business and I’m not suggesting for a moment that they should. But it seems fundamentally unfair that farms which have taken care of their environment over the years and kept flower-rich meadows and such like in tact should be low down on the list for receiving public support, while those, often more productive and more profitable farms, which have in the past ploughed up their meadows and removed their hedges should now be being paid, as a priority, for restoring such things.

It was hot and windy and oh-so-bright. Friday, last week. The sea spangled and sparkled in ten million dazzling triangles momentarily blinding the eye with strings of black blots gliding across a backdrop of shimmering rainbows.

We strolled slowly through the crowds, contented cats full of tapenade (a paste of olives, tuna, anchovy and capers), anchoïade (crushed anchovies in oil, served with raw vegetables), grand aioli (poached salt cod, with vegetables and aioli sauce), farci (aubergine, courgette, tomato, onion stuffed with a delicately perfumed forcemeat on a rich tomato sauce) and tourte (a pie of potatoes, onion and garlic bound together with cream and eggs, wrapped in cured ham and crumbly pastry, served with crème fraiche and salad) washed down with glasses of ice cold rosé, the palest of pale pink. We watched in relaxed companionship the remains of the morning’s fish market being packed away and listened to the harsh nasal twang of swarthy Marseillais fisher-folk as they hollered and shouted to one another across the port above the impatient revving traffic and gush of their flushing hoses. Little Camille, entranced by twinkling rainbow prisms caught in the cascade of cleaning water, ran, arms outstretched, trying to catch the elusive crystal drops. And a seagull shat on Benjamin.

In all the clamour I almost didn’t hear it. Insistent, irritated it brring-brringed, bring-brringed, brrringed against my hip. My phone! I pressed it firmly against one ear but even with my hand clamped tightly over the other could barely make out the faint voice at the other end.

“Mum…..bluetongue…we’m….ade….Devon now’s….red could…tion zone!”

“What? What? Olly, can’t hear…shout. Very noisy. What’s that? What? Ohmygod did you say we’re now a protection zone. Oh shit, oh no! Where is it? When did it happen? Have you phoned the vet? What did they say? Oh heavens. You’ll have to vaccinate. Is there any vaccine? What did you say the vets say? What? When? Hang on. Hang on, I’ll just find a hiding place. You want me to come home? Hang on.”

Eventually I got the gist of Olly’s call. We didn’t have bluetongue disease in Devon. The vaccination programme had been going so well they had now advanced the protection zone to Devon. Vaccine should be made available from the 26 May. Hoorah! This was good news, not the catastrophe I originally thought. I asked Olly to call the vets, confirm our stock numbers and get an idea of when the vaccine would be released. A couple of frustrating shouted calls later and we had a clearer idea of timing. The vaccine most probably wouldn’t be available until I was back.

We arrived back last night. I phoned the vets first thing this morning. My vaccine would be ready for collection after four this afternoon. I’ve got it. It’s in my fridge…and tomorrow, first thing, we’ll start bringing the stock back to begin our vaccination programme. Soon, but not just yet, I’ll breath a little more freely!

Over the last couple of weeks I’ve been stretched, scrambled and thoroughly tangled in the sharply contrasting ribbons of my life.
It was the dreaded fashion show. The last thing on earth I feel like doing at the end of a long draining winter is modelling…especially alongside gloriously nubile exquisite eighteen year olds. I moaned, complained and protested; pleaded, implored and beseeched all to no avail. I was ‘in’ – part of the show and nothing short of dropping down dead was sufficient to winkle me out. There was the demanding, time-consuming merry-go-round of rehearsals, fittings, makeup and music to be juggled around the demanding, time-consuming merry-go-round of housed animals, mind-bending bawling cows, rush topping and field rolling. It happened; it was a glamorously glitzy fashionista extravaganza and I managed to avoid catching a glimpse of myself in any of the three hundred twinkling mirrors.

I mentioned backalong my son Ben was moving to France with his French partner Berengere and their little daughter Camille at the end of April. They were keen for us to visit them. They wanted to show us the wonders of Provence (Berengere is Marseillees), explore the area they’re hoping to live in, see where they are going to work, celebrate their choice of wedding venue and of course to meet the French contingent – the whole of the Ize family. With their and our busy schedule the end of May seemed the only opportunity. On impulse I arranged our visit for the late May bank holiday, relieved once the cows were out and relishing the quasi freedom that followed.

But there was shearing to take care of and the little matter of two late calving cows that looked imminent. Shearing was planned for last Sunday but as so often with these things the rain intervened and Simon re-booked for Tuesday evening – the night before we were due to leave. As sometimes happens when things are meant to be one of the cows conveniently calved on Tuesday just before shearing was executed with efficient speed.

Now I’m writing from Marseilles, outside on a warm evening with swifts screaming overhead, being entertained by Camille and getting to know my new, and very welcoming, French family.

A few weeks ago Jennifer developed an oedema on her lower jaw known as ‘bottle jaw’. Bottle jaw or intermandibular oedema is due to protein loss from the bloodstream into the intestinal tract. The most likely cause of this is either Johne’s disease (pronounced “yo-knees”), a disease you really don’t want in your herd, or parasitism, most likely fluke, both of which damage the liver. However it could be the result of a heart condition in which case an oedema could subsequently appear on the chest.

As you can imagine, I was worried. Jennifer, if you remember, is the herd’s number one cow, the matriarch. She is also the cow, back in February, I photographed throughout the labour and birth of her massive calf. After calving I decided to supplement her feed with cereal to help her cope with the demands of a large calf and to make up for the lack of nutrients in last summer’s inferior forage. Despite this additional feeding she continued to look rather emaciated, though her character, disposition and appetite remained much as usual.

I consulted my vet when the oedema first appeared and we decided to wait twenty-four hours to see if any materialized on her chest which would indicate a heart condition. Thank heavens none did. The next stage was to try and find out what the cause was and if possible to treat it. I took a faecal sample which was sent to Starcross Laboratories to test for Johne’s disease and parasites. She was given a dose of flukicide in case the herd’s routine autumn drench for fluke had not been effective. I injected her with a multi-vitamin to boost the liver and a steroid to control the oedema.

Unfortunately Johne’s disease is incurable. Briefly it’s a serious wasting disease that affects a wide range of animals. It causes a thickening of the intestinal wall which blocks the normal absorption of food. The animal is hungry and eats but cannot absorb any nutrients. This results in wasting and finally death. Diarrhoea and bottle jaw are common signs of its presence in cattle. It’s very difficult to diagnose and often by the time any symptoms come to light the disease is well established in the herd and difficult to eradicate.

I waited nervously for the test results to come back. In the meantime Jennifer’s oedema continued to increase in size. I knew that sweet fresh grass would be the best medicine for her, indeed she was craving it, but unfortunately that wasn’t an option. One evening I found Olly in the cow palace scratching her back “I’ve a bad feeling about Jen, mum”. This was after doing some searches on the net which gleefully informed us that once the oedema appeared the animal had approximately two weeks to live!

“Well I don’t think she’s that ready to give up just yet” I replied “after all she has this year’s intake of maiden heifers to sort out and one of them’s her daughter little Jen” (her real name is Kate but she looks so like her mum that we nicknamed her little Jen). “I’m sure she’ll want to make sure that she’s putting her connections to good use and is groomed for future matriarchal succession.”

My vet phoned with the results – and joy of joy they were negative both for parasites and Johne’s! But, he warned this can sometimes be a false negative in the case of Johne’s and we should continue to monitor her. She has now been out to grass for almost a week and I think the oedema is lessening; she certainly looks to be carrying a little more weight. So hopefully this incident is due to a combination of age, her years of exceptional fertility, mothering and milk production…and the very poor quality of last summer’s haylage. Neither the herd nor I are ready to see the end of her reign. Long live Jen!

The cows are out! A huge and happy relief to all of us. A few days before, their unremitting bawling made me rush off to get some organic rolled barley from Roger. Roger was suffering from the same predicament. Cathartic commiseration was exchanged in the grain store.

Saturday was the day. We fed them early and had our breakfast while they packed away theirs. Organisation is the key. We knew they’d be over-excited and attempting to take them down the road in a highly volatile state would be too dangerous. They needed half a day in a home field to get rid of their pent up angst before being moved on to the grassy river meadows. First though we had to clip off an in-growing spur on one of Desiree’s horns – a cattle crush job - and pen off a couple of late calvers who will remain at the farm in Top Meadow, a stone’s throw from our kitchen window.

Gates in place, field decided upon, all inappropriate avenues of misdirection barricaded we were ready for the off….a red laval flow of jutting hip bones, moulting moth-eaten coats, snaking necks, cavernous maws and rubbery wet pink noses stampeded out of the cow palace; with saliva flying in whippy sticky streamers they bellowed and charged their way down the drive without a moment’s hesitation, calves ricocheting between flying legs and lethal hooves. It was over in seconds and in total surprise they found themselves in Cow Moor where grass is still a rarity. The bull, who seems to have doubled in size over the winter, and maiden heifers were the next to join the herd. This caused even more excitement, as heated sexual tension combined with testing hierarchical fights. Sweat and foam glistened, steam rose in huge huffing bursts.

A quick breather before hitching up the trailer and loading batches of young stock to take over to Pulworthy – the yearlings’ summer grazing lands. Surprisingly co-operative, we accomplished this in a couple of easy journeys, returning in good time to move the now chilled-out herd down the road.

They were exemplary. With heads down, grazing earnestly, we left them in the first river meadow and wandered off, relaxed and happy, to check gates and the wire across the drinking gully. Busily tightening the wire across the gap we were completely unaware that the herd had followed and were bearing down the gully in a heaving panting mass. Calves forsaken, their mothers single-mindedly exploded into the river with all the force of enormous red battle ships. Abandoned bewildered babies shouted at the retreating armada from the top of the river bank. Suddenly in unison and like wildebeest crossing the Mara they launched themselves into the deep river which completely submerged them, up they popped like corks and seemingly unphased they proceeded to swim after their fast disappearing mothers! I was paralysed with surprise and shock as was Robert, who clinging to submerged tree roots, had managed to get out of the way in the very nick of time!

“Did you see that? Did you see it?” he exclaimed “I couldn’t believe my eyes, it was just like the Serengetti! That’s extraordinary. And they weren’t concerned…they disappeared, went right under. Completely submerged, totally! Popped up and just swam as if they’d always done it. That is extraordinary. Quite, quite extraordinary.”

Having carefully checked over the herd we ushered them back into the first river meadow. Gradually peace was restored once more.
Where it reigns and reigns and reigns….
Ahhhhhh, bliss.

Locks Park is thought by some to be rather special. When visiting ecologists, environmentalists and conservationists ooh and ahh over our flower-filled meadows, the butterflies, birds and bees, the richness and diversity of the wildlife, hedgerows and pastures I feel privileged to live and farm such a piece of land. But I’m also made to feel culpable. When completing the infamous Higher Level Stewardship application I was brought to task over keeping sheep and ‘lost points’ as this is considered detrimental to the wildlife.
‘Bbbut’ I stammered ‘Sheep are good little farmers. They aerate the soils, break open rush clumps, encourage other plant species. Mixed grazing is important for many reasons too. And …’
I was cut short. Sheep, I was informed, eat flowers, so are unwelcome.
I also have too many cattle. More points lost. What about replenishing nutrients in depleted soils, sensitively of course, as in dung spreading and liming? Frowned upon.

I’m told that farms like this have always been subsistence farms. Minimal stock was kept, I mean just look at the buildings. Proves a point really.

I scratched my head and thought ‘I wonder. I’ll ask Elli’. Elli is the daughter of the couple we bought the farm from eighteen years ago. Elli is enthusiastic and a keen member of the community. Athletic, up before the crack of dawn and when not working all god’s hours she’s often seen cycling up three-in-one hills with her graceful dog Mel beside her. Her father, George, came to Locks Park when he was a small boy of six and seamlessly took over farming it from his father and mother when they retired. Elli has a deep affinity for the place. She remembers well the stories her grandparents and father told of their lives here. She reminisces on those fabled forever, long hot summers and winters of snow and icicles. Helping out on the farm throughout her childhood she continued even after she’d left and married running her sheep on the Rutleighs. She loves the place and I believe if circumstances had been different she would have gladly taken over from her parents.

I knew she would know exactly what was farmed here and how – it’s part of her very being, her core. “Well now, twenty-five to thirty milking cows. They were up at the house and in all winter. Followers, young stock and the like: we wintered them out on the bottom of Scadsbury. Never in. Again twenty-five to thirty. You know max, Paula.”

the out-wintering land, Scadsbury meadow

Scadsbury was forty acres of rented land. Land, unfortunately, we never managed to acquire, and the out-wintering field she was talking about is the most glorious ten acres of flower-filled culm.

“The cows were grazed at home on Top, Flop, Little Hill, Five Acres, Dung and Rushy. Followers continued over at Scadsbury, you know, when the grass came on in the better fields.”

She went on to say they never brought in any forage, cutting it all at Locks. Fertiliser, 20-10-10, was applied, sparingly of course, as well as lime and slag when needed.
“Even on Dillings?” I chip in. Dillings being our ultra special flower filled meadow.
“Yes, yes, of course.”
They used to bale up rushes for bedding and she can’t remember them ever buying in straw. “Nothing was ever tilled at Locks, too wet, not even in the war. Yes, I know I’m right, though I think they once did a small piece over Scadsbury and we must’ve baled that as straw.”

And sheep? “Oh, eighty ewes give or take.”’

So who’s right? These small, beautiful, diverse farms were working, commercial farms. We’ve been left a legacy that no money can create. Should we now treat their land as museum pieces – to be polished and treated with kid gloves, or should we too work them to provide food and income, allowing them to reflect the character of our age, not ages past?

An afterthought. I believe I’m trying to express my idea of what I feel is wondrous and astonishing. So let me try and find an analogy. To me true beauty in a human has nothing to do with the plastic nip and tucked, contrived, gleaming and polished doll-like exterior we are apparently meant to aspire to in today’s consumer-driven/celebrity-culture existence. True beauty is an extraordinary mix of the physical and metaphysical, the body and soul to use a well worn phrase. A magnetic pull towards a radiating working energy. Not a self-serving manufactured appearance deprived of age or history. So if you can translate these clumsy thought images to farms (the physical) and nature (the spirit) maybe you’ll have an inkling of what I’m trying to express.

flowers in Dillings

We still have no grass. I’m waiting patiently for the current warm weather to have its magic stimulating effect on the recalcitrant stuff. The cattle are not! As I write this, the perfect, here-at-last, golden-green evening is reverberating with deafening booming bellows, bouncing and crashing up from the yard just metres below me. This noise thunders around my head, twangs and plunks every taut stretched fibre in my body with insistent persistent discord. Of course this is exactly what it is meant to do. I, as number one food provider, am failing at my duty. The unrelenting bawling coupled with the compelling force of combined herd psyche is designed to send me into a spin, in much the same way as the cry of a newborn.

I’ll explain. Last year’s wet summer and very late harvest meant the forage we made was not as nutritious as usual. In the winter, when the cows are in-calf, this is not a problem. But now they are coping with the demands of their fast growing calves with an ever increasing need for milk. My cows are telling me they need plenty of accessible protein, carbohydrates, minerals and vitamins as well as roughage, and last year’s haylage is not delivering. Fresh grass would!

Trouble is, the cold wet spring over the last two months has meant the ground is still soggy and producing little forage. Coupled with this, our landlord on the ground we normally turn out onto – our best drained land – has entered into an Environmental Stewardship Scheme which prohibits the use of round feeders. So we can’t put the cattle out just yet. It’s been a long winter, very nearly six months of looking after the herd indoors. And they are not stupid - they know full well they should be out by now - it’s close to summer and they can smell what fresh grass there is: it’s time to be munching that first delicious bite. So the psychological warfare escalates….

On Saturday evening we visited a farm. Robert knew of it many years back when it was owned by two extremely ancient old boys. For numerous decades the farm sat in glorious isolation and neglect, the land and buildings softened and crumbled; definition of field and hedge, lane and track, farmhouse and barn sagged into tangled green obscurity. The old boys continued to live in their decaying farmhouse looking out over a farmyard of bent disintegrating barns and humped undulating roofs; astonishingly they were still using the original cloam oven and still gathering and burning bundles of faggots.

It was sold a few years ago and by chance we met the new owners in the pub. They are a delightful couple. Not in their first flush of youth Jim is instantly noticeable by a shock of wild bright white hair; he’s buzzing with energy, passionate and eager, a zinging wire – his edges rounded and softened by a warm brown voice and a distinct west country burr. Mary has her feet firmly on the ground and a gentle yet tough stoicism. She has an open sincere face and large, expressive eyes in which you glimpse hidden depth. Both of them shine with the ruddy glow of outdoor living and smell of fresh air and wood, plaster and earth. Working ceaselessly on the farmhouse and buildings they have made a temporary home in one of the open crumbling barns and a caravan. To Robert’s delight they didn’t hesitate in inviting him over do some mothing.

Robert returned home his eyes bright with passion for the untamed and unspoiled beauty of the place. Brimming with excitement he said ‘It’s quite extraordinary. You stand in the farm and look out over the surrounding countryside with all those neatly clipped hedges and bright green fields and just know…’

‘Hang on, hang on’ I said ‘Maybe you shouldn’t class it as a farm, should you? I mean it hasn’t actually produced food in an age, has it? Isn’t it an area, a wildlife haven. Extraordinary, yes, but a farm?’

As often happens in our own feisty, ardent relationship a discussion was soon raging about, as Robert will have it, the semantics of the definition of farm…

A farm is the basic unit in agriculture. It is a section of land devoted to the production and management of food, either produce or livestock.
So says Wikipeidia and the Oxford dictionary.

‘Uh!’ poofs Robert ‘That is such outdated thinking’ and dismisses it out of hand.

With us this is an old, well worn and often revisited spat. Robert believes, fervently, that not all farms – land - have to be managed mainly for food. Some of it, just a small proportion should be managed for nature – marginal farms like ours and Jim and Mary’s. We are pretty refined and adept at this dialogue now, but still it manages to get our blood boiling, turns us red in the face, gasping and choking at the heinous atrocities the other is mouthing. Yet we are basically of the same mind and thought about most things. We cycle tandem ninety percent of the time.

Why am I at odds with this? Why do I feel it’s slightly immoral? Why do I feel it’s a luxury to be the custodian of a farm (as that’s what we are) and manage it primarily for wildlife? Running through me is a twist of tough chewed fibre – possibly a remnant of my bog Irish ancestry or strands of my Scottish heritage. Whatever, this part of me feels vaguely uncomfortable - almost guilty. To me, as guardian of a farm, I have a sense of duty, an obligation, to try to grow the best quality produce I can without compromise to my stock, the wildlife or the landscape. Can I achieve the balance I strive for? Robert thinks not. He believes I do compromise nature…and due to the demands of my livestock I’m unable to allow wildlife the unfettered freedom it requires; nor am I able to produce enough food on these marginal soils to render the farm economically viable. I’m falling between two stools. He has a point.

Enough, enough. Enough of the doom and gloom. I want to be cheerful and enjoy the newness happening out there. A bit of lightness and brightness to feed the soul, top up our optimism and give us the energy to face the future.

Now here’s a thought. Midges are insects. Flowers are designed to attract insects; therefore without insects we wouldn’t have the glorious diversity of flowers we anticipate and marvel at each year. In effect insects are enriching our lives too. How curious is nature? Robert is quite keen I write a poem. Something along the lines of
‘Where the midge sucks, there suck I
In a cowslip bell I lie…’ Cowslip, cow’s lip? Ummm, maybe not. I’ll work at it.

But this evening I’m off. My gorgeous friend who winkles me out of the farm and takes me to opera, theatre and ballet – recently Matthew Bourne’s exuberant, colour extravaganza Nutcracker – is treating me to a Seth Lakeman concert at Plymouth Uni.

Meanwhile I leave you with some glorious insect inspired flowers just on our doorstep!

“So you think it’s going to be bad? Well, you’re wrong…

We shuffle in our seats, steal surreptitious glances at one another, clear our throats and half smile. A rustle of whispers stirs through the listeners.

…it’s going to be devastating! Don’t underestimate for a second what effect this disease will have on your stock, you and your business.”

Jaws drop. We sit stock still. He has everyone’s undivided attention: Marco Zerhoef, the vet from Holland who has hands-on experience of dealing with Bluetongue, the disease that’s decimated the livestock industry in much of Northern Europe.

He continues “In Holland we were unprepared. We’d heard of it yes, but we thought the handful of cases that bubbled up in 2006 and then died down was the end of it. A one off, nothing to get excited about. How wrong we were! In 2007 the first cases in Holland occurred in July, but we misdiagnosed them as sunburn – it had been an unusually hot spring – and photosensitisation. We correctly identified the disease too late and by August nearly every farm in our practice had contracted Bluetongue. The disease continued to snowball with unprecedented effects.”

He went on to explain what we could expect. Showed us images of cows and sheep; oedematous, encrusted with lesions, lame and unable to drink or walk; and calves, malformed, mummified, suffering severe encephalitis and other unusual deformities. Youngsters that failed to thrive. Depressing graphs, facts and figures.

The only thing they could do was nurse the sick and dying, helping to relieve the excruciating symptoms. It’s an awful disease, killing 40% of sheep and causing long-term damage to those that survive and to cattle.

“You” he carried on “have a chance. Have a chance to be a little more prepared. And a chance, maybe, to get in front of it with the vaccine.”

A Dutch dairy farmer gave his first hand experiences of coping with Bluetongue in his well kept milking cows, calves and heifers and the ongoing effects the disease is continuing to have on his stock and business. Needless to say, milk production has been severely reduced; his followers lack growth and are giving just a small percentage of their expected yield, his cows are difficult to get in calf, calves die in utero, and so on.

Karin Darple, a vet from Pirbright and a Bluetongue expert who has been working on the disease and vaccine, gave her presentation next – and it was superb. What she doesn’t know about Bluetongue isn’t worth knowing. She had very practical advice on how to cope with the disease, whether and when insecticides would be appropriate, housing versus the outdoors and much, much, more.

Karin would like to see 100% take up of the vaccine as soon as it hits the shelves, but EU legislation prevents this! Vaccine can only be given in Protection Zones where the disease has already struck, not in the surrounding Surveillance Zones. Karin couldn’t stress enough that speed is of the essence: to stand a chance of avoiding the devastating effects of the disease we must vaccinate ahead of it – we must prevent the virus from getting established.

There was far too much useful information to put in this post. I have asked my vet for pdf copies of all three presentations. Those that I’m able to, I’ll link to from my blog. If they are too large I’d be willing to email you a copy if you are interested. Leave me some contact detail in the comment section and I’ll get back to you. Please also look at the Warmwell site and the link Jane Barribal left for more information.

bluetongue 4

The infuriating niggle-niggle that keeps irritating and scratching persistently away in my mind’s eye is ‘you!-you-ostrich-head-in-the-sand’ and ‘maybe-if-I-look-from-behind-my-hands-it-won’t-happen’ as well as the ‘if-I-squint-I-might-not-really-see-what-I’m-looking-at’. I don’t know if you experience them…those irksome posters that march across your field of vision making sure you are perpetually aware of a subject you really don’t want to think about. This particular no-no is, of course, Bluetongue. And no, it won’t go away however much I will it.

As I breathe deeply, sigh and marvel at the fabulous weather of the last few days, another part of me is scanning for midges and hoping that the cold, frosty mornings and chilly Easterly wind might give us a few more weeks grace. Might, miracles of miracles, allow us to evade the next month of certain infestation and infection. At least, get us a little bit nearer the promised vaccination.

I’m itching – operative word here – to get the cows out. But if cold wet rain, sleet and snow – in fact a ‘fimble-winter’ - is the recipe for that miracle, well, bring it on!

The day before yesterday the midges were biting…and hard. The cows were careering about, bellowing and kicking; a heavily fleeced sheep cast herself itching; and the rams decided that the persistent irritation obviously originated from one of the others which resulted in a bloody battle. I also frenziedly scratched and pulled at my hair. It hasn’t been too bad since then.

This evening I’m attending a talk arranged by my vets on Bluetongue. The speakers will be a Dutch vet who has first hand experience, Intervet, the vaccine manufactures and possibly a vet from Animal Health. I wait to see what, if anything, I can do.

the future of our countryside

I’m writing another post on this subject spurred on by your comments. Perhaps too I did not make it clear where I was coming from. I’m waiting on the CPRE to find out if they can put Robert Elms’ article on line: if they can there’ll be a link.

The perception of the countryside, and the values we attach to it, vary as much as we do. Even if we’re broadly in agreement, the detail leads to plenty of healthy discussion! None of us holds quite the same views about the Enclosures, wind farms, badgers, hunting, subsidies, green belts, organic farming, gmos…

Just a tiny scrap of the British Isles is left untouched by human hand. We haven’t scarcely an iota of true wilderness left. Ours is a cultural landscape, a record of our history and social evolution. A palimpsest – love that word. And it will continue to change. In the next few decades I believe it will undergo as rapid a transformation as anytime before, apart from perhaps the clearance of the wildwood, through the demands of population growth, climate change, food security and energy generation, but that’s no excuse for not sharing our views on what the future of our landscape should be, so that collectively we can exert some shaping influence.

I’m not a naturally untidy or lazy farmer. Far from it, I’m cursed by obsessive industry. It’s all too easy for me to look at a beautiful farm and see only work to be done. I have farmed various types of land for over three decades and my ideals, passions and expectations have changed dramatically over the years. But I’ve never held sway with intensive agriculture and have always tried to the best of my ability to farm in harmony with the land. When farmer met environmentalist (Robert- husband) there was a meeting of minds on some aspects, but headlong clashes over others. I began to look at certain practices with different eyes, just as Robert began to better understand the needs of a farmer, his stock and crops. Fortunately for us, Locks Park could never be intensively farmed (come Armageddon I will have the greatest of difficulty to even grow a handful of cereal to feed the family) so compromise has not been too difficult.

Reading Robert Elms’ article I was struck not by his dismissal of the countryside (I couldn’t care a toss if he doesn’t want to live in it) but more by his observation of the boring sameness of it all. You see I agree. To me a lot of our countryside has become over manicured, bland and uninteresting. With mono-culture, horsiculture and diesel and unimaginative planning laws we are losing character and individuality.

Affluence is part of the problem. We no longer have to mend and make do. We have the cash to throw on the fertilisers, on all-powerful machines, on high tensile wire and smart new gates. You can tell so much about a place by looking at a single old wooden gate, repaired and patched over many years, lichen-smattered, so little from a brand new one.

Then there’s the legacy the Victorians left us, that cleanliness (neatness) is next to godliness. The inordinate desire the stamp our mark on every last square foot, to create order out of Nature’s chaos. Have you any idea how difficult it is to cut a field in wavy lines, so deeply ingrained is the need for everything to be straight and true? Many say that the sign of a good farmer is how neat his land is, but in my view we have to learn to think differently.

And that goes for environmentalists as well as farmers. How many times have I seen the soul of a beautiful place tamed and dulled by the well-meaning but misplaced views of some conservation organisation or another? The sort who believe that tacking an inconspicuous line of fencing wire to an oak tree or two is a sin, requiring instead a line of standard-spec yellow-green fencing to cut across the landscape like a slash across a Constable.

Am I the only one willing to speak up for the rusty tin roof, the abandoned harrow in the hedge, even the ruts in the lane?

A couple of days ago I sat on the bench in front of the house in a tee shirt and ate my lunch, I almost felt too hot. I cut the grass – and sweated. I flung open the windows and doors. Thousands of clusterflies emerged from the roof and the thatch tremmeled with their frenetic infuriating whine-buzz. The dogs looked for shade. The cows shouted expectantly – ‘had I forgotten turnout?’ The sheep could hardly be bothered to rouse themselves for their evening feed. And we cut our first asparagus.

Today there was no looking for midges flying over the sheep. No tea on the bench either. It was April Whiteout!

urban countryside?

I’ve just read an article in the CPRE’s spring edition of Countryside Voice by self-confessed city lover, Robert Elms, who can’t stand the ‘the dreary predictability of muddy little England’. Compared to ‘the buzz, thrill and noisy creative glory of a city’ to him the countryside is ‘a depressing rejection of all that in favour of safe, samey conformity’. And I find myself nodding in partial agreement. Too much of England has become over-sanitised, too safe, too uniform.
Often when Robert (husband) and I return to visit old walking haunts we are surprised to find how much they have changed. Gone are the haphazard pastures and meadows filled with a riot of dandelions and daisies. No more are there crumbling stone or earth banks, gaps stuffed with old bedsprings and handy corrugated iron. Gone is the decrepit rusty fencing tied up with fading fibrous pieces of bailer twine to the nearest gnarled stump of hedgerow bush. Gone too is the exhilarating feeling of a remote and wild place. In its place we find acre after acre of bottle-green nitrogen ryegrass, geometrically divided by straight, neatly trimmed hedges bounded by bright tight squeaky clean fencing. Smart tanalised styles, each with neat dog gate and sporting a brand new painted signpost. Barn conversions all following the same brown-window syndrome

I feel angry, upset and cheated. But, if I’m honest, I can remember thinking once that all that broken decay was a sign of shoddy farming! Okay, so our rush-infested fields and pastures are either a waterlogged, sink-sucking morass or an ankle-breaking, knee-twisting concrete with nothing inbetween, and they are exacting and unproductive, but we are blessed with a farm that has character. It is totally individual and exciting. So we resolve to leave that old dung-spreader where it was in the field corner, not to make any more hedgerows redundant through fencing them, to tolerate those thickets of brambles springing out here and there and to leave that muddy gateway where the house martins collect the mud for their nests.

Would Mr Elms, I wonder, find this countryside - wild, unkempt, unpredictable - a more interesting exchange for his culturally exciting, glorious buzzy urbanity? Or would he still feel all the countryside has to offer is various forms of soil?

to read the whole article see May edition of Devon Today

Checking the sheep yesterday I found green. Look! It’s just beginning…

Touches in the willows alongside the pond in First Rutleigh.

My wolf dog, Ness, waiting patiently whilst I looked for more signs of spring.

Amazing molinia - purple moor grass.

On Saturday the rain hurled rods and sleet flung stinging shot; the wind whipped and howled, crashing and banging anything and everything with vandalistic glee; the fields ran and sighed with cold clay water – and I lost a lamb. She died from pasteurella. She was bonny, big and strong; she and her sister were some of the first lambs to be born.

I’d been up in the top yard checking the buildings were holding out, and the ewes and lambs hadn’t succumbed to drowning or hypothermia. Surprisingly everyone was okay though a mite wet and bedraggled; the ewes had sensibly brought most of the youngest lambs into shelter. Returning back down to the farmhouse Robert made some remark about the water supply and so couple of hours later I went back up to check all was well. And there she was, dead. Pasteurella is that sudden. It’s a bacterium, p. heamolytica, which leads to severe pneumonia. I’ve never had a case before on this farm. They say if you’ve had one probably more will follow so I’ve been keeping an ever watchful eye on the flock and…I dare say no more.

But what a difference a day makes.  It was time to move Dot, her offspring and a couple of other ewes and lambs up to rejoin the main flock.  Walking them slowly up the hill