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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!
narrow bordered bee hawkmoth
Manic, hectic, non-stop - and I’m not talking about the frenetic cutting and carrying of silage or the persistent hum drone whine of tractors, mowers, foragers, bailers and wrappers filling the air 24/7 as most of my neighbours rush to take advantage of the warm, dry weather - but of Robert’s weekend schedule. As you are, no doubt, totally aware…it’s been National Moth day, night and weekend!
chimney sweeper - a moth whose food plant is pignut
You may have gathered through various comments in other posts Robert has a keenly developed interest (obsession?) with moths – trapping, collecting, recording, rearing and photographing – the last he does with enviable artistic flare and skill. So the last forty-eight hours has been one continuous merry-go-round of places, locations and venues from first light till the early hours of the morning (most things moth taking place during the most unsocial hours). Moth traps have been set, county moth gatherings have been attended, special sites have been visited, recordings have been made and moths - ordinary-extraordinary, exquisite-dowdy, day flying or night flying - have been found, noted and documented, whilst friends, acquaintances and strangers have been persuaded, cajoled and curmudgeoned into participating in one form or another.
mother shipton - can you see the witch’s face?
I’ve cherry picked. Choosing to accompany Robert on the more social affairs, and during the hours when most self-respecting moths are tucked up sound asleep in some cool dark hideaway, safe from marauding predators, apart, that is, from the occasional unusual treasure – such as the narrow bordered bee hawkmoth.
I’ve snatched a hasty conversation with a pal on a log in an orchard whilst traps have been set and electrics wrangled with; sipped tea in the shade of a wild rose after a walk around a stunning triple SI in search of the rare Marsh Fritillary butterfly; and been refreshed with a glass of ice cold wine in the dappled sun of early evening having trekked across the moor for supper. I have also had time to enjoy the extraordinary beauty of our flower meadows which are at their peak and taken pleasure in watching and observing the stock as they contentedly graze and relax in the early summer sunshine. A perfect June weekend.
ragged robin in dillings
for heidi - our only lunar moth - a lunar hornet moth, not as impressive as yours!
As normal I took the dogs for a walk this afternoon. We went down across Marymead, through the fields bordering the river and forest, past the two deer wallows, up and across to Bill’s chicken coop where I spent a moment chatting chicken-speak to the hens before crossing the small bridge into the pheasant cover, across a little stream into the smallest cultivated mowy mead (meadow) you can imagine. Almost across the meadow, it only takes a second or so, my head was full with thoughts of hens; wondering if I should get some more, what type I’d choose, going to have a look at a friend’s friend’s, or if I’d rather have ducks and geese…or maybe all three come to that, when I had an overwhelming desire to turn around…and there rushing full pelt towards me, her eyes shining bursts of pure joy, a grin to bust all grins, her tail going nineteen-to-the-dozen, and her whole body radiating unadulterated delight and excitement, was Jilly.
“Lilla? Lilla!” A whoosh of tingling pricklings rushed through my body one way whilst pure happiness flooded the other. Just before she could fling herself at me and explode with enthusiastic delight she evaporated…poof, just like that as fast as she’d appeared.
“Lilla, oh Lilla, Lilla.” I whispered. “Was that really you? Stay. Don’t go. Not just yet.”
And then immense, bottomless, black empty grief drenched and saturated every cell of my being. Hot tears welled up and cascaded down my face. I was looking through a dark watery lake. I felt the two hard panting bodies of Skye and Ness pressed close against my legs. I turned to go, not seeing, not caring, only aware of consuming sorrow and anguish.
Just as rapidly as the grief came it went leaving me exhausted, empty and shell-like-fragile to walk home. That’s when it came to me in a flash…it’s the exact day, the exact hour, the exact minute, possibly even the exact second, that Jilly had her fatal accident – six months on.
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.
On a walk around the spectacular limestone Calanque de Marseille we came across a bumble bee that was unnaturally still on a flower; on close investigation we saw it was quite dead, held firmly in the jaws of a crab spider. The spider was nearly impossible to detect as she matched the colour of the flower she was inhabiting exactly. Returning home we read up about the habits of said crab spider. Her ability to change colour allows her to hang out in exposed positions on a flower where she ambushes pollinating insects. Her venom is so potent she’s able to prey on insects much bigger than herself and as formidable as queen bumble bees. The prey is not mutilated in any way whilst it’s being consumed and ends up as a dry but perfect husk! The book says reassuringly ‘In spite of the horrifying ease with which they will take prey larger than themselves, they are perfectly harmless to humans.’ Well, thank god for that!
And guess what? Today, at home, we found another crab spider, a different species, with a burnet companion moth as her prey. At first we didn’t notice a tiny male scuttling around behind her. He apparently walks about on her abdomen before copulation and the matings are interspersed with little perambulations too. After forty-five minutes or so of kama-sutraesque love making they separate and the male wanders off leaving the female to finish her gourmet meal in peace (which I expect is quite reassuring as he’d most probably be eyed up as a tasty little aperitif).
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