Ten Years On - Making Hay

 A post from ten years ago.

Sunshiney Day, Making Hay

At last, we've had some more fine weather. And there have been lots of outdoor activities. We've weeded and picked and gathered and sowed. And we've made hay - the old-fashioned way.

Martha is not watching Bert plant a tree. She is attending the burial of the big hen that Foxy tried to take a few weeks back. That hen was not itself for many days after the attack and although I thought she had recovered her spirits she died yesterday. Maybe it would have been better if the fox had finished her off at the time.

Later on, Martha and Judy had fun playing in the hay

Today was beautiful too. Maybe a wee bit too warm but we shall not complain. Leitrim Sister came up to stay last night and today we went to St George's Market with Zoe and the girls. Dede and I went on to Ikea and Martha came too. Amazingly I only spent £12.65 in Ikea. This austerity drive is working well. When we got back Bert and Clint were baling and bringing in the hay - the old-fashioned way, the way Daddy used to do it. A good day.

Solace and Sorrow

Is there anyone who hasn't turned to the natural world for comfort during this awful pandemic? Even though the frigging virus is also a part of that same natural world. 

I was feeling really flat yesterday and forced myself to go do some polytunnel pottering to cheer myself up when I heard the pheasant squawk. 

Must go fetch the camera and see if I can capture it. Will be a change from my millions of pictures of finches and collared doves. But when I got back the pheasant had turned into...

...a hare! The first one I've ever spotted around here. I took a few quick shots then fetched Bert. He just managed to see it before it disappeared into the wood. He said it has been decades since there have been hares in these fields. 

It really cheered me up to have seen it and I spent a contented half-hour sowing nasturtiums and beans. 

No more sightings or squawks from the pheasant so I decided to take a dander towards the wood, camera at the ready. No pheasants here, just a quick glimpse of a red fox disappearing into the trees. No photograph to prove I saw it. No time. Now I was even more delighted. Until I considered that, although Fox is a beautiful animal, it will be hungry and pheasants and hares may need to take care.  

It is only a small sorrow that the fox might eat the foolish pheasant. It would be a rare thing if it killed an adult hare but foxes will kill and eat entire leveret populations. 

Bert and I were discussing this when he remarked,

Y'know, I haven't seen any buzzards around for a while. I wonder if some sheep farmer is poisoning them?

Last week we'd found a dead buzzard at the edge of the wood which Bert thought might have been poisoned.

My mood plunged. What if someone was systematically poisoning the buzzards? I felt hatred towards that someone. And couldn't stop dwelling on it. The country is full of sheep at the moment and some sheep farmers believe that buzzards kill newborn lambs. They don't, although are known to feed on dead or stillborn lambs. 

So there we are. Nature isn't all primroses and songbirds. It's horror and death and bastard farmers flailing hedges, cutting down trees and poisoning birds of prey.

 

I did eventually see that stupid pheasant. But not today. When I told Hannah about the fox she said,

Oh good! There will soon be some interesting bones in the wood.

I called her a ghoul.

Hannah's shrine of bones

 

The buzzard's feet

Red dot: dead buzzard

White dot: Hannah's bone shrine

Blue dot: Where the hare sat

Orange dot: The fox

 

Doing Christmas

I didn't make such a great fist of Christmas this year, no Christmas cake, no tree, no fairy lights, no three desserts. No shops.

The no shops shopping was the good part. I did Christmas present shopping online and it was OK except for around five of my gifts not arriving on time. And that was despite being ordered weeks in advance. It's a hard thing to admit but Amazon, no matter how wrong the company seems, is at least reliable. Note to self - more forward planning for 2021.

When it came down to it I missed not having a tree. 

Bert volunteered to be with his elderly Aunt on Christmas Day so I spent a good part of that day on my own. There was a family Zoom call planned for the morning which featured Martha and Evie, James and Emily showing us all their presents. I missed half of it due to connection problems and lack of forward planning and had a jolly good cry about it. Then of course, I had to cry about how sad Christmas is when we think of all the people (and dogs) that aren't with us any more then had to give myself a shake remembering that I have family members missing a child who, had she lived, would still be young enough to believe in Father Christmas. 

Boxing Day was better. Lockdown began but we did have Martha and Evie and their parents around. More Christmas food and then a round of Blind Man's Buff, Chinese Whispers and Charades. Is it just me, or are  Blind Man's Buff and Chinese Whispers maybe not terribly PC? If not, I've yet to receive the memo and anyway now that we are (apparently) no longer sophisticated Europeans these things don't matter. Who knows. Anyway - it was great fun and we laughed a lot which was heartening.

Bert spent today with Aunt Lizzie, I footered about doing little bits and pieces which included graping silage to cattle, a first for me. It is great to still be having new experiences in one's late sixties. I also watched the first episode of Bridgerton and cracked open a bottle of Malbec while it was still light outside.

Next year (if I'm spared) I'm Really Doing Christmas, fruit cake, plastic Santas, tinsel and everything. 

Bringing in the Hay

Bringing in the hay always used to be a fun time. Old style balers, old style oblong bales, stacked in nines and as many hands as possible to get it on the trailer and back to the shed. Old style balers are not so common these days but Clint has one. The field, the one in front of the country housing estate used to belong to Johnny, Bert's father and Bert said that when he and Johnny went to bring in the hay at least ten or more youngsters from the estate would appear just for the fun of the thing to help and to get a ride on the trailer. Nowadays that field belongs to Clint and the young ones aren't interested in riding on trailers and bringing in the hay. The only helpers Clint could get tonight were over sixty.

Bert knew it was coming up. He warned Clint.

I don't know that I'll be much help to you. My knees are murdering me.

Clint said,

Huh! We'll be some crew. Murray's got a bad heart, I can't get a breath and you can hardly walk.

The call came and it was the loveliest evening. Balmy, a slight breeze, a promise of rain to come. I was tempted to join them. Decades since I helped to bring in hay but I remembered it as being enjoyable.

Bert said,

Are you sure? You might hurt your back...

I decided against it.

Then Banjo Man turned up. Needing to speak to Bert about getting the shed delivered. We drove down to the hay field. I tried a bale. Not too heavy. We gathered a few, Banjo Man and I. He was worried he might break a nail on his picking finger but he didn't. Shed talk over we dismissed him. He had been working hard in Dublin all week while the rest of us (not Clint) were lazing in the sun. I stayed. Murray and I soon realised at 65 and 73 respectively that working together we achieved more than struggling to lift heavy bales on our own.

It was so satisfying and all finished well before nine o'clock. A field of bales gathered and loaded. There was a time when I'd have expected a lot more of a Friday night than an hour or two of hard physical work. But... when a body is 65 or older the pure joy of it is still being able to do it.

Bert's Tough Day

Bert had a tough day yesterday. First of all he had to move the herd, all seven of them, from one field to another. This involved shunting them out of one field, crossing a busy B road, and shunting them into another. He had at his disposal three sturdy cow hands, Les, Peter and myself. Les was in charge of halting the traffic at the Portglenone end, I took care of the Cully side and Peter and Bert gathered them up. That was the plan anyway. One of the 'bastes' was a visitor, a young bull belonging to Clint - that was in with our lot to act as a teaser. A young Lothario there to help Bert figure out when the girls were ready for the AI* man. And he was a teaser all right. With no intentions of doing the right thing he made a mad dash for the hedge and charged through a barbed wire fence into another man's field - and the two calves along with him. Meanwhile the cows were all in the new field enjoying the luscious grass. Peter and Bert did their best but they hadn't a hope. We brought one of the cows back and eventually the calves joined her and back to the luscious grass they went but no sign of Clint's bull. Bert tramped the fields but no sign of the teaser. He had to tell Clint who, it turned out, took a philosophical view of the matter.

They both went out to look for the bull, Clint driving the roads and Bert tramping the fields in torrential rain. At last the bull was found and penned and Clint drove off to get a trailer. Bert trudged home, soaked to the skin. He had just reached the end of the lane when one of the neighbours stopped him, a trim woman in her fifties, driving a smart little car. She called him over.

Bert, I was meaning to ask you. What are you doing about the trees?

The trees? What trees? 

The wood. The wood at the back of our house. What are you doing about it? 

Nothing. Why do you ask?

It's just that we were told it was only going to be there for fifteen or twenty years and now we can't see the road or the nice green fields. All we can see are those trees. We all hate them. 

Well I have no plans to do anything with them in the near future. They'll be there for a while yet.

Bert was disconcerted about this exchange. It never occurred to him that anyone would have a problem with the wood. He loves it, loves the wild life that lives there and is delighted that bluebells are beginning to flourish in it.

He told Clint who was practical as always.

Huh! If she doesn't like it she should move house. It's the countryside. Things change.

Later that afternoon the AI man turned up. Not Henry VIII this time, his brother Prince Arthur. He'd been caught in a short, sharp hailstorm where big chunks of ice had hit his car. We could actually see where the paint had flecked off. That made the downpour we'd had seem like a treat.

It faired up later and Bert took four dogs and the wee grey cat for a walk in the woods where they saw a fox. It wasn't a bad end to the day but it made me nervous for the hens, especially as he'd spotted fox cubs earlier whilst tramping other fields looking for Clint's young bull.

Bert's Wood

AI* Artificial insemination.

Foddering

Bert puts in a time of it looking after the 'bastes'. He has all Clint's to do these evenings for Clint is out driving milk tankers 'til all hours.

He has to fodder the kune kunes and the hens and then there are the three dogs and two cats to feed too.

Then he goes down to Clint's and feeds and puts in 16 geese and 30 turkeys. Clint's dog Lucy helps him to get the fowl in. She is very good at it. He then has to feed Lucy, two goats and four young cattle.

After all that he has to go back home and feed Pearlie and then he feeds us. Tonight we had carry out from the new and rather excellent Indian takeaway in Cullybackey.

Last night at Clint's he was missing one of the Hereford heifers. After a long tramp he found her in a faraway field keeping company with a young bull. She refused to leave her new lover. The bovine equivalent of the morning after pill will be needed.

Bert said to me,

How long do you think I'd have to stand in the middle of a snowy field before some young thing would crash through six fences to get at me?

A long time Bert. A very long time.

Vittin'

When we decided to get kune kunes we did think about the health care responsibilities. We were aware we'd have to vaccinate, innoculate and operate parasite control. We knew we'd have to feed them properly. We knew that all this would cost money and we decided that we were happy to take this on.

But what i wasn't prepared for was, that barely a month in, both pigs would go from being boisterously healthy to displaying serious signs of illness. Rusty was at death's door last Friday morning. We got him to the vet immediately and she pronounced him seriously ill. His temperature was actually abnormally low which is far. far worse than being high. After a couple of shots he started to rally and was eating again before the day was out. Saturday was good. On Sunday I thought he looked low again and called the vet. she said he'd go up and down and to keep on administering the shots.

Oh the shots! Rusty hated these and so did we. Bert jabbed and I held. As Rusty continued to rally he got stronger and ever harder to restrain. By this morning he was so difficult to pin down that it was only a miracle that I didn't get the dose intended for him. Afterwards he was in a right old state, sides 'thumping' like billy-oh. I decided to call my cousin.

I have a cousin who is an excellent vet. His practice is a fair distance from where I live so he is not our vet. But, worried sick about Rusty, I decided to ask for a second opinion. He reassured me, told me that our vet was giving Rusty the same medication he'd have prescribed. advised me to continue the course and only then if we thought he wasn't doing well to ask for different treatment.

Then this evening, Rusty continues to rally, he has lost growth and Lily has outstripped him in size but I'm happy enough with his progress. Then at bedtime Lily, who only a few hours earlier was up on her hind legs for grapes, was listless. Not interested in melon. (I bought the melon to practice injections) She is getting sick too. She had a shot earlier in the week as a preventative but afterwards did not seem to need it. We decided to jab her and were worried about it.

Then Stephen arrived on the yard. Stephen keeps cattle on our place but he is a pig man too. His daughter and her friend were ther to see Rusty and Lily. He showed us how to give shots in such a way that the pig will be as little stressed as possible. he gave us some really good advice and reassurance. Vets are essential. sometimes they even seem like miracle workers because they know all about those magic potions but there is nothing like the man or woman on the ground who knows the animal , who cares about it, knows how to handle it and is happy to share that knowledge.

Shifting The Dandies

The first 'dandy' peeks out of the wee shed.

The brother and one of the neighbours from home called round yesterday to remove my old car from the yard. While they were there they took a look at the calves. The neighbour, name of Paddy, remarked that they were the sort of calves that his grandfather, also called Paddy, and a man I remember with fondness, would have called 'dandies'.

Today Clint and Bert planned to move them to other, roomier quarters. The big bullocks went out to the wood and the dandies were going to the big byre. I always enjoy seeing cattle being moved because they get so excited. Poor things get bored being stuck in their winter quarters. So I went out to 'help' but really to look for photo opportunities.


I didn't get much chance because they soon gave us the slip. This is the pair of them cavorting through the midden. Clint is moving in on them with ominous intent. But this picture deserves a closer look.

There goes Meadow leaping in the air with joy and happiness in her little bovine heart. She soon gave us the slip again and I'm sure we were ten minutes or more rounding her up. There was no more chance of photographs and at the end of it poor Clint had to get his inhaler out. Obviously we're not near as fit as the dandies.

The New Arrivals

Junior & the Other One

Junior is a very small calf. He is a quarter Irish moiled. The other one is your typical Friesian type.

Meadow & Clover

Meadow and Clover are one half Hereford. We hope to keep these two. They bring me a lot of happy memories as Daddy kept a Hereford bull for a time and these two would have been typical of the sort of calves we had on the farm. Daddy's bull was called Mulderrick Hero and I was terrified of him although he was actually a very quiet animal. Daddy called him Ferdinand.

Minger

Ever wondered why farmers are a bit bogging? Well I've been a farmer for about 20 hours now and already I've got that dirty, crusty thing going on. The sleeves of my coat are covered with milk powder and calf slobber. I'll have to decide if it is going to become my farmer coat or if it goes back to being my good second best coat.

I've decided. New spring coat needed. That oul farmer coat was getting to be too big for me anyway.

D.I.Y.

Clint has man flu. He came into the kitchen this morning to get warm water for the calves and I said,

I thought you’d been up already or I would have fed them.

I wish I’d known that for it was hard rolling out of bed this morning. I’m dying!

What’s up with you?

I ache all over. I feel terrible.

Well don’t worry. I’ll do the calves at lunchtime and I’ll get them tomorrow morning as well.

Sure I’ll have to get up anyway to see to the geese.

But you won’t have to go off your own yard. I’ll do the calves tomorrow.

That would be great. I could do with a morning off.

Meanwhile Bert is lying softly snoring in his cosy warm bed.

He gets up at around eleven o’clock.

Poor Clint is sick again. He’s always poorly, isn’t he?

Huh! Little wonder for sure isn’t he always standing about in some cold hole!

What do you mean? What’s he been at?

Take yesterday – one of the coldest days in the world. He’s standing foundering in an open-sided shed painting oul hen-houses. What need did he have to be at that!

Meanwhile you’re sensibly sitting in front of a warm stove playing your clarinet and as warm and toasty as can be.

Exactly!

But Clint always has to be at something doesn’t he?

Aye. Oul eedjit. D’ye know what Peter says Clint’s version of DIY is?

No. What is it?

Clint’s idea of DIY is Done It Yesterday!

Wouldn’t you wonder what drives him on?

A Tourist Attraction

You'd think they'd never seen pigs before. The amount of visitors we've had since the porkers came has increased dramatically. And Clint is practically living with us.

Those of you who know him will remember how he used to talk incessantly about potatoes. He knew every variety of spud grown in Europe. He was a blight expert, ploughing was his passion and soil an obsession.

Then there was eggs. He started of by hauling them around the country. Who knew the hazards attached to egg transportation? Then he got some, and so did we, but Clint wasn't content with a few ex-battery hens about the place. His craving for fowl grew...and grew. Turkeys were next, then geese. The local foxes were in fowl heaven.


Of course if you've got a lot of poultry you need a lot of sheds. It started with one. But one wasn't enough. Soon Clint's yard was thronged with sheds. You could hardly get through it.



Now it's pigs. Clint has no room for them at his own place just yet. Too many sheds in the way. So they're here in the meantime. Two for Clint, two for his mate and two for us. Where will it end?