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Lock the thread please @Bald Rick
The Anton Coaker column thread
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puntabrava
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puntabrava
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“Who asked you anyway”. Do not start attacking me. This place is a discussion forum not a billboard.
Jam Tomorrow
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Please lock it
It’s an interesting account and doesn’t require comment
It’s an interesting account and doesn’t require comment
Anton Coaker Blog
Member
Summer 2024 Aus mining
I’m going to draw your focus far from Dartmoor for a moment. I happened to spend an hour or two with some Australians lately- a couple of genuine gruff tough outdoorsy outback types, rather than the chic urban Oz majority. One earns a crust working on one of the huge Queensland cotton farms- some of which draw water from the scant river systems, leading to waterways running dry hundreds of miles away. ‘Organic’ and ‘nature friendly’ wouldn’t necessarily be words some people would use to describe the corporate operations. The other is a lad earning gainful employment in one of the monstrous coal mines, 1000kms from anywhere, fly in/ fly out, week on/week off shifts. He’s drawn by the pay, which is very good for a youngster. The sheer scale of the mining is hard to convey, involving numbers and equipment difficult to imagine. To give you an idea, if the coal seam is less than 260’ below surface, the 260’ of ‘overburden’ in the way is simply moved aside….all of it. This isn’t chaps going down a shaft with pickaxes over their shoulders. Haulage involves trains miles long, and in total, Australia is exporting something like 160 million tonnes of coking coal annually.
This lad is an intelligent, lucid and open minded young fella, and we were able to talk about public perceptions. He admits that there are situations where he’s less comfortable discussing what he does for a living. Country folk tend to be OK, commenting on the famously good wages in the mines, while urban folk are more prone to focus on the ills that his industry foists on the environment- both locally and immediately, and ultimately when the coal is burnt.
We didn’t take it further, because –frankly- we didn’t need to. We could both see the irony of an urban mass, decrying this industrialised damage to the environment…..while living in a luxuriously wealthy modern country….almost wholly fuelled on rampaging mineral and natural resource exploitation industries. For elsewhere in Australia, precious metals, manganese, nickel, zinc, lead, bauxite and gems are mined in equally gratifying quantities, and iron ore mining pretty much dwarves the lot at close to 900 million tonnes exported annually, in an arrangement vital to the economic fortunes of both Australia and chief recipient…China.
Now I mention this because it’s very much more relevant than we’d like to confront. As indicated, the materials are driving the Asian tiger economies, where they’re manufacturing goods for…..well, for all of us. Our demands are underpinning this pillaging of natural resources, and inevitably damaging both a fragile continent far away, and causing changes to the global environment.
In turn, I explained the current fad here, demanding I keep less livestock, for the double barrelled allegations that their burps warm the planet, and their nibbling is destroying bio-diversity. Stood in a grassy green landscape watching my stock grazing, nursing their young, and generally being bucolically endearing, my antipodean friends understood instantly, seeing the fantasy and hypocrisy for what it is. Despite 12,000 miles between Dartmoor and their lives, and our wildly differing interests, we were much closer in our understanding of humanity than I am to a lot of people nearer to home, or-I suspect- they are to most coastal city dwelling Australians.
In the days since, I’ve dwelt on this juxtaposition, where urbanised modern societies multiply, grow, and create ever more complex trade and industrial networks, dragging every corner of our world into the mess. The queue of migrants is trying to get into these societies, not go the other way. The pattern is very clear…you hardly need to look for it. At some level, we’re all guilty….every single one of us. And I can fleetingly grasp this reality, although the enormity is pretty overwhelming when it comes into focus. 900 million tonnes of iron ore annually really is quite a lot.
What I cannot abide though is the ceaseless chattering about how we’re going make everything better by re-introducing some little furry critter, not mowing the lawn for a few weeks, the so-called ‘restoring peatland’, or by bullying me into feeding some dodgy supplement to my cows to stop them burping so much. Almost every environmental news report seems to be about habitat loss and the ills of ‘modern farming methods’. It’s everywhere, and has taken root as some kind of talisman. No-one seems to ask what effect this endless blame shifting has on those communities on the receiving end.
It is a vile hypocrisy, which fills me with equal degrees of rage, and ultimately, despair. Those weaving this web of fantasy, while themselves living as part of the industrialised world-consuming hive, should be held accountable.
I’m going to draw your focus far from Dartmoor for a moment. I happened to spend an hour or two with some Australians lately- a couple of genuine gruff tough outdoorsy outback types, rather than the chic urban Oz majority. One earns a crust working on one of the huge Queensland cotton farms- some of which draw water from the scant river systems, leading to waterways running dry hundreds of miles away. ‘Organic’ and ‘nature friendly’ wouldn’t necessarily be words some people would use to describe the corporate operations. The other is a lad earning gainful employment in one of the monstrous coal mines, 1000kms from anywhere, fly in/ fly out, week on/week off shifts. He’s drawn by the pay, which is very good for a youngster. The sheer scale of the mining is hard to convey, involving numbers and equipment difficult to imagine. To give you an idea, if the coal seam is less than 260’ below surface, the 260’ of ‘overburden’ in the way is simply moved aside….all of it. This isn’t chaps going down a shaft with pickaxes over their shoulders. Haulage involves trains miles long, and in total, Australia is exporting something like 160 million tonnes of coking coal annually.
This lad is an intelligent, lucid and open minded young fella, and we were able to talk about public perceptions. He admits that there are situations where he’s less comfortable discussing what he does for a living. Country folk tend to be OK, commenting on the famously good wages in the mines, while urban folk are more prone to focus on the ills that his industry foists on the environment- both locally and immediately, and ultimately when the coal is burnt.
We didn’t take it further, because –frankly- we didn’t need to. We could both see the irony of an urban mass, decrying this industrialised damage to the environment…..while living in a luxuriously wealthy modern country….almost wholly fuelled on rampaging mineral and natural resource exploitation industries. For elsewhere in Australia, precious metals, manganese, nickel, zinc, lead, bauxite and gems are mined in equally gratifying quantities, and iron ore mining pretty much dwarves the lot at close to 900 million tonnes exported annually, in an arrangement vital to the economic fortunes of both Australia and chief recipient…China.
Now I mention this because it’s very much more relevant than we’d like to confront. As indicated, the materials are driving the Asian tiger economies, where they’re manufacturing goods for…..well, for all of us. Our demands are underpinning this pillaging of natural resources, and inevitably damaging both a fragile continent far away, and causing changes to the global environment.
In turn, I explained the current fad here, demanding I keep less livestock, for the double barrelled allegations that their burps warm the planet, and their nibbling is destroying bio-diversity. Stood in a grassy green landscape watching my stock grazing, nursing their young, and generally being bucolically endearing, my antipodean friends understood instantly, seeing the fantasy and hypocrisy for what it is. Despite 12,000 miles between Dartmoor and their lives, and our wildly differing interests, we were much closer in our understanding of humanity than I am to a lot of people nearer to home, or-I suspect- they are to most coastal city dwelling Australians.
In the days since, I’ve dwelt on this juxtaposition, where urbanised modern societies multiply, grow, and create ever more complex trade and industrial networks, dragging every corner of our world into the mess. The queue of migrants is trying to get into these societies, not go the other way. The pattern is very clear…you hardly need to look for it. At some level, we’re all guilty….every single one of us. And I can fleetingly grasp this reality, although the enormity is pretty overwhelming when it comes into focus. 900 million tonnes of iron ore annually really is quite a lot.
What I cannot abide though is the ceaseless chattering about how we’re going make everything better by re-introducing some little furry critter, not mowing the lawn for a few weeks, the so-called ‘restoring peatland’, or by bullying me into feeding some dodgy supplement to my cows to stop them burping so much. Almost every environmental news report seems to be about habitat loss and the ills of ‘modern farming methods’. It’s everywhere, and has taken root as some kind of talisman. No-one seems to ask what effect this endless blame shifting has on those communities on the receiving end.
It is a vile hypocrisy, which fills me with equal degrees of rage, and ultimately, despair. Those weaving this web of fantasy, while themselves living as part of the industrialised world-consuming hive, should be held accountable.
Anton Coaker Blog
Member
Lola
Always open to new ideas, I’ve been casting about trying to find out how I become one of these new trendy ‘Transition Farmers’. There’s whole pages in the farming glossies about them, and their methods. And they certainly seem to be happy smiley farmers, all scrubbed up for the cameras and adoring acolytes. I only wish to blazes I knew what ‘Transitional’ farming means. I’d foolishly guessed it was to do with living in a post Brexit, post CAP world, where we’re all going to live free of subsidies, and farm our way into profit. But, dolt that I am, I’d missed the bit where, to enable this, we’re instead going to claim even more payments to dedicate half our farm to nature.
I’m even more muddled now, seeing as more than half my land is already fantastic nature-filled habitat. As far as I can see, I’m going to have to plough most of it up, drains some bogs, clearfell any trees, and step on lots of newts and the like…so I can then re-dedicate it to nature, brag about the newts I missed, and claim loads of lovely lolly. All so I can then give thought to becoming a ‘Transitional farmer’. By Golly, you can see how I’m confused.
Meanwhile, out in the grubby world of actual peasant farming, where thoughts are rather more focussed on the eternal turning of the seasons, some stuff needs doing whatever type of farmer these geniuses think you’ll become. The South Devons are mostly calved, and now, in kinder conditions at least, my days are being enlivened instead by calving the Galloways. These are a very different kettle of onions, in that they seldom need much help, but the calves still need tagging. And the quickest and simplest way of achieving this feat is to feed them in a line each morning, and walk back through with a crook stick, a pocket full of pliers, tags and rings etc, and a steely nerve. As I’ve often mentioned, I keep them as quiet as is practical for hill cows, who’re about to be turned adrift on miles of wilderness. They are however, creatures closer to nature than some, and when the monkey in the waterproof jacket grabs their precious ball of fluff, which invariably gives a brief squeak of disapproval, some individuals come at me like demons from hell. They’re bellowing, snorting, throwing up clods of turf, and generally suggesting that they’re going to smear me into ketchup. A particular group of sisters were bad as first calvers, then settled down as they matured. But for reasons unknown, this year they've reverted to type. The beggars are determined to circle behind me as I work with their calf between my knees. And I don’t like em behind me. I’ve had a couple of hairy moments, I can tell you. John was to hand one morning, and kept one at bay, but otherwise it’s just them and me, with the wind seething through the grass as we dance. I do love them, and this task….but it’s a long way from those clever chaps in the glossies.
Back in the yard, after 2 rounds of clear TB testing, there’s yearlings to trade- or ship out to grass, and South Devons and their calves to handle before moving onward to summer pasture. The handling pens are both taking a bashing, and badly need sweeping down. The latter is soon dealt with, but repairing wear and tear is backing up. Perhaps this is what they mean….I need to ‘transition’ from a man with pens needing work, to a man with a spanking new shiny set up?
And lastly, I have the sorry duty to report the loss of one of our kitchen pack of disreputable terriers. The perky and generally adorable ‘Lola’- the middle generation- had discovered the cut-off antlers, lately removed from some yearling cattle before turnout, left strewn about the aforementioned cattle pennage. Being a greedy guts, she was seen on several successive days, scampering back with, and delightedly chewing on these treats- everything a terrier could want. And I wouldn’t give it a second thought- it’s what dogs do. Until, that is, she gorged on them to the extent that she got a blockage. Unable to move it in either direction- you’re not at the breakfast table are you?- she was whisked off to the vets. Sadly she then very quickly developed pneumonia from breathing in a bit of gloop. In the space of 36 hours, she went from the happiest dog in Toyland, to there being a spare dog bowl in the kitchen. Hey ho….it was nice having had her in our lives.
Always open to new ideas, I’ve been casting about trying to find out how I become one of these new trendy ‘Transition Farmers’. There’s whole pages in the farming glossies about them, and their methods. And they certainly seem to be happy smiley farmers, all scrubbed up for the cameras and adoring acolytes. I only wish to blazes I knew what ‘Transitional’ farming means. I’d foolishly guessed it was to do with living in a post Brexit, post CAP world, where we’re all going to live free of subsidies, and farm our way into profit. But, dolt that I am, I’d missed the bit where, to enable this, we’re instead going to claim even more payments to dedicate half our farm to nature.
I’m even more muddled now, seeing as more than half my land is already fantastic nature-filled habitat. As far as I can see, I’m going to have to plough most of it up, drains some bogs, clearfell any trees, and step on lots of newts and the like…so I can then re-dedicate it to nature, brag about the newts I missed, and claim loads of lovely lolly. All so I can then give thought to becoming a ‘Transitional farmer’. By Golly, you can see how I’m confused.
Meanwhile, out in the grubby world of actual peasant farming, where thoughts are rather more focussed on the eternal turning of the seasons, some stuff needs doing whatever type of farmer these geniuses think you’ll become. The South Devons are mostly calved, and now, in kinder conditions at least, my days are being enlivened instead by calving the Galloways. These are a very different kettle of onions, in that they seldom need much help, but the calves still need tagging. And the quickest and simplest way of achieving this feat is to feed them in a line each morning, and walk back through with a crook stick, a pocket full of pliers, tags and rings etc, and a steely nerve. As I’ve often mentioned, I keep them as quiet as is practical for hill cows, who’re about to be turned adrift on miles of wilderness. They are however, creatures closer to nature than some, and when the monkey in the waterproof jacket grabs their precious ball of fluff, which invariably gives a brief squeak of disapproval, some individuals come at me like demons from hell. They’re bellowing, snorting, throwing up clods of turf, and generally suggesting that they’re going to smear me into ketchup. A particular group of sisters were bad as first calvers, then settled down as they matured. But for reasons unknown, this year they've reverted to type. The beggars are determined to circle behind me as I work with their calf between my knees. And I don’t like em behind me. I’ve had a couple of hairy moments, I can tell you. John was to hand one morning, and kept one at bay, but otherwise it’s just them and me, with the wind seething through the grass as we dance. I do love them, and this task….but it’s a long way from those clever chaps in the glossies.
Back in the yard, after 2 rounds of clear TB testing, there’s yearlings to trade- or ship out to grass, and South Devons and their calves to handle before moving onward to summer pasture. The handling pens are both taking a bashing, and badly need sweeping down. The latter is soon dealt with, but repairing wear and tear is backing up. Perhaps this is what they mean….I need to ‘transition’ from a man with pens needing work, to a man with a spanking new shiny set up?
And lastly, I have the sorry duty to report the loss of one of our kitchen pack of disreputable terriers. The perky and generally adorable ‘Lola’- the middle generation- had discovered the cut-off antlers, lately removed from some yearling cattle before turnout, left strewn about the aforementioned cattle pennage. Being a greedy guts, she was seen on several successive days, scampering back with, and delightedly chewing on these treats- everything a terrier could want. And I wouldn’t give it a second thought- it’s what dogs do. Until, that is, she gorged on them to the extent that she got a blockage. Unable to move it in either direction- you’re not at the breakfast table are you?- she was whisked off to the vets. Sadly she then very quickly developed pneumonia from breathing in a bit of gloop. In the space of 36 hours, she went from the happiest dog in Toyland, to there being a spare dog bowl in the kitchen. Hey ho….it was nice having had her in our lives.
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