- Location
- Bury St Edmunds, Suffolk
I try to take pleasure out of enjoying the seasons. The fullness and rich feeling of late summer, when the gathering in is done, and everything is living on the smell of an oily rag, is hard not to love. Then comes autumn’s pagan earthiness, all darkening evenings and warding off the inevitable coming of winter with high jinks and some malted barley distillate. And even as we hit the depths of the winter I take a perverse enjoyment. Is last summer’s hay any good? Is the straw going to be dusty, or a fragrant golden delight? Are these waterproofs as good as their name? Will I get rained on again tomorrow? I’m up close and personal with my cattle for months in the winter, and if that doesn’t fill a man’s heart with contentment, there’s something wrong. As winter draws on, the dead dull flora and lack of colour bely the fact that the sap is building, waiting for daylight to lengthen. And the subtle signs of springs beginnings- never more welcome than this year- perk everything up in ways beyond measure.
As we finally came out of winter this year, I was more glad to see leaves opening on the trees than I can say. We hadn’t had a catastrophic time of it, as I generally play a very conservative hand, but even than it had dragged us pretty hard come the end. The first hungry swallows had nought to eat, and cows were still looking for grub after we’d run out. We’d fed a lot of hard feed…more than ever before. I don’t want to tally up the cost.
But now, suddenly we’re through it. And if you don’t love the early summer….well your heart is missing something. Without too much shuffling, the grass is ahead of the livestock at last. I’m still waking up with the sun, but it’ll soon outpace me for a couple of months. Sap rises everywhere, in both flora and fauna. I watched as the delicate beech leaves fluttered through May, and the shy spiky ash flowers opened briefly before falling in purple drifts. Then the pale green sycamore blossom, with its pleasing gentle fragrance entranced both the awakened bees and I. Next, withies in the valley let fly their downy seeds, floating up on a thermal about a week ago, settling in corners like snow. The hawthorn blossom has been pretty good –better than the bluebells I’d say, and as it goes over, so out comes the rowan. Broome, laburnum and the flag iris’s all splash yellow in the valley. In the skies, the few swallows have been joined by squadrons of house martins. We had none for years, 2-3 pairs last year, and I don’t know how many now. A couple of early arrivals are already on the case, but every window has latecomers trying to glue bits of mud to the eaves. Blackbirds have fledged their first lot, although I suspect the magpies had several.
Of the beasts, the cows are mostly calved, although a few Galloways are still appearing out on the top. Several new belts bounce around on the peat, although one cow was spotted with a wisp of cleansings and a worryingly full bag. We went looking for a calf, but I suspect it won’t be forthcoming. She won’t show me where she’s left it, and it’ll stay hidden in the molinia forever now…better luck next time.
Around the yard, the bulls are under strict lock and key, but know the weeks are ticking past. Morning and night they grumble and trumpet at each other. There are 7 in together, and ‘Peeps’ is the boss. Generally, he stands proud in the middle of their field, making earth shaking whale noises, while his subordinates circle him, growling away about how tough they are from a safe distance. Every 2-3 days, one of them decides it’s time to challenge him –Dave the South Devon must have a weight advantage- but Peeps remains the boss. Walking up to him to scratch his earth strewn back –he likes to paw dirt up over his shoulders-, I must look a bit daredevil, but he’s as quiet as can be with me. Ironically, we bought him off a farm where his Dam was as likely to grind you into the dirt as look at you, and he was as wild as could be when he leapt out of the trailer on arrival. But now, apart from being boss bull, he’s very easily handled. The boys will soon be going to work again, and I’ll be trying to remember which nettle patch contains a mower, and so it goes on, around and around.
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Anton's articles are syndicated exclusively by TFF by kind permission of the author and WMN.
Anton also writes regularly for the Dartmoor Magazine and the NFU
He has published two books; the second "The Complete Bullocks" is still in print
http://www.anton-coaker.co.uk/book.htm