Anton Coaker: Colours

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Livestock Farmer
Firstly, here’s what I’m not going to talk about this week. I don’t wish to dwell on the ‘State of Nature’ report –or at least the way it was portrayed. Apparently, it’s all the fault of intensive agriculture. The endless miles of urban sprawl, concrete and pollution from modern man’s dirty footprint nothing to do with it…no, it’s those pesky farmers again.

And then, there’s Devons own beloved Ben Bradshaw, who thinks a no deal Brexit could be worse than Foot and Mouth. Well, where I’m sitting that sounds like a thoughtless and despicable thing to say. It is certainly true that the worst facets of both could be viewed as results of boorish, self-promoting Prime Ministers …. because Ben, if you think it ever escapes my attention for a moment that the vast piles of my slaughtered cows and sheep we had to burn were killed to speed His Royal Tonyness on his way to a May election, you’re wrong. He laughed it off, caught in an unguarded conversation with his German counterpart, but his part in the anguish of hundreds of us should be seared into his mind forever…if he had any decency. You, Ben, also don’t seem to have grasped what a hideous nightmare it was for many of those it impacted. I might be a remainer pal, but that was a stupid thing to say.

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Instead kids, let’s talk about colours. It’s very likely a sign of my advancing years, but I’m increasingly drawn to notice the simple beauty of nature’s rich palette I see around me. I’m wont to pick a pleasing flower or two, to present to my beloved, or perchance wear behind my ear in a jaunty fashion, guaranteed to cause embarrassment to my offspring, and nervous foot shuffling amongst my peers. I see it everywhere in the wider landscape I treasure. From the rich red crop of berries currently burdening the rowan and hawthorn, heralding what folklore suggests will be a savage winter, to the damp dark orange of the rainsoaked bracken beds after they’ve turned. These are the exact colour that a South Devon cow should be - if she’s paler, maybe she should be on a drier hill, where the bracken trash lies a lighter colour. And speaking of South Devons, I am going to review Colin Pearse’s monumental 2 volume tome on the breed…but you’ll have to wait a minute until I’ve digested it a bit.

Back to colour. I love the verdant rich pastures in the autumnal in-bye, and the hills turning to shades of brown. The windswept fronds of lichen hanging from the trees in the valley catch my eye in their pale –almost luminous- green hues, as does the delicate pink of some of the late flowering yarrow, and the yellow speckles of blossom across the Western gorse. It’s all part of what fills my day, and I value it beyond measure.

I’m less fond of some colours clever men devise, and somehow manufacture or dye cloth into. What is it about so many ‘outdoor pursuits’ enthusiasts that makes them want to bring such vivid- nay, garish hues into the countryside? I couldn’t wear such cloth for fear of spooking the cows. And if they’re worried about being found when they get lost…well perhaps they should stay in town. I notice that, with the exception of statutory hi-vis gear, everyone around me wears garments rather less intrusive. Oh, some of the hi-vis gear is pretty shocking, especially when it’s new, and wearers are encouraged to go and roll around in the dirt for a minute, to stop my eyes hurting. But my attire is such that when I stop moving, I daresay I more or less disappear into the background…perhaps it’s something subconscious.

I do recall more vivid and arresting colours in nature in hotter climes. I was sat writing at a picnic table under the palms behind a tropical Queensland beach once, when something the shape of a small crab came marching across the boards. And it was the most shocking fluorescent green you could imagine. If hi-vis jackets needed be any louder, this creature would be the example. He was also pretty feisty too, arriving at my paperwork, I prodded him away with the end of my biro. And fair do’s, he was up for it! Waving his little pincers at me – he was only about an inch long- I could almost hear his belligerent little voice telling me to get off his table. If ever a bright colour warned of danger, it was his….although I never ascertained if he had the wherewithal, merely dumping him into the undergrowth nearby. Hey ho.


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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
 

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