- Location
- Bury St Edmunds, Suffolk
How has the yawning chasm of disconnect between Joe Public and the farming industry opened so wide? As kids, we used to joke about city kids who didn’t know what a cow looked like, or that crops grew in the ground. Oh how we chortled when a mischievous farmer would assure holidaying city tykes, as amused parents looked on, that milk grew in bottles, on plants, and that the empties had to be returned as seed for next year’s crop- although even as I type, I realise how it dates me talking about daily doorstep pinta deliveries.
But now, the disconnect is nearly total. There’s no grasp that the very foundation of human civilisation is farming, and that without it, there simply would not be- could not be- 7.6 billion of us. Without farming there would be practically no separate career paths, no technology, factories or cities. A reliable source of food, produced en masse, at the expense of whatever else might want to exist on that land, is the very fabric of how civilisation works. Yet huge slices of population and culture are blind to it.
‘Special interest groups’ loudly decry whatever it is that exercises them about food production/diet/land use, ignorant of the intricate supply systems that give them the opportunity to whinge. Whole populations occupy themselves with whatever concerns them, unaware of what enables them to do so.
I had an epiphany moment backalong, if long term readers will indulge me for a moment. In 2011, a series of riots erupted across UK cities in late summer, just before my family and I were due to visit London. As we trundled up the A303, we passed the teams clearing the cereal harvest off the chalk downs, and I clocked a subtle change from years past. Where teams used to be spaced perhaps a mile apart, now they were much fewer in number, and were now maybe two miles apart, using ever larger gear. Where access allowed, articulated tipper lorries waited on the side of tracks, loading corn straight from the monster combines. Noting this, we trundled onward toward a city where the smoke was still rising. It felt – to a visiting country mouse- that 10 million people had been squabbling over a looted mobile phone, blissfully unaware of the handful of dusty tractor drivers making it all possible. All of it.
With a vaguely professional interest, I’m following the rants of on-line activists –and there’s a contradiction in terms if I ever heard one-, spouting forth on the social media about what’s wrong with my industry…from a position of almost absolute ignorance. And when the mainstream media venture beyond the reach of street lights, their depth of understanding is that of a kiddie’s paddling pool, unless it’s to film the secret life of the Warty Scrattle Finch. I’ve mentioned I’m approached fairly often with requests to photograph/film either - inexplicably- me, or the unkempt sprawling ranch under my booted feet, which I generally gently decline.
One outfit- the Beebs frontline primetime ‘countryside’ programme- asked again backalong, and were perplexed when I ventured that they would have to pay for my time. Their staff are all being paid, and the star of the show is alleged to be very well paid indeed, but apparently my input ought to be for free. It would be a privilege to appear, seemingly. I’ve previously tried explaining that I do what I do for a living, but the disconnect is such that they don’t see it.
Oh, I know I ought to be more accommodating, and try and get an honest message across –instead of leaving it to those with outside funding and agendas, or a naïve belief that appearing is indeed a privilege. But whenever I see the odd bit of the show, I’m hardly instilled with any faith of an honest portrayal making the edit. Seemingly the urban viewing public want more of the fluffy bunnies skipping in the hedgerows, but less of the grubby reality. Ironically, said on-line activists shout likewise, assured that the ‘truth’ would be too unpalatable. And to that I’m inclined to suggest that ‘the truth is indeed out there, the lies are in your head’.
I don’t know, and to a great extent, don’t care overly much either. I’m merely an observer. I realise my grasp of the problems facing our increasingly urbanised species –and the graph is very clear…we prefer living in vast human hives- make me some kind of dinosaur. I’m happy enough to share the reflections I see from my place amongst my beasts, and know some of you see things similarly, but I’m afraid we’re hardly even speaking the same language any more.
Hmm. I’d better shuffle off. The Galloways are calving like the clappers.
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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
