The Anton Coaker column thread

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As has been suggested, all future Anton Coaker column pieces will be posted as they appear (generally on a Thursday weekly basis) on this locked and sticky thread

For those who don't know him, Anton is a fifth generation farmer on the Forest of Dartmoor

Anton's articles are syndicated exclusively by TFF by kind permission of the author and Western Morning News.

Anton also writes regularly for the Dartmoor Magazine

If folks would like to change the publishing format, please PM me or post on Community Feedback

Thank you

 

[Anton Coaker Blog]

Cow down 25/01/2020

I had to focus my attention somewhat one day last week. Taking fodder to the last bunch of sucklers on my round, I found one missing. Unless they’re calving, or need special attention in some way, I don’t count every group every single day –embarrassing as this admission is. I run out of daylight too easily if I do. However, I did count these, and tallied one missing as I scanned the shaggy heads coming at me through the gorse. I soon clocked who was missing – it was only a 16, so even half a stockman would have a fair chance to know each cow! When I was a lad, I knew whole batches of sucklers individually, to the extent that I usually knew who was off calving if the number was short. But since then, the value of cattle relative to my enthusiasm has altered somewhat- the newness has rubbed off me. But on this occasion, I knew who I was going to be hunting in the rough, and recalled that she had been calving earlier than the main lot- this group running with their bull all year. It’s an easy place to lose a couple of hours looking for a cow, as I know to my cost, so I was mentally replanning my day while I fed the others. Then, as I pulled back toward the track, girding my loins for the thick gorse I was going to be traversing, I spotted a brown dome of a cows flank poking up through the vegetation. She was only 100 paces from where I’d fed her chums.

Getting up close, I suspected I was looking at a blown up dead cow, but then I heard grunting, and saw the occasional twitch. There was some hope after all. Mind, upon close examination, she was half sunk in soggy patch, having been down for some hours. She’d somehow got cast, possibly whilst fighting another cow, with her backbone downhill, unable to swing herself round to get her head up. She wasn’t calving, nor anywhere near, but the corvids were pecking at her stern parts mercilessly.

Behind the seat of the loader tractor, I had a coil of rope, so rather than injure my back trying to drag her round by hand, I tied off one end round her neck, and pulled with the tractor. You can pull on a cows neck far more than you’d think, and it does much less harm than getting ropes in under their torso. Once I’d got her body looking down the modest slope, I did manage to swing her head up and around by might and main, grabbing her nostrils with one hand, and a soggy ear with the other. She looked a lot happier once up on her onto her keel, sitting up. This is the abridged version, as we’ll skip over some of the head-swinging thrashing that went on, where a very heavy cows head smacked me around something fearful…at times like this, you can’t be faint hearted. But even sat up, she was still a pretty sorry looking sight to behold.

We were 2 miles from base and it was already mid-afternoon. Whatever I was going to do with her, I needed shake a leg. I left her to the tender ministrations of the magpies and crows, who watched, waiting. 45 minutes later, Alison and I were back administering a bottle of subcutaneous Calcium/Magnesium – once they’re down and cold, things quickly goes South, and this is the first base to cover. Sure enough she’d got flat out once more, even more pecked behind. Clearly she needed recovering. So we zipped home again, and returned with the telehandler and bucket. With daylight failing, I put a halter on her head and tied it back over to a hind leg so she couldn’t thrash about, and carefully scooped up cow and several inches of turf. It surely wasn’t the most dignified ride home, tipped back almost upside down, but it was the only chance of giving her any hope.
Making a space in front of a shed with the reserve straw stack, I slopped her out like a great sack of spuds and stood a big bale of straw in front of her for shelter. I checked her last thing, and she was up. Now, she’s eating, drinking, and seems perfectly well…apart from a fogged over eye, a swollen ear, and clods of peat stuck everywhere. I’ve told her ‘...that was a close call Missus’.

It has occurred to me that if these events had occurred the week before, or after, without a dry day on our side, she’d simply have been dead before I got there.

 

[Anton Coaker Blog]

Anton Coaker WMN 6/2/20 Oak Frames

Just lately I’ve been spending my spare time – as you know, I’ve loads of that- making some rudimentary oak frames. Chiselling out mortises, carefully cutting tenons, smacking in pegs…all clunky basic carpentry that Noah would’ve recognised. I’ve been supplying green oak frame material from the sawmill for about a quarter of a century, working from cut lists supplied by customers who vary from specialist oak framing firms, through jobbing builders and one man band framers, to DIYers. I’d guess we must’ve supplied 200-300 whole frames, alongside all the odd beams and bits and pieces. We have commissioned several sets of roof trusses over the years for projects of our own – although most of them are in Sweet Chestnut rather than oak, for simple expediency. But I’ve never actually jointed a frame myself… designed it, drawn it up, handed a list to our sawyer Barrie, and then accepted his diplomatic alteration – I was being a bit mean in the beam dimensions if I was to be notching in joists. Prior to this job, I’d never actually set to with a handsaw, a drill and a chisel, and cut the joints myself. And to everyone’s astonishment, the component pieces have so far gone together well, and look almost as if someone competent had fashioned them.

And here’s the thing. The oak was grown within a close radius…a lot of it would’ve come from a batch grown 7 miles away. It captured carbon as it grew, and is perfectly capable of standing up doing its job now for 200-300 years before it fails…possibly more. Even if the roof blows off at some point, and isn’t replaced for a year or two, it’ll likely be fine. It’s earthquake proof. You could- if you tried- set it ablaze, and the structure would take hours to burn through to the point of failure… hours! If bits do fail, another idiot could come along with a tape measure, find a couple of oak logs, and knock some pegs out to replace bits.
It is true that some petrol and diesel have been burnt felling and processing it, but that’s true of anything. Compared to most construction techniques, it’s environmentally a no-brainer. And while making larger structures get more technical, and a more skilled man would’ve made a neater job, this ham fisted monkey was able to make a massively strong frame with a bit of thought, and a handsaw and a chisel. Why on God’s green Earth aren’t more buildings made like this? While the beams needed to be out of some half decent logs, the posts were little more than what I’d use for farm gate posts….really. And we can generate hundreds of them. Thousands. A lot of this stuff goes for firewood if we don’t find a job for it. Of course, there’ll never be enough for all of the myriad cardboard box estates mushrooming everywhere, but still…….

I had a chat with one of our more lucid builder pals, and we narrowed down the issues. It does cost tuppence more – really, there’s not that much saving using the crappiest softwood, which will hardly see out the length of a mortgage. And it’s a problem that a lot of clients are afraid of the shrinkage – it’ll be a year or two before you can reliably plaster up tight to green oak structures without expecting a thumbnail gap to appear later. Wow! The sky is falling. Some fickle folk change entire kitchens and living room suites quicker. A bigger problem are building regs, and perceptions within the trade. Because it’s a natural product, with variations caused by how branches grew, or deer browsed, or how old Albert scuffed the tree with his Fordson Major 40 years ago, it is not a homogenous product. There have been attempts to regularise it, grade it, and word up technical specifications for it. But nothing can replace the sawyer picking the right log, and then the carpenter looking at the sawn results and saying ‘If us put that knot on the topside, er’ll be in compression, so it’ll be fine’. And here lies the problem. We trust the lad mixing the concrete to make sure there’s enough cement to prevent foundations from turning back to sand and gravel. We rely on someone hanging roof slates so as they don’t fall off, and every kind of tradesman in between to do their job. But for some reason, despite the country having been built of it for centuries, we struggle to trust craftsmen to judge how to use a piece of green oak. Because we don’t run proper apprenticeships using it, the basic skills have fallen out of common use.

Perhaps we should look back as well as forward.

 

[Anton Coaker Blog]

Vegan cakes

You might recall I was bemoaning that all the tackity little box houses sprouting everywhere like some demonic crop aren’t forced to incorporate some solar panels, and rainwater harvesting kit…at the very least. And I’m still frothing they aren’t. In fact, lately I was hearing of one such estate where the resultant sewage has to be pumped up over the brow, to enter the overloaded sewers of the town beside which it has appeared like some unwelcome growth. And the system is already giving trouble, costing money to remedy, and causing some long faces –as it will forever more, being a poorly considered bodge. Now this estate has been planted on what were lately green fields, and it would’ve been much effort to forego a few houses at the bottom end of the site, and build a treatment plant right there. The water authority could then have ‘adopted’ it, with gravity doing the work, and perchance a couple of acres of willow growing like the clappers on the outflow. I daresay a really joined up bit of thinking would’ve seen the willow sporadically cropped for some community heating woodchip boiler. But no, that means you can’t fit quite as many tackity cardboard boxes onto your development, and anyway….who cares about the poor beggars sorting it out later.

It makes me sick to my guts that such is the sorry state of affairs. I would happily boil alive those who permit such things.

By comparison, I was just hearing about a postman in Belgium, who built his own family home as a young man, up to and including baking the very bricks himself from the local clay. And under this house, he built 2 large rainwater collection tanks, all tiled and beautifully made, with the water pumped on demand. And here’s the thing…this postman was the Grandfather of a dear pal of ours, who built this house between the wars. Progress eh?

Anyway, moving onto matters less likely to cause me to start frothing at the mouth, shouting at the newspaper, and/or generally have a coronary episode….but still speaking of Grandparents. We bumped into a Granny of our acquaint the other day. To protect the slightly guilty, we’re going to give her the name of…oh I don’t know….Gillian.

Now Gilly, as I’m already shortening her name, is doting Granny to quite a tribe of grandchildren, aging up to those already driving themselves about, going through University, and generally making Granny very proud indeed. And rightly so. With this being the modern age and all, several of them have various dietary requirements, including more than one vegan. Of course Granny loves them dearly, but quietly disapproves of such affectations, coming from a time when you ate what there was to eat, and were blooming grateful there was something in the first place.

So come Christmas, when the far flung tribe are all coming home from their travels and jobs and studies for the festive season, Granny takes great pleasure in baking a pantry full of provender.

An abundance of cakes were planned –she’s that sort of Granny, in a gently scatter-brained mien. And, as she told us, each one had to be carefully considered as to its ingredients, in relation to the various requirements.

Obviously, the usual eggs and dairy products couldn’t possibly be included for some of the grandchildren, and ‘vegan friendly’ alternative recipes had to be found – with a slightly disapproving wrinkle of the nose. But, she does try her best, and is indeed as doting a Granny as it’s possible to be. And to make doubly sure not to upset anyone, Gilly assured us she’d carefully prepared labels to identify which was which, and ensure dietary propriety. Now at this point, she hesitated in her tale, and smelling a bit of a rodent, we gently pressed her on the detail. She pursed her lips and said… ‘Hmm. Well, funny you should ask, because the blessed doorbell rang just as I’d sorted everything out, and was about to label them’. We pressed a little more… ‘And well, when I came back, I had rather lost track of which was which. So I just labelled them as well as I could remember. They’ll never know will they?’

As it goes, I know very well that Gilly reads this column, and will assuredly have recognised herself – although I don’t suppose for a moment that this situation is unique. However, I rather doubt the beloved grandchildren read the Western Morning News, so I’m sure they will indeed never know. Your secret’s quite safe with us.

 

[Anton Coaker Blog]

Floods



Unsurprisingly, my life has been fairly dominated by storms impeding my dreary routine. Feeding outdoor livestock in recent gales hasn’t been a whole lot of jollies, although it’s been a fag rather than a calamity. One headcount on Saturday found a cow missing, and going to look for her in 50 acres of hilltop gorse at 1100’ didn’t hold much appeal. Recognising who was missing- from a group of 23- revealed she wasn’t due to calve. So I pushed on feeding everyone else. Luckily, when I got back up to her group, there she was, full, round and happy.

I’m dropping the occasional bale in with one group of ewes, and Sunday I noticed they were wanting another so I went back to the stack for the right bale. It wants to be as fragrant as possible, or they waste it, light enough to roll down from the wall I drop it over, and out of my rubber band baler – those from the contractors baler are 4-5” bigger in diameter and don’t fit in the feeder. And trust me, you don’t want to discover this fact in a gale, with 60 ewes suggesting you should get out of the way, your eyes full of detritus, and the rain seeping down your neck.

On this occasion, rolling the bale down to a fresh bit of ground wasn’t an issue. It aquaplaned across the sodden field like a teenage joyrider heading for the crash barriers. This wasn’t a bad thing, as once I’d stopped its progress, most of the bale was at least kept clean. But things haven’t all gone as easy though, and frankly, it’s been tough going.

But not so tough, I suppose, as for those poor souls who have been flooded out again. I notice straight away there’s suggestions that this is unprecedented, and that such problems should be dealt with in the uplands. I’m tickled by the assertion that ‘catchments’ apparently only exist in the uplands, when –unless I’ve misunderstood basic hydrology- the catchment of the Dart, for instance, includes the concrete quayside slipways servicing the Dartmouth ferry, and all the hard surfaces between here and there. And those have changed rather more than what we get up to in the hills Maister. The implication that it’s my fault doesn’t really stand up. Start talking about all the supermarket roofs, pavements, car parks, and new houses…then talk to me about flooding.

Meanwhile, actually in the uplands, I look down from my farmhouse kitchen at the road bridge over a minor tributary of the Dart. It’s a view I watched, barring excursions, all of my life. And while Saturday and Sunday saw the river level get up around the base of the immense battered old Ash tree in the meadow, it got nowhere near coming over the road. Which is 2 notches lower than I have seen on a number of occasions and hence, here at least, couldn’t be described as especially extreme for a winter storm.

I know there are lots of plans being put in place to resolve matters, and I’ve been doing some calculations for you. You know what a devil I am for uncomfortable maths. One of the flagship concepts are lots of little ‘leaky dams’ and suchlike, to slow up floodwaters coming off the hills. And I’m benefitting by selling both granite and sawn timber for various projects, so I think they’re a capital idea. However, the numbers are interesting. The projects exploring them involve a few dozen of such dams in sequence, potentially holding up the rush of, at best, a few hundred tonnes of water.

Which is good, until you measure the water actually going down the rivers. See, the flow under aforementioned bridge- over a 20 hour period last weekend- averaged something near to 1100 tonnes per minute. Or 1.3 million tonnes during the 20 hour flood. The projects, before they silt up- which they assuredly will unless there’s careful ongoing maintenance- are talking about a few hundred tonnes per site. Were I to do similar here- and I farm a large proportion of this catchment- my efforts would slow up the flow for about a minute. If you’re at all serious, you’ll be talking about landscape scale bunds, holding tens of thousands of tonnes. And before you mention the cuddly little beavers, remember their dams are already full before the storm….

Still, one good outcome of the storms was that the Met Office could slip out news that they ‘need’ a new supercomputer, costing £1.2 billion, to predict such events. I’ve got déjà vu, as I recall them doing just this 10-15 years ago, only I note the decimal point has slipped to the right one zero. Hmm.

 

[Anton Coaker Blog]

Coronavirus

Oh woe, the sky is falling, ‘Everyone is going to get corona virus’. And what’s worse, no-one gets 5p back on the empty bottles –this is a gag for oldies who remember returnable Corona pop bottles with their deposit. Ironically, that made enterprising and diligent recyclers of every urchin in a way that young Greta Thunderpantscan only dream of. Hey ho.
Right. I suppose we’d better dwell on this virus business, what with this being a column in a newspaper and all. It’sevidently going to spread around the globe, which given the way we all scoot everywhere in aeroplanes, is hardly surprising. And I should take a moment congratulate my budding little epidemiologist of a wife, the lovely and effusive Alison. She spotted a problem with that cruise ship on the very first day it hit the news, pointedly asking ‘how does the air conditioning work on that boat?’ Given the historic problems with communicable stomach bugs and the like on such vessels, it shouldn’t be a big surprise what subsequently happened.
Me, I’m led to ask different questions. Is there any point in trying to stop it now? It’s a new bug, to which we’ll eventually be exposed…won’t we? It sure sounds like the genie is well and truly out of the bottle. I don’t know, perhaps the plan is that if adequate quarantine procedures can be worked up, it could fizzle out….which all seems rather unlikely.
So I’m drawn to a rather more cynical conclusion. See, it’s a well-researched matter that the biggest threat of some novel pandemic is not necessarily the fatalities from the illness. And indeed, with only about 1 or 2% with this one, corona could go right through the population, and only knock off a handful of people that you or I know personally. Obviously, if you are one of the fatalities, then it’s 100% of you that dies, but in the greater scheme, it’s not earth shattering. Look at the Black Death for comparison…..that knocked over 30-60% of medieval populations in 5 years. No, the pressing problem from a sudden wave of illness nowadays is themassed ‘absence from work’.
If I recollect correctly, it was 15-20 years ago that a handful of oil distribution workers, on one vital Scottish site, discovered that they could threaten industrial action, and there was no-one with the technical induction to suddenly step in and do their jobs. I’m not even sure that they even went on strike in the end; it was just the threat that caused one of those embarrassing ‘fuel crisis’ affairs and the panic buying that they birth. And that was a handful of blokes working at one fuel distribution point. Think outwards from that point. How many spare staff are there on the rota, for instance, to drive the tankers? Or beavering away in the power generation or water supply network? No matter how automated and mechanised an operation has become…how many people actually know which buttons to push? Can you imagine if the number proved to be inadequate to cover for staff sicknesses on any pandemic scale, and the power started going off? In fact, after the ‘oil distribution’ problem, some University ran through exactly such scenarios and found many critical systems to be drastically lacking. I recall reading about it in some science paper at the time, although I’m not altogether sure Boris takes the same paper.
It’s a symptom of the ever more complicated and interdependent hives that humans live in, and the distance from being able to wipe our own backsides as individuals, that makes us so vulnerable. Even your self-reliant macho-man scribe would start to struggle if the power went off for any length of time at this time of year. I could muddle along feeding the beasts and running the mill for a week or two – perhaps until the main diesel tank ran out. But while the freezer full of beef getting spoiled would irritate me somewhat, it would be small beer compared to the stress and labour of getting water to the cattle should the pumps stop for lack of electricity for longer than a few hours.
And this would be somewhat less stressful than what happens in cities of millions when the lights go off and phones won’t charge. My cows bawl a bit when they’rewanting something….but they’re less prone to throw cobble stones, go looting, and generally make the Chief Constable late for his tea. So my assumption is that the greater concern will be to slow the spread of this pox, staggering the rate of infection down to a level that we can cope with. Looks like we might find out, eh?

 

[Anton Coaker Blog]

5th March 2020 Wet wood

I have an admission. I had been under the assumption that our friend Michael Gove was some kind of evangelising reformist, slightly tipsy on the heady certainty that all of his ideas were dazzlingly sparkling- positively fizzing with insight. And as I might’ve mentioned, I was also under the impression that regrettably, a lot of his insightful brilliance was in fact garbage. And it seems I was wrong.

It’s still garbage, but in fact it rather sounds as if a lot of his newest bestest ideas weren’t his ideas at all, but were in fact being spoon-fed to him by a couple of backroom ideasmen. For a period of several years it appears he was being egged on by one Dr Tim Leunig, and his old chum, none other than Dominic Cummings. Now at what point this pair decided to hitch their fortune to a luckier star, in the form of boorish Boris, I’m not clear. But they were feeding Gove at some of his moments of ascendance. And presumably now they’re feeding the same line in one of Boris’ lugholes, while his ‘up the duff’ animal rights campaigning girlfriend Carrie whispers in his other ear.

It’s not a good prospect is it? The only consolation I can offer you is that Boris’s history suggests he’ll tire of them directly.

The above mentioned backroom thinkers have been uppermost in my mind lately. For it was none other than Leunig who hit the news the other day for suggesting that the UK doesn’t need farmers- or fishermen- at all. We could simply be like Singapore, and import all our food. And while this might well have been merely an abstract thought put in an email, it does rather suggest someone doesn’t think too deeply, or venture too far out into the real world.

Then there is the plan to ban the sale of wet firewood. This came via Mr Gove, and might, I suppose, sound very sensible if you’re in a brainstorming urban-centric think-tank. And I’ve no doubt that the science is accurate…that burning inadequately dried firewood is not only less efficient, but releases more nasty little motes of matter up the flue, which won’t do anyone much good to breathe in. In fact, this last point raises a few questions for me. See, if you look at early photographs of the English countryside – really, almost any such photos- the first thing you’ll notice, if you’re of the rural bent and/or familiar with the subject landscape, is how trim and tidy all the hedgerows and roadsides are. Every stick was being trimmed off and hoovered up across huge swathes of the landscape. And the simple reason is that they were being burnt. Almost every house was heated with sticks – and not using super-efficient woodburners either. A lot of houses had bread ovens, heated using bundles of dry twigs, and while the term faggot now has other connotations, they were very much a feature of nearly everyone’s lives. It wasn’t just domestic heating, as over the centuries, woodland now left to grow into mighty trees was regularly scalped – or coppiced as we called it- to fuel industry. Locally, all that tin was smelted using charcoal…and it didn’t come from the garage forecourt in neat red and yellow paper sacks.

And while there have certainly been problems with air quality at various points in history, I’ll wager anything you like that they pale into insignificance beside what humanity is throwing into the atmosphere now. Pointing the finger at us stupid peasants burning sticks hardly seems rational, but I suppose it’ll help disguise the smell of the elephant in the furnace. Oh, and in case you’re wondering, I know quite a lot about drying wood, seeing as I’ve seasoned hundreds of tonnes of oaken timber. And I can advise you that burning oak much below 20% moisture content will lead to your having to open the living room door.

Meanwhile, if you too burn some sticks, here’s a tip I picked up while meandering lost in the Alps last year. To light your- slightly damp- sticks, fetch together some dry sawdust/shavings, and tamp them down into a cardboard eggbox with a thumb. Next, throw those leftover stubs of candle* into an old bean tin and heat. Pour the melted wax over the wood shavings. Allow the wax to cool, and cut the eggbox into individual compartments. Each ‘eggs’ worth will only need a match to burn well for 5-10 minutes, igniting your fire. You’ll never mess about with scrunched up newspaper again, trust me. *running short of candle stubs, I started investigating rendering some tallow from beef fat, but have been threatened with ‘domestic exclusion’. Be warned.

 

[Anton Coaker Blog]

Neutrality 10/3/20

Neutrality. It’s supposedly an honourable status, although on closer examination, both the Swedes and the Swiss could have been said to have gained somewhat from their neutrality during Hitler’s little world tour in the 1930s and 40s. The Swiss were trading heavily with the Germans, buying gold and extending credit to help fund the Nazi war effort, while the peace loving Swedes happily mined an awful lot of iron ore to flog to the Hunduring the conflict. But ne’er mind. The point is thatneutrality isn’t all it always seems.
And so it is with aspirations to carbon neutrality. In essence, in our modern world of concrete and steel, there’s not really any such thing. Oh, we can plant some trees, and count the carbon being soaked up by permanent pasture. And we can try and convince the sphagnum moss on the top of the hill to build a bit more peat, and generally pat ourselves on the back. But meanwhile, economic salvation is simply to build more infrastructure like the HS2 rail project, which involve prodigious volumes of concrete, and yet more steel, and will be gouged out of the earths surface using dirty great big machines made of yet more steel, burning diesel for all they’re worth….well, what do you think?
All of the carbon credit/trading in the world won’t put that carbon back in the ground.
Let’s go back to basics for a minute. Making concrete – or more pointedly, the cement element in the mix which binds it- involves the burning of quite startling amounts of fossil fuels, as well as releasing carbon dioxide from the limestone itself during the actual process, as it’s heated to around 1500 degrees. Almost a tonne of CO2 is released for every tonne of concrete made.
Steel meanwhile is smelted at similar temperatures, mostly with coke made of coal. About 770kg of coal is burnt to make a tonne of steel, although up to a quarter of the world’s steel is now made using ‘electric arc’ furnaces. Obviously this would be a big improvement if it was exclusively ‘renewable’ electricity…but regrettably it isn’t.
Interestingly, it’s a happy coincidence that these two materials we use so much- concrete and steel- have a very similar rate of thermal expansion, meaning you can re-inforce one with the other. For if one grew more than the other on warm days –or shrunk more in the cold- we wouldn’t have much in the way of concrete bridges or skyscrapers. If, for instance, you reinforced concrete with aluminium, quite apart from the greater cost, you’d soon wish you hadn’t!
I suppose we ought consider bricks. They aren’t quite sobad as concrete, being mostly made of clay rather than crushed stone. But they’re still mostly fired with fossil fuels –natural gas or coal as a rule. Admittedly, they only need firing to 1000 degrees C or so, which you could do burning sticks if you knew what you were about. But fossil fuels are cheaper and easier…what do think is used?
And something I had to check up on is what’s in tyres. We get through quite a lot of tyres, what with all those courier vans rushing everywhere to deliver next-day-garbage. And there’s you and I thinking they’re made from rubber, which comes from trees doesn’t it? Well, no. Mostly it is ‘synthetic rubber’, made from oil by-products. 10 million tonnes of it annually. Oh, and then the steel belting in tyres is made from...well, yet more steel.
We can fly to Thailand, or wherever, for a spot of winter sun without batting an eyelid, as we consume more and more. The profligate behaviour is pretty much endless. ‘Growth’ in the rate we consume resources is still seen as good.
I don’t want to be a doom crier, or downbeat, but given the numbers, and that each of us think ‘I’m special’ and should be allowed to have everything right now, the fallacy of talking about going carbon neutral is a joke. Albeit one in pretty poor taste.
My own industry – farming- is trying to make such claims, using all kinds of weaselly nonsense to disguise the fact that we’re no better. If I’m burning diesel to run a tractor to feed cows, I’m releasing carbon dioxide that was captured 350 million years ago- when the world was a very different place. And once the carbon cat is out of the bag, it’ll be all kinds of fun trying to get it back in again.
I’m sorry. It’s only by confronting the truth that we have the least chance, and even then, I don’t think we have the self-discipline.

 

[Anton Coaker Blog]

More corona 19/3/20

I suppose we’d best revisit the Corona virus – or the ‘Miley Cyrus’ as I believe it’s being called in some circles. It looks like it’s going to play itself out on a grand scale over the next couple of months –although to be hard-nosed, the projected mortality rate isn’t likely to equal our annual population growth rate, so it’s hardly going to thin the herd is it? Calm down, this isn’t the ‘big one’.
The panic buying of toilet paper is a bit of a poser for what is primarily a respiratory problem, but the panic buying of food is another matter. Any potential hiccup in supply chains could indeed cause a problem…even if the idiots doing the panicking don’t. One upside –for me at least- is that a food shortage might focus minds on the evident risks of running down the home-grown food supply. Suddenly Westminster might remember what farmers actually do with their time….although it’s a bit late when the mob are looting for the last few packets ofsun dried tomatoes and quinoa. I would say…we have mentioned this to Government once or twice these last few years, but the likes of Michael Gove and the trendy ‘Blue-sky-thinking-club’ were determined they knew best. Hey ho.
As it happens, I suspect matters won’t get to that extreme. Once the hoarders have filled every available cupboard, they won’t need to go shopping for a month, so there’ll be plenty for everyone again. Meantime, if you run short, we’ve a gurt Belted bullock hung to cut next week. Usual terms.

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The financial implications intrigue me. As markets crashed, I have wondered about stuffing everything not nailed down into some stocks and shares. The problem is where to put your faith? A lot of industries aren’t just going to have a bad spring…a lot are going to be hammered flat by this. Luckily, my fiscally erudite eldest is returning to the nest later in the week. She can advise.
I’m tickled by the rising tide of demands for bungs and bailouts from airlines, the hospitality industry, and Uncle Tom Cobley and all. It’ll be so widespread that it’ll be unrealistic to help everyone. With interest rates of almost nil, I’d just tell em to ‘man up’, and point them toward the banks front door…Oh, that’s what the Chancellor has actually done, if you peel off the label.
I must be old fashioned - I endeavour to sail a long way back from the edge of the storm, and generally keep the ship trimmed well enough to weather a couple of months of turbulent seas. Apparently I’m a weirdo though, as the norm seems to be mass destitution by the end of the first weeks lockdown.
Meanwhile, optimists at the Treasury will already be planning an abundant tax harvest from hand sanitisersalesmen and bog roll factories.

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As for the illness itself. Reports coming out of Northern Italy scupper anyone flippant talk about this being like flu –or at least you’d think they would. One fella from near Bergamo was telling us that ICU beds and ventilators ran out several days ago. And while it’s only a small percentage of cases that need this level of care, the Italian health providers no longer have the facilities to cope….and have to decide who they’ll try and save, and who they won’t. Think on that….it’s pretty grim. Reports that Boris has already gone asking major UK machinery manufacturers if they’re able to start churning out ventilators in a big hurry seem to back up the stories coming out of Italy.
When China, and then Iran were the initial focus of interest, I suppose it was understandable there wasscepticism here, given both countries reputation for suppressing or doctoring news. Now, China seems to have stemmed the rate of infection, but only by draconian actions, and the use of high tech apps in everyone’s smartphones. It remains unclear how long Corona will rumble away at the current low level there. Presumably it’s going to take many months. And something no-one seems to remember is that having been tested ‘clear’ doesn’t protect anyone from catching it the next day.
Testing doesn’t vaccinate you.
A closing observation for you then. Some of us are aged enough to remember the funny brick built Ministry of Agriculture buildings at Alphington. There were similarblocks the length of the country – MAFF had another set South West of London at Tolworth I recall. They were in fact carefully laid out to serve as emergency hospitals, for hurried conversion in times of national crisis. They’re long since sold off now…the Alphington site is under a supermarket.
Ah! Progress again.

 

[Anton Coaker Blog]

23-03-20 UHT

Finally, an unfamiliar ball of burning hydrogen has appeared in the sky, allowing us to shed full waterproof kit for the first time for months. I don’t keep careful records, but I reckon the rain came in early in October, and stayed. More insidious than the headline floods has been the fact that we haven’t had 3 dry days in a row since. The cattle didn’t really have dry backs that whole time, although they seem to be licking their coats and looked content, if resigned to it. And the poor ewes on the in-bye have been puddling about in mud the whole while. We run one group of old ewes with a Blue Leicester ram, but only on the strict understanding that they don’t impede on the main groups grass- the tail ain’t gonna wag the dog here Maister. So 69 of them have been holed up on one field all winter since tupping. I was giving them a round bale every 5th day come the end, as well as a bit of hard feed. Unbelievably – and I cannot believe it myself- I didn’t pick any up expired. The group includes various wonky donkeys I wouldn’t breed pure, but they’ve all kept moving. Finally, about 2 weeks ago, I relented, and allowed them up onto a drier piece saved back for the Cheviots to lamb on. It’s been empty and was greened nicely. I’ll need to move them again a week or two before kick off in mid April, but I’ll burn that bridge when I come to it…… they were at the end of their tether to be frank.

One or two calves have started appearing – the South Devon heifers went in with the Angus bull a week before anyone else, and the first pair have dropped without issue at the time of writing. They too have outwintered at 1000’, in conditions you really wouldn’t credit a South Devon could survive…but apart from being leaner than I’d want, they’re absolutely fine. I’m profoundly grateful to whoever it is that orders such things, because I love my cows, and I’ve hated watching them stand out in that relentless rain these last few weeks.

Obviously, those of you who’ve also been working out in all this meteorology hardly need telling how rough it’s been. But trust me, while a wet weekend might spoil some folks plans for whatever it is they get up to for fun, for some of us it was an unrelenting trial. As I started out saying…. I haven’t walked out of my back door without ‘full kit’ for almost 6 months. So I’m mightily glad to see a glimpse of the sun, just in the nick of time.

I have known it worse, despite the doom criers saying it’s never happened before. Some of you will recall that dreadful dire winter of 2000/2001, when we had 100 days straight of precipitation. Not one single let up, with lots of it coming as driving sleet and snow to boot. This has been a breeze by comparison, with few days of real cold. It’s ironic though, how each winter finished with an epidemic which turned lives upside down. The parallel isn’t lost on me.

That time, we had to get the kids off the farm, whereas this time they’re grown up, and the beggars have all come home. Agnes was about to start her next placement in Westminster- now deferred- and Polly has been sent home from Uni. At least they can help on the farm between the bickering.

I did catch one of them opening a carton of UHT when we ran out of cow juice yesterday. I was furious! ‘That’s a tradable commodity now, stupid urchin’ I chided. ‘Get it on Ebay quick’.

And we’ve enjoyed a spot of dark humour when Boris instructed that everyone exercise only ‘once a day’…..it’d be a dramatic increase for most of the population. Better yet has been watching poor old Trumpty floundering with something he can’t bluster his way out of. The US is going to be in quite a fix, travelling freely but not maintaining any scale of public health programme. I’m really sorry for them, but at least it’s going to expose their choice of President for what he is.

And I’ll give credit here where it’s due. I think Boris has handled it about right to date. It’s easy to criticise, and say we should’ve done more, faster, and so on….but it’s probably not quite as easy when you’re in the hot seat.

Right, now I’m going to avoid contact with the outside world, and stay put on the premises for a few weeks…………gravid sheep and cows will see to that.

 

[Anton Coaker Blog]

2 April 2020 Covid crystal ball

Well the sun has stayed in the sky, so we’ve been able to get a whole lot of poop spread. I’d prefer it was a few degrees warmer, with East winds and frosts stalling grass growth on the inbye. But then, I’d ‘prefer’ a lot of things. I’ve still got a good reserve of round bales, having started the winter with a huge harvest, so I’m just feeding the girls some more. More importantly, the rush of South Devon calves hitting the deck are at least landing on dry ground, which is a bigger relief to me than I can say. With lambing also upon us, I’m crossing my fingers for continued kind conditions.

With sawmill orders noticeably slowed up, I understand the outside world is apparently fairly excited about this corona virus stuff, so I daresay we ought explore that some more.

Let’s dust off the crystal ball.

I believe this coming week is going to see the most startling rise in mortality rates, which will doubtless be distressing for both the families of those struck down, and the poor health care workers who’re unable to save them. An effect will be that Government will find it easier to keep movements restricted. To date, I’m still coming across folk who aren’t overly bothered about keeping their distance – roughie toughies who have got hold of the idea that they’ll probably only suffer from a bout of ‘flu’. If I suspect there’s enough intelligence, I’ll try and explain how it’ll go when there aren’t enough ventilators to treat those who need intensive care….and what that’s going to mean should they- or someone dear to them- get carted into Torbay hospital unable to breathe. And while I couldn’t care less if they find themselves in that predicament, I do mind that it might impact me or someone I do care about!

I also notice numerous media images of her majesties constabulary thinking it’s OK to lean in your car window to quiz you as to why you’re out and about. Hmm.



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Elsewhere, various things remain unclear – well, unclear to me at least.

What’s really been happening in China? It matters to us because they’re a couple of months further down the road than we are. Given the massive growth in infection in ‘open countries’, I strongly suspect the Chinese state have been somewhat economic with the detail. Despite some Chinese being wealthy enough to travel, I presume there are an awful lot who are too poor to do much jet-setting– you can’t make stuff as cheap as they do without a big workforce living on very little. So perhaps that’s why Corona didn’t mushroom out of Wuhan like it has in Europe or the US. And the overbearing mechanisms of their State doubtless then helped contain it.

But how in the hell can they be able to start opening up society without further rounds of infection?

We’re going to be bogged down in months of –at least- partially restricted movements. Going back to ‘normal’ life looks very unlikely for a long while. Imagine being the Prime Minister who has to decide when it’s time to slacken the grip a bit, knowingly condemning more people to become infected.

And in poorer developing nations, while the spread will be slower, presumably poor availability of healthcare will take a heavier toll. In such places, it could become the new reality until a vaccine comes along.

Oh, and we were very impressed that the ever efficient Germans have had such a low mortality rate – to the extent that they’ve altruistically been taking critical patients from overburdened neighbours. But now it seems like that was mainly because the demographic of the earlier patients was distorted by large numbers of healthy active skiers returning infected from the slopes. As the virus now gets in amongst older patients, things look less robust. In essence, young Hans and Helga didn’t go straight round to see Granny when they got home from their Alpine jollies…but they have now.

There’s still a tonne of questions about whether we’ll acquire a lasting immunity once we’ve been infected, and whether any potential vaccine will give long term protection. Or who is going to pay for everything. But answers are a long way off. More pointedly, there seems to be this desire to get back to how things were. That’ll include unrelenting population growth, ever easier travel, larger and larger population centres. Frictionless international trade, the instant gratification mind-set, and more ‘personal freedoms’.

And I can tell you, there are precious few livestock farmers who don’t see the problem with that. Hey ho.

Happy lambing, I hope your sun shines on you.

 

[Anton Coaker Blog]

09-04-20 Another week

Photo credit Helen Stokes

Another week, another episode in the high flying hi-tech world of hill farming. It might of course be you don’t want to hear this stuff, or then, maybe you regard it as a welcome change.

Well. We’ve hammered through the main annual TB test this week –although we won’t be reading the results until today, so I can’t tell you whether I’m drowning my sorrows tonight, or having a modest celebratory swill. The numbers in this session are circa 230 head, and mostly within easy reach, but it still takes some doing. We did 40-50 outlying cows last week, and 2 other distant groups next week will see us finished. The South Devons are right on calving, and some are enormous…barely able to squeeze themselves down the chute – we let them take their own time, but still however obliging the old girls are, some get their shoulders in, stop, and say ‘I just can’t fit in here Dad’. These we can jab in the pen, and let them by-pass the chute…but somehow they mostly fit. Beats me…bless their lugubrious long heads.

Their attitude contrasts somewhat with some of the snotty crossbred yearlings who bawled and leapt about like trout, reluctant to behave. Grade 5 wrangler Phil and my boy John were doing most of the chute filling, and a kind but firm word did the trick most of the time. It is, however, tough when your composure is tested by repeated kicks to the shins, and slams up against the rails. I caught a few bashes and bangs, and I’m feeling it when I hit the chair evenings.

As you know, I tend toward an ongoing litany of work related scrapes and general wear and tear, and the current list is no exception. A new one occurred t’other day. See, there I was, screwing together some boards to make a concrete mould, using one of those cordless screwdriver thingies. An awkward bit saw me slip, and stuff the posi-drive head into my left thumb. It hurt a bit, but not so much that I stopped. Returning to the task, but being dim enough not to have learnt from my error, I did exactly the same thing, only while applying a bit more grunt. This time to screwdriver head drilled a blunt hole into my thumb…hard upside the nail. Claret dribbled, attractively splattering both formwork and cordless. Alison arrived directly with a cuppa, and I dribbled down the side of that too. She wasn’t really pleased, but allowed her concern for my wellbeing to mask that for the gross stupidity she realises she’s married to.

I dressed this wound for a few days, until I considered it’d be better with some air getting to it…but the beggar still ached in that cold wind. Then, whilst attacking some blackthorn suckers with the chainsaw, one of those wicked thorns stabbed the middle finger on the same hand. That too spurted an astonishing amount of ketchup, all down the side of the old Husqvarna. My nearest and dearest were more concerned about this’un, convinced it would be going sceptic just as lambing started. And sure enough, it swelled something horrid for a coupla days, and hurt like blazes. But no nasty red streaks started tracking up the hand, and slowly the swelling went down again. Lucky again maister!

I must’ve been born lucky. One of my aforementioned beloved South Devons went down at the round feeder last week. I found her in the porridge, unable to stand – despite having been perfectly well and happy when I fed em a couple of hours previously. Well, she had to come out of there, so I stuffed 400ml of calcium under her skin, and got a strop round her convenient horn stumps. Trundling as close as I dared with the telehandler, I hoiked her across the gloop in a singularly undignified fashion, out onto firm ground. Leaving her quiet for a bit, she got herself up, and other than making sure she had easy access to food and water, we left her to it. The diagnosis was concussion – we think she’d somehow been bowled over by another cow, and swung her head round- cracking it on something. The giveaway was a swollen eye socket. Somehow, apart from a wobbly gait, she’s up and about absolutely fine just a few days later, and on the point of calving. Beats me….sometimes they turn their toes up for no apparent reason, but while she’s been properly in the wars, she’s fine.

Anyhoo. I’m not going to say anything about other news this week, beyond observing what a self-serving pompous collective bunch of cretins the professional footballers appear to be. I sincerely hope they receive their just desserts.

 

[Anton Coaker Blog]

Perversity of life

Such is the perversity of life, while the outside world is apparently in lockdown, I’m just about run into the floor with work. The South Devons are calving steadily, with few problems to date. Too much milk has been the biggest issue. As we gathered cows for TB readings, one cow was found to have mastitis in all four quarters, despite no outward sign beyond her calf being dreadfully hollow and disappearing fast. I took a couple of bottles of frozen colostrum out of the freezer, and got them in it in short order, amongst the frantic days work – and the TB test was clear thank you. The very next day, John found another cow licking a still born calf, diligently trying to wake it. So once everything critical was seen, he fetched her in, and skinned the dead calf. To do this, he hung it upside down from the loader tractor, whereupon a litre and half of clear gloop poured out of its mouth. We suspect it was a breach, which drowned during parturition, although we’ll never know. Anyway, this cow took the spare calf readily enough, although getting it going was a chore. It soon remembered where milk came from, but promptly got the squitters. There was a day or two of not knowing how best to balance the calf’s needs – I was loath to take it away from this cow who loved it, and put it onto glucose and water. The compromise was scour tablets, stuffing a bottle of thin watery stuff down its neck mid-day to combat dehydration, and making sure the cow was milked out well. She’s got gallons of milk, and the dogs were happily near fit to bust. And I soon had to start trimming off the dead calfs stinky skin, as she was scraping the hair off it with her rasp-like tongue. After 7-8 days, the calf is skipping about beside her, filled up nicely, and I’m hopeful we’re heading out of the woods. Fingers crossed.

Lambing has kicked off, and going full bore. The various hiccups all take time to deal with, and my knees sure are feeling it evenings. One of the nicer moments has been the slow revelation that my boys diminutive young collie has become a very proficient ‘Seize em!’ dog. She’s got to the point now where a worn out old farmer, when faced with a barrel shaped tank of a cheviot ewe which needs lambing but is very much on her toes, can merely give ‘Mag’ the word. She’ll grab the ewe by an ear and hold her till I can grab on and tip her over, with the sheep remaining perfectly unmarked. I can’t tell you how much we value this little bitch.

Being in amongst a lot of lambing and calving I’m smelling of a rich variety of substances – not all of them unpleasant if I might say- but since I’m not going ‘out’ this doesn’t matter much…..although to be frank, it doesn’t bother me at the best of times, but this year there’s less folk to offend.

It’s not that I don’t see anybody. Several of our subbies and helpmates have had work cancelled elsewhere, and are wanting extra days to keep the wolf from the door.

This is fine – I’ve infrastructure jobs aplenty need doing, and am currently still able to fund the work, so as long as we can find safe ways of working ‘get on boys!’ Mind, those who don’t seem to be taking it too seriously are- at the very least- kept offsite. Obviously, I’ll run out of the wherewithal directly, but I’d rather support them while I can. I haven’t put my hand out for Government help, and seeing as the beggars already owe me a tonne of money, I wouldn’t be holding my breath if I did.

The problem with organising this extra work is that it’s never that simple is it? The fencing crew could’ve gone drystone walling in such good weather, but one has a vulnerable family member, and humping stones about so could lead to the lads coming into contact. However, a risk assessment has deemed fencing safe, in that one can be in the tractor working the post driver, and they can then work in different places along the line. And there is always more fence repairs and renewals needing doing. The problem then is that it’s me that re-saws the chestnut stakes on the old Stenner bandmill. For while I quite enjoy the heavy but rewarding work, I really cannot be sparing the time right now. And they’re wanting hundreds to keep busy….hundreds. So I’m fighting the old enemy….time. Better crack on then!

 

[Anton Coaker Blog]

22-4-20 More lambing

We did get a brief splatter of rain the other day, but who could’ve believed a month ago we’d be so anxious for more already. It’s not a crisis yet by any means, but by golly it will be if this carries on now there’s some heat in the sun. Obviously, it’s been a boon to those of us lambing and calving these last couple of weeks, and there’s surely nothing I like better than to see the lambs and calves basking in mellow sunny spring weather.

On that score, things are going well. Several timely interventions have resulted in successfully saved lives. Fosterings have stuck, difficult presentations have been few and usually easily sorted out, and the rush of lambs over the last few days hasn’t overwhelmed us. John did phone in late one evening, as he did his check through, to shout for a pick-up, as he’d found a Scotch ewe in the Great Newtake flock with two ‘heads out’. She had a strong pair of twins, both trying to exit together…which doesn’t work. Both had one leg back, and swollen heads – I’ve never had a ewe get so far on with such a presentation, and I’d say she’d been stuck for an hour or so. The corvids had been busy while the ewe was incapacitated so, and kindly removed the eyes from both lambs. Sorry if you’re having your breakfast, but this is the reality of lambing sheep on hill country. While it was clearly too late for either lamb, I was determined to try and save a good ewe. I won’t explain how we got her lambs out – it’ll put you off your tea as well. But needs must, and the ewe was surely going to die if we didn’t act. So after a fairly hardcore bit of emergency ovine obstetrics, I managed to deliver first one, then the other. John admitted he’d never helped me with a worse lambing. But other than a pinched nerve leaving her a bit wobbly, and enjoying a course of anti-biotics, the ewe is fairly chipper and I’m hopeful she’ll be with us next lambing….hopefully with better luck.

One sheep who is unlikely to be here for next lambing is the wretched Blue Faced Leicester ram. Unusually for his kith and kin, he’s survived the winter well, having been housed in a loosebox with a couple of little hoggs for the worst of the weather, but I notice none of his harem have produced offspring yet. They are evidently in lamb…but almost certainly to a ‘B team’ Cheviot who was thrown in after one cycle. I’ve used him before, and will be happy enough with his lambs – he’s a developed a wonky foot, so he’s relegated to the reserve bench, so as not to propagate his genes too widely. But I’m surely sick of trying to increase the worlds supply of Blue Face sired lambs – the current tup being the second infertile one in the last 3. On balance, it’d be better to simply use a spare Cheviot on the surplus Scotch draft ewes. The ewe lambs make a very tough productive crossbred ewe, the wethers are good solid lambs, and the tups are a known commodity – Ha! There’s a joke…the Blues are also a known commodity, for all the wrong reasons.

They appear to suffer from – if we’re going to be anoraks about this- ‘over farming’. The presumption is that they’re precious, and must be pampered, in tiny flocks… often selected on looks more than anything. And this is very far removed from my breeding criteria. Compare that to a Scotch tup we managed to secure last autumn. He came from a flock I know well, which lives year round about 5 miles out from their home farm, on top of a peat plateau at 1400’. Any genetic problems are simply weeded out by nature, and they are the healthiest toughest bunch of ewes imaginable. John had been left with free rein to buy a couple of fresh tups, and selected one from this flock at market. They aren’t the biggest, but that’s to be expected given their origin. Somehow he got lucky with the way the dice rolled, and the hammer fell on his bid at £100 – the tups from flock averaged up around £400-500. The ram came here, went to work, and then wintered on the inbye without any issues. I notice he grew, and put on condition through the winter. And now his lambs are slipping out without help, jumping up and suckling without input from busy men. And that’s what I want to see.

Anyway, this busy man needs to draish on…more lambs coming, and Galloway calves just starting.

 

[Anton Coaker Blog]

30 April 2020 Buying furniture on tick

Oh but you’ve got to love Donald Trump…for a newspaper columnist, he’s the US President who just keeps on giving. But even by world class standards of dim-witted pronouncements we’ve become accustomed to, last week’s press conference really was in a new league. Completely misunderstanding some science stuff, Donnie suggested to the world that it might be a good idea to try and defeat corona virus by shining powerful UV light ‘inside the body’ somehow. He didn’t allude to how he was planning this…presumably by making holes in patients, or accessing existing ones. But he is going to get some ‘real medical doctors’ to look into it straight away. And in case you hadn’t fallen off your seat, he went on.

He’s found out that disinfectant can kill the Covid 19 virus, and declared that it might be a good idea to inject people with disinfectant. Almost as he was saying the words, the entire medical profession- along with various disinfectant manufacturers-, were shouting from the rafters NOT to do this. It would very likely kill you quite effectively, warned folk with rather more intelligence than El Trumpo. Or, as one wag pointed out, injecting disinfectant into the body already has a name…it’s called ‘embalming’.

Pity the poor journo at the press conference who had the temerity to question the Presidents pronouncements……..he was simply shouted down as a purveyor of fake news, by a man postulating that you could inject Corona patients with disinfectant. Trumpty has since tried to backpedal, and say he was joking…but I’m afraid that’s just trying to save face. You judge the footage for yourselves.

His Presidency has been marked by a continually aggressive ‘anti-science’ stance, sacking anyone who says anything he doesn’t like. The administration dismantled the National Security Council’s global-health office, whose purpose was to address global pandemics….and they’re now paying the price for that.

I can’t believe the Trump Presidency can survive this level of ‘idiocy exposure’, but hey! They did elect him in the first place. It’s their own fault.

Onwards then. Did I hear right? That one of our gov’s pronouncements to stave of financial doom and gloom was some kind of dictat regarding the protection of those unable to make payments on cars and household goods bought on the ‘never never’. I know in my heart I’m living in the past, or some kind of parallel universe, because I’ve always thought you really ought to try and live within your means. And buying stuff for the house that you can’t afford probably is not how to live your life. And while I can absolutely see the sense in buying a house with a mortgage, or just maybe buying a car on tick – as long as you’re using it to go out to earn a living. But buying ‘household goods’ on credit? I would take a long hard look at yourself if I were you…who do you think you’re fooling?

Funnily enough, I put my IT guru to check up on a fairly well known ‘Earnestly solid furniture warehouse’ outfit backalong. I wondered who was funding their monster TV ad campaigns. I’d snooped about their website, and found that a lot of the gear is indeed made of solid wood – possibly even European in origin, although it’s mostly glued together little bits. But you don’t have to dig very far to find a lot of the range is made of tropical timber. Anyway, my techno-sleuth did find out who owns the company, and is presumably pushing the ad campaigns….a finance company. You know the TV ads, where your domestic life will be transformed if you just buy this new set of table and chairs – suddenly you’ll be a handsome god of a chap, your wife will become a supermodel, your mother-in-law will suddenly change her jaded view of her daughters choice, and the kids will sparkle in the innocent best behaviour. Well those slick and expensive ads are just a vehicle to sell you credit.

I’m led to wonder where the profit is…flogging the furniture, or flogging the credit? Perhaps the credit IS the product. And that line of thought leads back to asking exactly who is being protected by some kind of Corona crisis ‘repayment holiday’.



Lastly, I’ve got to say this. I’m finding the constant criticism of the Governments response to the ongoing the pandemic a bit tiresome. New Labour boss Kier Starmer graciously assured everyone, as he took the leftie helm, that he was going to help the country work together to get over the crisis…than immediately sets to endlessly whinging that the response hasn’t been good enough. Poor form old chap. Still, there’s at least one happy thought…can you imagine the debacle if we currently had ‘Prime Minister Corbin’?

 

[Anton Coaker Blog]

7th May 2020 The South Devon Cows have mostly calved

The South Devon cows have mostly calved, and I can report it’s been a breeze. We had to pull one calf off a first calving heifer, and elsewhere a live set of twins made up for the one still born. We calved 9-10 to the new bull Solomon, with very promising results, all the heifers went with an Angus, and good ole ‘Dave’ saw to the rest. ‘Dave’ is pronounced as Trigger would address Rodney, and he’s proved to be one of the best bulls I’ve had. After a brief spell of teenaged strop, where a swift right hook on the end of his nose taught him some manners, he’s been a complete softy to handle. His calves generally slip out without any interference from me, then grow and sell well. His daughters are showing promise, with some now rearing their second calves. Their udders look neat, which is a relief, as we’ve had another batch come through from a previous bull who’re already developing turnip shaped teats, and wonky bags. I had another group do this 10 years ago, and when those 2 genetic lines meet….look out. Anyway, Dave’s offspring look good in this respect, and with a dwindling number of available wives, he’s being increasingly allowed access to some crossbred, and older Galloway cows. I wouldn’t want to be parted with him any time soon.

With only a handful of these orange ladies left to calve, my attentions have moved on up the valley, where their hirsute friends are beginning to deposit little balls of treasure in amongst the sweet scented yellow blossomed gorse.

This is a different business altogether. There is seldom any management input required at calving, apart from applying a couple of ear tags and perhaps a rubber band on some unwanted dangly bits. And that’s where the problems begin. A Galloway cow will generally slope off somewhere out of sight to calve, and then stand guard close by her offspring for a day or so, before she comes back down for some hay. Thereafter, she’ll return to feed her calf for 2-3 days before introducing it to the herd. Sometimes a pair might calve close to each other, and stay together for a few more days. Once they’re back amongst the herd, the calves will increasingly become emboldened, galloping up and down the line of munching beasts with tails in the air, as the skylarks sing high above in the broad moorland landscape.

At some point in these few days, I need to do the tagging- rules is rules see Guv. And Galloway cows are not always especially obliging in this respect, generally expressing the notion that anything that comes near their precious calf should be smeared into the peat. It’s only experience that tells when a bellowing cow with her eyes out on stalks really means business, or whether it’s just ‘talk’. The results of careful bull selection, quiet handling of youngstock, and a good deal of luck, has meant that in recent years I’ve had a close enough rapport with the herd that I’ve been able to quietly get a hook stick round the neck of most calves and do the necessary without too many scary moments.

But seemingly not so this year. With a large slice of the breeding herd by a bull who left stroppy offspring, the mood amongst them is different. Maybe it’s because they can sense I’m getting older…and slower. The first couple both led to nasty experiences, and number 3 wasn’t going to even let me see her blessed calf. Number one was tagged as its mother relentlessly kept at me. Usually, a couple of smart smacks across the nose calms them down log enough to work…but not her. She just kept coming, helped by a couple of her sisters. They repeatedly tried to get one behind me, which I won’t tolerate. It didn’t help that the calf twisted like an eel the whole while. Happily it was a heifer calf, but by the time I’d managed to get the 1st tag in, I decided this little cow meant business, and let the calf go. That is usually the end of the matter, as mother runs off with her brutalised baby- as indeed she did. But as I returned, bruised, to the loader tractor, I heard clumping behind me, and sure enough, each time I turned my head, there was one of the sisters following me – although the minute my head turned she stopped, looking somewhere else…just about whistling nonchalantly. But as I walked on again, so she came thumping along behind me, right to the tractor.

So if this proves my last column, well, it’s been a blast folks!

 

[Anton Coaker Blog]

14-05-20 I was wrong last week

I was wrong last week, predicting one of the Galloway cows was going to mash me for interfering with a new calf. I’ve managed to tag several on the trot with scarcely an issue. The cows have come in close enough to sniff baby, then sniff me, then step back while I do whatever I’m doing. One or two have licked me with their rasping tongues. I’m maybe 4-5 calves behind, knowing that various of my ladies have been loitering in some clitter of gorsey boulders or other, surely hiding a new calf. But it’s going well, just me and them, and the cuckoos and skylarks up there.

I say just them and me, when in fact we’re seeing some ‘Boris approved’ walkers. I don’t need to see them to know they’re there, as sure enough, gates are being left open again. This puts me in an incandescent rage. I went up yesterday, and found 40 of the cows missing from the 240 acre newtake where the main lot are calving. They were out on the common, having walked out through an open gate. At least they came back easily enough- hopefully only losing some of my time. However, I still haven’t tallied the number right, not knowing whether 2 missing cows are in, or out. I carefully checked them in the gate for signs, but can’t be sure whether any new calves have been left hidden out on the common.

They’re canny beasts, and will often set a calf down and tell it to stay put until mother comes back, pointedly look in the ‘wrong’ direction when I approach, to avoid giving away their calf’s location. If something got separated after yesterday’s excursion, you’d think either cow or calf would soon be bawling. If it was a South Devon, you’d hear the noise from the house. But it’s not always so with wily semi-feral Galloways. So, I’m left not knowing for sure…which upsets me. And all because some selfish little moron was too important to latch that blasted gate. How do you think that makes me feel?

Anyway, at least I haven’t been attacked by any more of the cows. Instead, it was a wiry little yearling black bullock, who took umbrage in the handling pens the other day. She and her chums spooked and bowled me over, and as I flew sideways heading for a hard landing on the concrete, she managed to kick me in the leg…real hard. I could hardly walk the next day, with what felt like a burning iron rod going down the length of my thigh. Checking the sheep was a slow job for a day or two… lucky I’ve the services of the ‘Seize em!’ wonder dog.

As all this goes on, the wildlife are busily at their spring routines. Spuggies and swallows innumerable zoom about the yard, while house martins build their mud houses under the eaves. Our eldest Agnes is ‘working from home’ on a laptop in her room – from where she’s running the country I believe. Sunny days she works with the window open, and the chattering from the martin nests in the bedroom window is astonishingly loud. I’ve no idea what colleagues think when they phone, or ‘zoom’, or whatever it is they do now.

There is an awful lot of kestrel noise coming from a few trees in a shelterbelt in the lambing fields, suggesting little kestrels are being made thereabouts, although when a buzzard flew over the site a few days ago, the noises got markedly louder. Things escalated when the raptors’ squabbling drifted into the ‘no-fly’ zone over where I presume the ravens have nested again, further down the valley. It takes the raven a minute or two to flap its way up to the right altitude, but he/she will not tolerate buzzards overlooking the site, and the big 3 way aerial scrap was a distracting sight for a few minutes.

In the outside world, I understand the government can do no right, despite struggling with the ‘Hobson’s choice’ of whether or not to allow everyone to group hug until we’re all infected. I am tickled that overseas visitors are to be quarantined on arrival…which is pretty rich, since they’re more likely to need quarantining after visiting the UK. But hey ho.

I’ve been speculating that if I am going to get it at some point, I could do with catching this virus in the next few weeks- or possibly in early September. I wouldn’t want it during haytime, and obviously, need to be ready for autumn stockwork again. Alison doesn’t think it’s a joking matter, and scolds me for making such quips. I think it’s sweet that she thinks I’m joking.

 

[Anton Coaker Blog]

21 May 2020 Stairs

With so much spare time, I’ve been doing a bit of carpentry to while away the hours. See, I’ve cause to knock up a rough little staircase. 3-4 steps, couple of stringers up the sides…way to go. Easy, right? Yeah,….I wish. Sensibly using a bit of scrap timber as a template, I transferred the maths I’d roughed out on a piece of paper into the real world….and it didn’t fit. I scratched my head, went away and did something else for a day or two, and tried again. Would it fit? No it would not. I tried the maths the other way round…..still wrong. A different wrong, but still no use. After 3 attempts, I was tiring of my own stupidity.

Alison was likewise tiring of my grumpiness, and gently suggested I consult oogle google. She even helpfully left a website called ‘staircase calculator’ open on the screen. But it showed me nothing new…I can do maths. But I’m blowed if I can do staircases. I was stood beside a pair of saw horses, puzzling over failed mock-up number 5 one evening, when sawyer Barrie knocked off. As he stowed his lunchbox in a cubby on his motorbike, and started tucking a scarf in around his collar, he gently suggested ‘Yer like a Dalek’. ‘Eh? What?’ I replied, raising my perplexed attention from the spider scrawl of squiggles and crossed out annotations. Picking up his open face helmet, he pointed out I was being defeated by stairs!

I should say that his taciturn humour is at a very high level. While stood at some trade counter or checkout backalong, so he assures us, the youthful sales assistant looked him up and down. Taking in the black helmet, the scarf and black leather work boots, the youth said ‘Cor mister, you’re like somefink out the 1960’s!’ Barrie gave him a look, paused, and replied ‘I am something out of the 1960’s’.

Anyway, back to my conundrum. It didn’t make any difference how I approached the thing, I couldn’t get it to come out as I wanted. I finally abandoned my iron willed determination to make the ‘treads’ 250mm, when the latest mock up gave me 270mm whether I liked them or not. It did at least fit within the dimensions of the ‘test piece’ of scrap timber. On mature reflection, I decided I could come to love 270mm steps, and drew out the measurements on some oak boards. Somehow – and I’m really not at all clear how this happened-, when offered up to its final location, these measurements seem to fit perfectly. Obviously I wasn’t getting the wrong answers…. I was asking the wrong questions. So now, it’s chisel time, fitting treads and risers into slots.

The one thing this exercise has done – other than reminding me I’ll never make a carpenter- is to give me a better appreciation of those who do have the skill. I was reminded of the massive oak staircase I admired in an ‘Arts and Crafts’ mansion we toured last summer. Not only was the oaken timber used of an exemplary standard – something I do know about – but I’m in awe of the beautiful standard of workmanship.



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Back out on the veldt, the Galloways are calving apace, and I’m nearly up to speed with the tagging. I had a spot of luck yesterday, when one strapping Angus cross bull calf who’d been eluding me was busy slurping his breakfast as I arrived. Using a sly trick, I approached from the opposite side of his round bellied mother. She’s the oldest cow I’ve got, and until now hasn’t let me anywhere near him. This time, she carried on cudding as I came in close, and reached round her with the crooked stick at the last minute. The 3 week old calf was caught completely unawares. One minute guzzling milk and listening to the skylarks, the next sat unceremoniously on his backside between the knees of the balding monkey that brings Mums hay.

This, admittedly, was only half the story, as I then had to keep hold of him while fishing out the necessary from the tag bag over my shoulder. And I should say, he soon decided that sitting quietly was not how he wished matters to progress. By now, he weighed near as much as me, and we had quite a tussle, as he kicked my shins for all he was worth. But I won, and he’s now sporting the required amount of ID in his lugholes.

Curiously his mother, who for the first week would’ve killed me as soon as look at me, lowed quietly as I worked, breathing right in my face, but remained quite placid. Anyway…result!

 

[Anton Coaker Blog]

28-05-20 Education


I seldom start a column with a quote from an Adge Cutler song, but today we shall.

He sang, all those years ago….‘I never bin to school, I never bin to college. Sooner be dead than stuff me ‘ead with a load of useless knowledge’.

And indeed that’s my default position….I’ve seen scant indication that I would’ve made a better fist of things should I have gone off to college.

Looking around me, I wouldn’t say that a college education makes many farmers much better at their trade. Indeed, sometimes you need to identify what is ‘good farming’, and what makes money- because they ain’t always the same thing, Maister- and teaching how to tell the difference can’t be easy.

Of course, some jobs demand a degree. Sometimes to furnish the incumbent with the knowledge they’ll need, but more often as an indication that they’ve a given level of intelligence and application. And from what I’ve seen, this is seldom any guarantee of wit enough to know how many beans makes five. As far as I can see, as much use comes from students being sent off out from under mothers skirts, as the education itself.

For the less academic, this used to be part of a trade apprenticeship. When the ‘master’ had trained the lad to the best of his ability, the lad had to go on his journey…to become a ‘Journeyman’, forced him to leave his hometown, and see something of the world. I absolutely get that, and regret that I didn’t travel more, sooner. There were apparently moves afoot when I was in my teens to send me off to some agricultural college somewhere, although no-one saw fit to ask me what I thought. Anyway, the old man wouldn’t have it, never told me…and here you find me.

Afterwards, I understood it was to the one English agricultural college running courses in hill farming to which the great and the good thought I should be sent….a Cumbrian outfit called Newton Rigg. From everything I’ve subsequently heard, it’s stood head and shoulders above the rest, teaching real world livestock skills to real-world livestock farmers, alongside well-regarded forestry courses for would-be foresters.

While the rest of the country’s ag colleges set students up for a career buying ever bigger tractors, and truck loads of agro-chemical inputs, Newton Rigg apparently never wholly lost touch with ‘dog and stick’ farming. Obviously, being a pre-emptive drop-out, I’m not best placed to comment on the few leftover colleges down here, although someone very near to me went to ‘Duchy’ for a term or two when he was 17, before being shown the door. He’s a lad brought up under a pretty stark regime of said dog and stick hill farming, on land where poor decisions show up very quickly indeed, and the chaff is soon blown from the grist. Arriving at Duchy, he found himself being taught by some lecturers who knew less about livestock than he considered he’d known since he could walk. Worse, because his Dad didn’t have great big shiny tractors, acres of corn, and 600 Holsteins, he and his upland travelling companions became the butt of jibes by some lecturers. I did ask whether it wasn’t just a bit of good-natured ribbing? Some healthy leg-pulling?

But he and his pals were pretty clear…. ‘Sir’ thought they were lesser students because they came off the hills. Unsurprisingly, discipline suffered, with a growing lack of mutual respect, and he was soon out on his ear. It’s a shame, as there are aspects of what they could’ve taught him that could’ve been useful –if only to see what wouldn’t work up here if nothing else.

One tale which never surfaced was when he had to do the milking for a few days. I asked him how it went, and he proudly told me he’d had to calve a cow. ‘Oh?’ I said ‘Did they let you do one under supervision?’ ‘Oh no’ came the reply, ‘I saw she was stuck, so I hopped in and pulled it off, sprayed ‘er navel, and went on again’. ‘What did they say?’ I asked. ‘Dunno. Never told em’.

Obviously, there’s been an embargo on these details, but he’s overseas shearing at the minute, so I can share them.

Anyway, nothing I heard impressed me, unlike what I’ve oft heard about Newton Rigg in Cumbria. Then, last week, I heard the latter- the only college in the England to teach hill farming at any formal level- is to close.

Government are apparently consummately disinterested, focussed instead on ensuring we can import any dodgy cheap food from any other country. What a ringing endorsement for how my profession is regarded.

 

[Anton Coaker Blog]

4th June 2020 Thor

I’m not sure what I think about the race troubles in the States just now, although I’m pretty sure that they’ve elected a pretty poor leader to handle their problems. However, in an obscure way it did get me thinking about racial matters, and our ideas on them. Something that caught my eye was the background to the exploits of 20th century adventurer, Norwegian explorer Thor Heyerdahl. As a youth, I was led to accept that he was both an intrepid explorer, and a marvellously clever chap…..it’s only now that a bit of reading which leads me to re-assess the latter.

It was Thor you will recall, made a couple of perilously long sea journeys in rafts made, respectively, of balsa logs lashed together, and woven grass. Most famous was his 1947 ‘Kon Tiki’ voyage from Peru to French Polynesia, drifting 5000 miles on an open raft. And as an achievement, it’s undeniably right up there. It’s when you ask why he did it that things become a bit unstuck. He seemed to have been determined, after youthful studies of literature referring to Polynesia, to prove that the Pacific islands were principally populated by some legendary fair skinned race who’d allegedly disappeared from South America before the Spanish rocked up to nick the Aztecs gold. Then, he reckoned, further migrations from the American NorthWest tribes- the Haida and Tlingit et al- bolstered their numbers. It’s notable that he grew up when some famously distasteful theories on race where being circulated in Europe, although since he served with the Norwegian resistance to Nazi occupation, I suppose he keeps a clean sheet on that score. Nevertheless, his determination ultimately led him to ‘prove’ that Polynesia was settled from the East – which would confusingly be our far West- by recreating the journey.

Regrettably, by pretty much every measure, he’s been shown to have been monumentally wrong. The domesticated plants and animals carried from island to island are identifiably Asian in origin, and the languages spoken show a clear stepping stone trail going the wrong way. Latterly, DNA taken from pre-European contact skeletal remains are pretty clear. There are admittedly anomalies, which we’ll come back to.

But the evidence firmly points to the Polynesians remarkable expansion over the last 3-4000 years, starting from somewhere in Asia. Travelling against wind and currents – the very same which allowed Thor to travel the other way- they hopped across a third of the worlds surface, often to postage stamp slivers of land hundreds of miles from anywhere else. It was by any standards an extraordinary piece of human endeavour. New Zealand was one of their last finds, in about 1200AD. Just imagine the culture might’ve developed if they’d been left there for a millennium or two longer before we happened along and interfered!

However, returning to the anomalies that DNA testing throws up. We should give old Thor back some credibility. There almost certainly were some chance journeys made between ancient cultures which have remained undocumented, but show up in traces of genetic material. It wasn’t some mythical race of South American white men, or Sun Gods, but more likely the accidental consequence of canoes and rafts being blown in unexpected directions. Funnily enough, much earlier explorers’ originally of Norwegian descent, had found North America by storm blown accident, although subsequent attempts to settle there failed. And following the actual Polynesian Pacific settlers, it’s almost a certainty that many perished in their attempts. It doesn’t do to imagine what it must be like, bobbing along an empty ocean with your nearest and dearest, a few chickens and piglets trussed up on deck, and some seeds and saplings carefully kept safe….hoping to find habitable scraps of land in the endless waters.

A more interesting question for me is how farming, as a concept, suddenly leapt around the world. We rubbed along as hunter-gatherers for tens of thousands of years, after a chance mutation in Africa resulted in cleverer homo-erectus. Then we finally discovered domesticating both edible plants, and wildlife, abruptly about 12,000 years ago. From the fertile valleys of the Middle East, farming culture expands across the globe – and if it’s a more reliable way to support your kids than hunting, you can see how it happened. Eventually it trickled all the way down through the Americas, although the plants and animals were rather different to those we’d adopted. And here’s the problem. Earliest Patagonian settlers date from about 15-16,000 years ago………..3-4000 tears too early to have any chance of learning about this new fangled idea of farming on the banks of the Tigris. That suggests rather more to-ing and fro-ing than we’re accustomed to accept.

Thor evidently wasn’t wholly wrong.