The Anton Coaker column thread

[Anton Coaker Blog]

Boat People

I’ve been loath to tiptoe onto the creaking ice, but there’s little escaping the reality that an awful lot of people want to come to Europe, by any means they can. Some are fleeing war torn hell holes, or drought wracked regions. Vicious dictators and religious persecution motivate others. Yet more simply ‘want a better life’. It’s a global phenomenon, with Latin Americans queued up to head North, Africans moving within Africa itself, citizens of former soviet bloc countries moving within Russia, and who knows who else trying to get where they think the going will be better. It is not new. Indeed, it’s what we’ve been doing for 10s of thousands of years. Several earlier human species moved outward from Africa, where they’d evolved- notably Neanderthals, who inhabited much of the Eurasia for twice as long as we’ve been about. Then, when we finally put in an appearance, Homo Sapiens did likewise, once we’d suddenly developed great big hungry brains.

What has changed is the scale of it. There are more humans now than ever before, and the rate of increase in the last century or two has been breath-taking. As we’ve mastered methods to feed hundreds of millions, so the population has grown. Then, as further technology made our lives easier in so many other ways, so too the desire to have all that perceived luxury has grown. Instant global communication means people in countries with almost nothing can glimpse into places where we have more than we can ever consume. And unsurprisingly, everyone wants a piece of the action.

I say I’ve been loath to venture onto this creaking ice, because some folk will soon be taking offence, and seeing red. You can scarcely put forward an opinion on this movement without upsetting someone. Just commenting risks being torn down by those whose can’t accept a differing view…whichever that might be. But, hey ho. It’d be dishonest of me not to give it some air.

I notice politicians clamour to put all of the blame on the wicked people smugglers…like they’re dragging poor would-be-migrants onto the boats by force. Never mind that the migrants would still come, if no ‘people smugglers’ existed. The reason is politicians know a big share of the electorate want the flow stopped, but both electorate and elected dance around the ‘why’. Many of us struggling to come to terms with the overlapping subjects of mass migration, and matters of racial and cultural intolerance. Teasing out the root of our discomfort is itself discomforting. I would hazard a guess that an awful lot of Brits don’t have much issue with people of a different race per se. It is the huge numbers that are changing our culture in front of our eyes that they struggle with. That, and the evident fact that the UK is pretty well ‘peopled up’ already.

So, to appease voters who don’t want to see tens of thousands piling in without paperwork, MPs pretend their concern is with the nasty people traffickers, who’re endangering these poor refugees. I have to say that this irritates me hugely, as it isn’t tackling the inevitable questions all ‘wealthy’ countries are going to have to address in the end.

Matters were further complicated when a number of Ukrainians lately sought to hurriedly get out of Putin’s way. The fact that more Brits were happy to hold the door open to these white Christians than, say, Afghans didn’t escape attention. The outraged accusations of double standards and bigotry deftly stepped around the fact that a great many of the Ukrainians were sincerely hoping to be able to return home ASAP. That they are politically, culturally, and logistically our neighbours was lost, as was the obvious fact that they were mainly ‘non-combatants’. They were, for the greater part, women with children. But no, we were bigots for embracing them but not everyone else.

Further anomalies occur if you look elsewhere. While the EU would prefer to show the world how compassionate and welcoming they are, a significant number of member states openly voice serious reservations. Meanwhile, in the far East China has a hugely wealthy economy, and you’d imagine an awful lot of humans adrift on the tides of life would be wanting to go there for a better life. But seemingly they don’t. Why is that?

Look. You can call me all manner of names for addressing the subject, but the truth is that the problem –and it is surely a problem - isn’t going away any time soon. No-one- but no-one- will put the subject to a referendum, but I’m pretty sure what would uncomfortably come out in the wash.

 

[Anton Coaker Blog]

Livestock off

I’ve been warned off talking about Russell Brand, or the Met’s armed coppers, as both matters are, or could become, sub judice. Instead, editorial policy advises me to talk about farming…or as it proves to be, the concerted drive to get rid of us peasants.

As you’ll have noticed, we left the EU a while ago, and the old EU subsidies- which kept us afloat when our produce sells for less than the cost of production- are swiftly being wound down. Westminster promised faithfully to replace these payments with something equivalent. And as the time got nearer, they announced the new schemes would be centred on ‘public goods’. Notably, producing food is not a ‘public good’. No, we’re talking about clean air and water, promoting bio-diversity and stuff like that. It all sounds good doesn’t? Undoubtedly, that twerp Michael Gove was in it up to his neck. Whitehall was instructed to ‘make it so’, and a battalion of civil servants started drawing up plans, aided by a much larger division of lobbyists and interfering wild life experts, who saw their chance to either rein in those wicked farmers, or get hold of the cash themselves, or better yet…both.

It came as no surprise to any of us that the hair brained schemes concocted were a car crash. Announced in dribs and drabs, various ideas are constantly being tweaked on the hoof, as it became apparent they were one as hapless as the next. Some are, ironically, ridiculously over-funded. I know some cute operators who’ve aligned their plans with some of the stupidest use of public money you’ve ever heard of…and are filling their boots before the wheel detaches. Good luck to them. For me, what’s on offer so far has very little to attract me. The core tenet is that I have to improve nature and wildlife on my farm to receive public money….which is typical Gove logic- it sounds good until you get to the reality. You see, unfortunately for me, we are already overflowing with wildlife and bio-diversity. Anyone who knows where I farm would attest this. And what this means is that I get beggar all from the new schemes. Perversely I have the positive incentive to rip the guts out of the place with the digger for a couple of years, then sign up to mend it all again. It’s a travesty that I’m put in that position, and the premise that my farming isn’t worthy of reward, while destroying nature for all your worth would be is…well, deeply offensive.

And it’s getting worse. As the old EU payments evaporate, another much vaunted replacement is being thrashed out of the current ‘enviro schemes’. Secret – or not very secret as it turns out- discussions are focussing on paying upland farmers to simply get rid of livestock altogether. We can’t grow crops, so presumably the plan is simply for us to leave our land to revert to scrub. Several leaks regarding this insanity have reached me. The concept seems to be entrenched in DEFRA, and gels with the rewilding plans ‘Natural England’ are trying their damnedest to push on us. Whispers suggest some industry leaders are going along with it, as getting rid of livestock will supposedly hasten us toward some fabled bull manure called ‘net zero’. I can scarcely believe it…it’s some kind of collective insanity.

Let’s look at what I got up to today. We gathered the South Devon breeding herd together for TB testing. Bawling milky chopped spring calves and their loafing hefty orange mums were pushed together, across a couple of miles of bracken infested boulder strewn slopes, fording the West Dart and the Swincombe. The wrinkly nose bulls grumbling at each other as their respective harems had to be mixed together. It was the first time in several weeks that we’d had them all back in the yard, and they’re an arresting sight in their glowing magnificence. Well, to me they are. They’ve grazed this landscape for many decades- I can’t say for sure, as we’ve had them here for over 170 years, and I don’t know whether we bought the cows on the farm before we arrived, or whether my forebear arrived from Bellever Farm with some of his own. Very likely it’s some of each, and in all probability, I’m farming some damlines that have been in my family’s care for centuries.

Right now, as you read this, it seems a group of people inside DEFRA are concocting a plan- unbeknownst to those beautiful cows- to pay me to get rid of them, and do nothing with the landscape.

I believe the expression is ‘it’ll be a cold day in hell……..’

 

[Anton Coaker Blog]

Getting to Vols

With hay harvest put to bed, I‘ve taken advantage of an invitation to come back to the alps to herd someone else’s cows. With some embarrassment I have to fess up that three weeks ago I was going back to help the crew I helped before, but discovered at the last moment that they don’t allow you through Airport security clutching what transpired to be my lovely little wife’s passport…..spoilsports. Not to be put off, I then somehow wangled another invite to herd some other cows, 50-60 miles East. It’s not easy to convince strangers over the net to allow some English twit to butt into their end-of-summer cow beano. But I found an area where there were stills cows to fetch down of the mountain, and after a couple of false starts, a group of farmers who’d entertain the idea.

So I flew in the mountain ringed alpine Austian City of Innsbruck, where everything is impossibly neat and organised . Since my last visit, tech-world has taken further hold, meaning a simple hick without the right ‚app‘ can’t access the city’s buses. Luckily I soon found the peasant bus network, that allows you to buy a ticket fom the driver for actual cash. A very patient tourist information lass managed to find me a last minute room, in a hotel looking suspiciousls like a giant cuckoo clock. I was delighted to note the sweet whiiff of silage wafting past the terrace where I dined….the alpine culture still has cows right in town. I approve. The next morning saw me trundling South on a train, destined for the German speaking Italian state of South Tyrol. As ever, I was struck by the logic and efficieny of arrangements. Out of neccesity businesses are structured around transport access- I saw several Trains carrying HGV artic trailers, using the rail network for the bulk of their journey rather than filling the roads.It’s joined up thinking on a scale we can barely recognise. Bareley noticing the Italian border, I did clock their cops pullng out of the line anyone looking like they’d recently arrived from the Med coast, as it were. The number of new migrants is evident, and must surey be straining the Shengen arrangements. Dropping down into a more Italian Feeling lowland valley, with miles of intense vines on the slopes, and apples on the flats below, all backed by endless mountains racked up to the horizon. Farms often have scant conomy of scale, but are beautifully spick and span. I loved the fusion of traditional buildings with ultra modern stuff. Changing to a bus in the regional capital Bozen, I was remind that while they learn German at their mothers knee, -Italy won South Tyrol in a hand of cards at the break-up of the Austro-hungarian empire, or somesuch- locals have to learn Italian at School by law….so many don’t learn English. Which is unusual in Europe now. Happily my pidgeon German sufficed, and I was able to make my way about the place. With little bother I soon found the bus headed for the village where I‘d been told to get to. Tunnells punch through the mountains like butter, and scraps of glacier cling to mountains to the West of me- although they have shrunk back 10% this year alone, if you’re a global warming sceptic. Communities cling to shoulders of land 3000‘ up the mountainsides, as round balers worked on slopes I could hardly have walked across. Without realising it, I discovered I‘d got an invite to help in a Unesco World Heritage Site- The Dolomites. Towering jagged mountains reared a verticlal mile above the little pub I’d fetched up in, with The Scherln topping out at over 8000‘, aglow in the evening sun. The intense Italin publican scurried industriously, attentively keeping me fed and watered…or rather beered, in a community geared to extracting the German Tourist Euro. Tomorrow, I’m assured I have to present myself at such and such a coffee bar for 8am, and the Farmers will pick me up to go and help gather their



cows down off the mountain pasture, up there somewhere. So next week, I’ll lead you Hand in Hand out onto a sunlit alp, where we’ll meet cows...with bells on.

 

[Anton Coaker Blog]

Vols Almabtrieb

And so, as instructed I found my way to a little town hanging on the side of the 8000’ Dolomite, the ‘Schlern’. There, I presented myself at the coffee bar indicated at 8am sharp, clutching the hazel stick I brought through airport security, 2 flights, 2 trains, and several buses. My contact found me, and we were soon in a minibus, going up dirt roads through dense conifer forests. We soon came to a grassy clearing of maybe 200 acres, called ‘Tuffalm’. The towering massif of Schlern reared up behind to our east, and the valley still chilly in deep shadow. In a large penned area against the trees stood 140 or so cattle, these being the ‘dry’ proportion of the combined villagers herds. The milk cows had already been taken down, when they all returned from the plateau above. These yearlings, steers, and in-calvers were tidying up ‘Tuffalm’, before also coming down for winter.

On arrival, I was introduced to ‘Gerhardt’, the appointed ‘alm meister’, who’s job is to ensure herders are in place to tend everyone’s stock, do the milking through the summer, and oversee these seasonal movements. Forewarned, Gerhardt greeted me warmly, and fitted me with the ubiquitous traditional blue smock the farmers all wear. Already, lads were wrestling selected heifers into a smaller handling pen, where the little working bells that give the grazing herds such an enchanting melody were being replaced with enormous polished bells on broad collars trimmed with badger fur. Bright garlands of flowers were then strapped across the cows’ brows. They thought I’d just be there as a journalist, but I immediately played my trump card and slipped into the action and got to work. In very few minutes, the lads saw I knew cattle, and the few words of our respective language were ample to work together. We selected and prepped maybe 25-30 cows to head the procession, as a few score of onlookers started to arrive. Then, it was time for a bite to eat, and the first drink of the day. I declined that one, supping instead from the ice-cold water trickling through the numerous troughs hewn from larch logs.

With brief discussion, Gerhardt had the prepped cattle shepherded through an opening onto a narrow track descending steeply down through the forest. I was allocated to the team following up with bulk of the herd, staggered to give the lead cows sufficient headstart so we all arrived in sequence. We were soon funnelling the remaining 100 head down the track bounded by a strand of electric fence. Cattle jostled through groups of hikers coming up the track, while others fell into step behind us following the procession. Among the good humoured chaos, yearling cattle slipped over the wire, and we had to scramble across near vertical wooded slopes to fetch them back in line. The noise of 100 cattle galumphing down through the forest, bells jingling, sounded more like an immense hive of bees buzzing. Shepherding stray stock like this is second nature to me, and bonhomie immersed us as we worked. The sun had come over the rock wall behind, and we were soon sweating. Emerging from the tree cover, increasing groups of onlookers lined the way. We followed roads winding down through steep hay fields, demarked with no more than the odd electric fence. As we started passing farmsteads with wooden houses and barns alike sporting broad overhanging rooves, so too started the proffered trays of welcoming schnapps. Everyone greets the return of the cattle, healthy, back from the mountain. Locals among the throngs called greetings to the farmers, as we went down through town. I was walking with the rear-guard of some local characters, one of whom was noisily cracking an impressive whip for the crowds. We graciously accepted the crowd’s cheers and approval.

Penning the cattle into a large enclosure, we started the work of removing the decorations from the lead cows, but I was quickly called away to a nearby amphitheatre, with bandstand, and hundreds of trestles laid out for the huge crowds. Gerhardt was on stage, in front of the oompah band, giving a speech…before I knew what had happened, I too was on stage, taking a brief bow, and accepting a gift for my help. Then it was back to work, starting the long job of sorting out each farm’s 5-6 cattle, and loading them into the 2 cattle trucks shuttling them home. After an hour or two, we were called down for schnitzel and beer. In truth, trays of beer were already repeatedly appearing in the handling pens, and as the sun started to slip behind the opposite side of the valley, a golden glow had wholly enveloped us. Language obstacles seemed to evaporate in direct proportion to the amount of ‘refreshments’ consumed, and as the last load were shoved up the ramp, I was amongst a very happy group of cattle men, secure in their beautiful old culture. And here’s to em.

 

[Anton Coaker Blog]

Alpine Trails

The morning after last week’s South Tyrolean cattle herding experiences I seemed to have developed a fairly epic headache, residual feelings of nausea, and for reasons unknown, quite notable dehydration. I expect this was all that thin mountain air, or something. Still, a substantial breakfast in my hotel fortified me for my onward travels, and after fond farewells, I ambled down to the bus stop. Sat in the morning sun, still somewhat fragile, I bumped into one or two familiar faces from the night before out in search of restorative coffee, while others hailed me from passing cars. Clearly my cattle wrangling technique had impressed.

But now I had friends from previous trips to catch up with. Hopping the bus, I wound back down into the South Tyrolean capital below, Bozen. Interestingly, while there- sat outside the railway station, chatting to a Canadian backpacker- a fair faced local teenager came up, and blagged a euro off us for a bottle of water. She was well –if scantily- dressed, and spoke English politely. As she walked away, I asked my colleague if we’d been tapped by a beggar…she certainly didn’t have that feel to her. The answer came a few minutes later when the same girl strode cheerily back down the street, clutching not a bottle of water, but her smiling African boyfriend. Hmm, we thought.

My next bus took me across the endless flat fields of apples, lots under black netting to protect from hailstorms and bird damage. Better than half had been harvested by the first week in October, trundled in plastic crates behind narrow orchard tractors to the packhouses along the valley floor. I’m told 10% of the EUs apples come from the region. Reaching Meran, the 2nd city, I was struck by the leafy beauty of its tree lined boulevards, where Robinia and majestic Plane trees spread their welcome shade. This central lowland is hemmed on every side by towering mountains, and it was into a cleft in these that I sought my next connection, up into Ultendal –the Ultimate Valley.

I was soon climbing back up into this dramatic gouge into the heart of the mountains, where I’d worked with the farmers in 2019. Arrestingly beautiful, its picture postcard farms are dotted along the rising valley floor, and conifer forests rising steeply either side. Quite how I’ve found myself herding cows in such awesome places remains a mystery to me…it just somehow happens. I rode the bus 30 miles to the highest village, where I was to stay with friends, exploring and catching up. The following morning, with the slopes frosted, a pal and I made our chilly way up onto an ‘alm’. Local farming families are allowed to build a little cabin thousands of feet up in the highest larch forests. Ostensibly, these are for storing what hay the farmers used to make on the alpine pasture, to be tobogganed back down to the farmsteads in winter. Most families maintain such a shack, as a special privilege, scything a bit of grass each summer to retain this historic right. Quite why the stored hay needs bunk beds, lamps, and a little stove remains kind of vague. Some have dirt roads to them, others are a fair hike up from the track.

As the sun eventually rose over the bony ridges above, so the thermometer quickly jumped 20 degrees. In pleasant sunshine, we visited the hut of a retired woodworker and hunter called Oskar, with whom we dined on grainy grainy bread, salami, salted onion, and the local delicacy, smoked ham called ‘speck’, ceremoniously cut into fanatically thin slices. A few bottles of malty beer may’ve been involved. Neither my host nor Oskar speak much English, but high in this sublime peaceful place, it didn’t really matter. The livestock had all long since been taken down, leaving just us old blokes enjoying these final few days of kind weather before the snow returns.

But reality beckoned, and all too soon I had to take my leave, and start my journey back out of their mountain fastness. Headed for Innsbruck in Austria, I dwelt on cultural differences. I saw kids with their school lunch boxes more akin to a mess tin, filled with sliced fruit, bread and cheese, with aluminium water bottles. There was scant evidence of the branded corporate plastic-packaged garbage we’ve allowed into our lives. Then, as my plane taxied to the runway the following morning, mown grass was rowed up to be baled right up to the tarmac’s edge, and I could nearly read the tags on the cows grazing just beyond the fence.

Where did we go wrong?

 

[Anton Coaker Blog]

Gaza

I knew, from the moment news emerged that Hamas had launched a large scale attack on Israeli civilians, that Israel would react in kind….plus some more. And sure enough that’s what quickly transpired. The scale of retaliation, or whatever you call it, looks more disproportionate with each passing day as ‘civilian’ deaths mount. Indeed, you have to presume that Hamas themselves knew what kind of reaction to expect, which raises questions about their motives. I’m inclined to a cynical suspicion about their rationale.

Something that’s struck me about those interviewed on either side is that while the Israeli’s questioned can generally rationalise the overall situation, before justifying their armed force’s reaction- or not as the case might be- the Palestinians often can’t bring themselves to see the wider picture. They’ve been wronged for decades, so they’ve struck back. Theirs seems to be a very black and white picture, where individual Israeli’s are generally able to talk about the nuances of what is an age-old dispute. Trying to set aside the enormity of actions on both sides, I would say the latter also display an awareness of the PR angle- from politicians and military leaders, right down ordinary citizens. They know they need to cultivate what sympathy they can, and appear to take conscious steps to do so. Is that propaganda, or just logical thinking?

I’ve long been dubious of siding much one way or the other. I can easily see why the Palestinians are aggrieved, but equally recognise that people of Jewish faith waited for a long time to have a country to call their own, and endured centuries of prejudice along the way. And once the Israeli state had been established- for good or ill-- they made it clear they would defend their right to exist as a nation, whether their neighbours liked it or not. There have been several ‘Arab-Israeli wars’ since Israel’s inception in 1948, including when

almost all of their neighbours attack them simultaneously. They fight back, and – in an established pattern- often seizing a bit more land along the way. And while I can’t approve of the illegal expansion of settlements lately, I’m afraid the acquisition of some land has been fair and square.

It’s worth remembering that all 3 Abrahamic religions – if that’s the term- arose thereabouts, and they’ve fought over this holy dirt for centuries. It’s perhaps unrealistic to expect them to put all that history to one side, and get along now, even if it is the rational thing to do. So this round doesn’t surprise me, it merely dismays. I hope it doesn’t escalate into a wider Middle Eastern conflict.

Given the muddled and oft ugly history, quite where the UK’s leftie hatred of Israel comes from isn’t exactly clear to me, nor how that grew into the anti-Semitic issues that poor Kier has struggled with so. It widely perceived that many Jews have a culture of industrious pursuit their respective professions, and a prudent regard to financial security. And while that is admirable itself, it’s also the reality that they then often find themselves the target of green-eyed prejudice. A lot of the history regarding what’s happened to Jews outside of the Middle East goes back to this. There’s also a good deal of haziness here about the difference between Jewish people outside Israel, and the Israeli state.

So what will happen now? Well Israel’s claim they’re going to destroy Hamas hardly stands analysis, seeing as Palestinians who survive the current assault will surely be more readily recruited than ever. Saying that, I quite understand why Israel wishes to achieve their goal, just as I can understand why Hamas might’ve hated them in the first place that they’d risk the reaction to the initial brutal killings and kidnapping.

Watching poor old Justin Welby go out to hold hands with the bereaved Israeli families was a bit toe curling, as it left him open to unanswerable questions about suffering Palestinian families that he apparently wasn’t visiting. Likewise, Western leaders generally are having to tip-toe along, trying to sympathise on the one hand, while not condoning the ongoing slaughter if they can manage it in a sentence brief enough for the media soundbite.





Conflict over this land has raged sporadically for thousands of years, and teaches us much about tribalism- albeit dressed as religious differences. Unfortunately, while the wise take on board the message, there is a streak in humanity that takes the shorter view. And this is simply the fundamental nature of human civilisation played out once more on the blood soaked soil of the region.

It’s not pretty to behold, but regrettably it is evidently who we still are.

 

[Anton Coaker Blog]

And lastly

Well, the storms have arrived now. Leaves still green for lack of cold weather are shredded off the trees around the yard, and mast crunches and squelches underfoot. With grass still growing in sodden fields, we’re sailing into autumn stock work. There are a lot of ewes to gather for tupping, first requiring a bath and some fettling. I deliberately keep enough shed space clear for this work so we can at least stay relatively dry whilst we fettle. As well as bolusing the ewes, we try to fluke every ewe and cow, and I’ve a feeling this is going to be a flukey year. I didn’t get to fluke the South Devon cows last year, and sure enough, one has already needed treatment this back end. Unable to source the fluke jollop of choice locally, we’re having to import it- quite legitimately I should add. I don’t know where it was destined, but bottles arrive with pictures of a camel, and Cyrillic writing on the side.
Keeping that indoor work space was also useful this week when we fetched the mares in. The foals – both ‘mare colts’ and ‘oss colts’ in the vernacular- need chipping and pedigree registering, and we took advantage of time and a good vet to castrate the boys. Some years we simply rid ourselves of theboys- sending them to feed hungry canines at the kennels- but lately they’ve commanded a fair trade for something called ‘conservation grazing’. This is apparently where good people who-generally- don’t know anything about farming reckon it’s a good idea to run a few unproductive equines on rough ground to ‘manage’ the vegetation. They earnestly believe they’ve reinvented the grazing wheel…bless. I expect it’s regenerative as well, whatever that means. Anyway, if we keep the boys for a year or two, get them haltered, trained to the bucket, and vaguely civilised, it’s giving us a market for them. And we’ve even got ahead of ourselves by getting their nadgers removed before weaning. Meanwhile, they’ve gone back out with the mares for another 6 weeks or so before, so we can get the more pressing work out of the way
We have started weaning calves, and the bawling around the yard will be more or less constant for a few weeks, as we handle groups of cattle in sequence. A minor hiccup testing means I can’t sell the South Devon steer calves, who are usually an important source of revenue at this time of year. Holding them over for the winter, doing justice to their potential, is going to mean finding space and fodder I don’t readily have to hand. Some of the older ladies will be shipped out to ease both overflow, and cashflow.
Indoors, Alison has been sweating getting paperwork ready for the stoopid Red Tractor inspection, while ‘RT’ themselves- as I understand it- have been bargaining away our green credentials, while the NFU looked the other way with their fingers in their ears, loudly singing ‘La la la’. I haven’t been following it much, having more important fish frying, but it sounds a pretty sorry state of affairs on all counts, and there’s much lamenting about how the whole business appears to those of us who actually go out in the mud and the rain, tending the stock. Because whether it’s the right course or not is secondary…seemingly what mattered was how it looks to the peasants who pay for it all.
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Lastly, I deliberately don’t fill this column with obituaries, but I’d just like to take a moment to bow my head at the sad passing of my old friend Dudley Luxton.
Dudley was a properly good farmer by anyone’s measure, who also went on to open and grow a very successful farm shop near Okehampton. He was a tremendous character, and his fund of rural wisdom was pretty extensive- indeed, he was one of a dwindling cadre of men who could show you exactly how far round the Northern flanks of Dartmoor you might traditionally have found South Devon cattle….because up in his quarter, Rubies would’ve held sway. Not that this stopped Dudley himself building an outstanding herd of Aberdeen Angus. He had that blessed balance of being a level-headed and assiduous businessman, who also took the time to smell the roses along life’s highway. He seemed to find time for those little embellishments that make it all worthwhile.
He leaves behind a hardworking and charming family, who- in every way- reflect his outstanding qualities. I am going to miss Dudley, mostly because he simply such a lovely man….he really was one of the good guys, and the world is surely poorer for his passing.

 

[Anton Coaker Blog]

Net zero

Backalong, as you’ll recall Boris’ government announced we were going to ban all new petrol and diesel cars in a few short years, or 3 weeks’ time- or whatever unlikely goal he set- along with all manner of bold plans to save the world. Manyguessed it was really green tinted Carrie pulling some of the strings, and evidence to the Covid inquiry seems to indicatethis might’ve been the case. At the time I observed that such statements are easy when you’re PM. You know full well that you can simply U turn under public pressure before the event, and anyway, it’ll be likely someone else’s problem- high end politic careers being notoriously fickle things. Whether or not you want explore what a middle-aged man will do to impress a new –and importantly much younger- bird is another matter, but I daresay there’s plenty of studies on it. Men are hardwired to pursue certain goals, and it’s only the veneer of civilisation that masks some of them….and Boris’s veneer isn’t as effective as some.
I’m not claiming any kind of prescience about the green U turns… it was all too obvious, and policy is already being unpicked. In fact, on this subject, I felt a great weight lift when Trump was first elected in the US. He showed that the most disingenuous, unlikely and unsuitable candidates can find power if they’re rich enough, and they spin enough populist drivel. Because a lot of people are stupid, and democracy allows the stupidest voter just the same voice as the most rational. It’s a bit tongue-in-cheek, but I’d say Trumps’ ascendance shows there’s no hope, you might as well try to enjoy the ride.
It hardly helps that the fossil fuel lobby is very successfully helping those who want to look the other way. There are a lot of folk who don’t want to accept the ‘man-made climate warming’ stuff, which is understandable enough, and their views are helped along by a tidal wave of disinformation disseminated from vested interests. I’m just a hick peasant, but some things are clearly observable…even to an uneducated cow poke. While we’re still currently within natural fluctuations of global climate and temperature variations, it’s not unreasonable to want to believe the changes are normal. And indeed, we are still within such variations. Written history describes periods more or less similar to where we are now. The problem, the bit you can’t really duck, is the level of atmospheric CO2. That has been rising and rising, out of all kilter with natural cycles- there’s been nothing like it since we’ve been drawing breath as a species- just as we were warned it would decades ago. And while the ‘extreme weather events’ stuff is much harder to pin down- indeed, I don’t wholly buy into it myself- the rising CO2 and global warming have gone hand in hand. Both match the rise in human population, and use of fossil fuels…the graph for all 4 figures show the exact same ‘hockey stick’ rise.
Meanwhile, we’re collectively rumbling along, clinging to some trinkets of climate salvation- pretending to ourselves that we’re ‘doing something’. The whole concept of ‘net zero’ and ‘carbon sequestration’ is meaningless. Those who cling to such things are either ignorant of the basic physics and chemistry of it all – you cannot realistically re-capture 350 million year old fossil carbon by planting a tree that will fall over and rot in 50 years- or they’re knowingly taking part in a big lie. If that’s you…well, better you choose where you stand before someone calls you out.
I want to tell you a little tale. My beloved and I pretty much stopped flying when the kids came along. We could see it was selfish and irresponsible, and taking small kids on planes isn’t much fun anyway. So for about 15 years, we stuck to rolling along the floor on wheels. We didn’t say much about it, although when we did, we were met with astonishment. But during this period, the budget cheapo airlines blossomed, and the numbers of people flying hockey-sticked like everything else. Then, I started flying once or twice a year for business reasons. It was really a jolly, and I had no real justification if I’m honest. And being the gregarious rustic that I am, I always chat with those sat beside me in such environs. And I met people who commute daily by air, fly to meaningless meetings- like myself- and best, people who fly the length of the country for a ‘day out’.
In the end, we cannot control ourselves…and the worst offenders are those who pretend they’re doing something.

 

[Anton Coaker Blog]

Redlake Gather

It’s sheep ‘clearance’ time, so we’ve all been fetching down the hill ewes for their annual MOT, a few laps round the dipper, and bit of nookie with the tups to ensure next year’s supply of little lambkins. Sounds simple enough doesn’t it? Well, it isn’t quite that easy. You’ve got to find the first. My own are seldom more than a mile from the fence, which makes things relatively straight forward, although the reality is somewhat more testing. Gathering them involves clearing several hundred acres of difficult terrain, overgrown with knee deep vegetation in places, treacherous bogs, nearly vertical slopes and clitters of boulders with voids you – or a sheep- could disappear into. Some are beyond a dangerously raging river, having crossed when the water was lower. A lot of the ground can’t be accessed by quad bike…it’s dog and stick work, and takes 3-4 of us to sweep them in, over about 2 ½ hours. Then as much time again going back for the stragglers who’ve somehow hidden from view, or miraculously re-appeared the next day.

The more complex gather is my lads’ flock, which live far out across the plateau, spread over several miles. Grazing in 2 main ‘lears’, enjoying over 100” of rain a year, they’re a very tough bunch, and a treasured thing. But gathering them is in another league. It’s a 19 mile round trip, depending on how zig-zaggy things become. The terrain is no easier than my gather, if on a bigger scale, across several river catchments.

This year we were 3 lads on quadbikes, and 2 foot soldiers- including yours truly. I hitched a ride 2/3 of the way up, then set off to my appointed start position. While 2 of the bikes were clearing the far side of one valley and the hill behind, I was tasked with walking up through the middle of this rushy vale, pushing the 3-4 families of ewes steadily homeward, while the third bike worked the ground to my left flank, preventing my lot from breaking out over, and pushing additional sheep into the growing flock. We use mobile phones to communicate, although signal problems make walkie talkies look attractive.

I’d had a bit of bother at the first bit of water I had to cross. What is a summer trickle was now a torrent 5’ across, and 2-3’ deep. I had 8 sheep held at bay against it, assuring me they couldn’t cross- which would’ve meant a lengthy diversion, and my having to return for a larger group just beyond.

Happily, some patience on all sides resulted in one old ewe showing the rest the way, and we were moving again. My fellow foot soldier was afeared she was going to have to cross the bigger torrent beside us, when we espied 12 up ahead on the wrong side. They’d have to be pushed a mile up that bank to where the 2 lads were working on bikes. But the ewes saw our growing string of sheep snaking their way along a winding path, and decided they didn’t want to miss the fun. They crossed on their own, joining us willingly for a change. Suddenly 70+ lives were cresting the brow, over into the valley looking toward home. Leaving them on open ground with one man and his dog, we cut left to clear the endless and difficult gullies that make up the other lear. I had to tramp over a mile through an endless sea of knee deep molinia to get on their far side. Just as I was dropping onto them, I met a neighbour out on the same mission. By road, we’re 15 miles apart, but we adjoin on the hill. We had a catch up, sharing news of what sheep we’d each seen, before we turned toward our respective tasks.

The ewes came together well, joining the group we’d left standing, and headed onto the path homeward as a single flock. Getting them down to the moorgate- not quite 6 hours from kickoff- I followed behind the 3 lads riding line abreast down the track, and the healthy bright eyed ewes. I reflected, as I watched them work, these 3 lads had all been classmates in the local primary, and now aged 24 were coming together to gather one of the most isolated hill flocks on Dartmoor. I’ll soon be redundant, and it brings warmth to my heart to see such a group working together, shepherding such land.

To think Natural England are doing their utmost to drive these sheep, and their shepherds, off the hills fills me with feelings inappropriate for print. But rest assured, there are deep roots involved, which won’t easily be torn up

 

[Anton Coaker Blog]

Weaning Calves

As I alluded the other week, a slight testing issue has left me unable to sell young cattle. And seeing as I was about to punt the South Devon steer calves, a few pedigree Belts, and several yearling stores, I’m now left a bit oversubscribed with cattle, but bereft of the seasonal boost to cash flow. We’ve had a pretty fair lot of spring calves reared this year, and I reckon I’ll need to house close on 100. This number would normally be about 60, plus 30 odd yearlings which are currently on dry lying off-land. But this winter the older group will have to stay where they are, and make do outdoors at round feeders, just to give me space for all the calves.

Next issue will be the bunch of Galloway cows due to calve at Christmas. I’m anticipating 15 or so fluffy little treasures will come trotting in off the rough in the next few weeks….and they and their mums will be wanting to lie indoors too. This’ll be manageable, as long as the number doesn’t grow too much. Should 20 or more turn up – and it’s always a possibility- space is going to be a problem. There is also the reality that the fodder I have available won’t do justice to the beautiful South Devon steer calves. They usually sell very well onto lower farms, where they’re fed a much better diet than I can muster. I’m pricing extra sweeties from the mill to make up the difference, and can see it’s going to make me wince somewhat.

I did have a stroke of luck a few weeks ago. Seeing a bit of a shortfall, I’d agreed to take a couple of lorry loads of ‘threshed ryegrass’ off a pal. This is the leftovers from growing ryegrass for seed. Once combined, the stems look like straw, but are potentially quite useful feed. However it’s a very moveable feast – the grower is focussed on getting the valuable seed saved, rather than the baled residue. I once bought a load which was nought but weathered dead sticks. But in this instance it’s turned out to be very nice feed, and I would happily have taken more.

Anyway, the upshot is that the yard now echoes with the bawling of weaned calves, and will be for a few weeks yet as each successive group is brought in and handled. Cows stand in their fields, shouting back. Some cows imagine they can leap a gate like a graceful stag, if they’re sufficiently determined to get back to their poor poor babies. Unfortunately, they seldom manage this feat without leaving the gates worse for wear. Only one gate has received terminal damage to date, and in fairness, it was pretty tired before ‘Ermintrude’ bellyflopped onto it.

I would have liked to get the cows treated for liver fluke while we’ve had them in the yard, but that isn’t happening so far. I always have such grand intentions of being efficient and on the ball…but somehow it never quite comes off. Ne’er mind… I adore being in amongst my cows, so I’ll get the chance to do it all over again in a day or two.

Some more good news pertains to the new South Devon bull. Young ‘Max’ was sourced a couple of years ago from Frank and Sue Martin- Sue being my sister. He was a big strong calf when I viewed him, out of a very correct cow, and arrived here at about 10 months. Settling in well, he was unexpectedly drafted into work the following summer, when another bull was lamed. I wouldn’t normally give a yearling much work- just one or two to make sure he knows his job. But Max didn’t seem to mind having 8 that year, and 12 the next. It can knock their growth a bit, although in the long run I don’t want a bull that weighs over a tonne anyway. And like us, living a bit leaner leaves them all the healthier in the long term. As it happens, it’s maiden heifers he has been serving, and while I try to give the heifers an easier time of it, and a few extra sweeties, it’s expected that they won’t rear as good a calf as the older cows. However, I’ve checked back who we’re weaning, and blow me if his calves aren’t as good as any.

In the meantime, he’s shaping up nicely, is naturally polled, and as biddable as they come. I worked a bull from the same good home a while back, and his offspring were my favourite cows for a long time. So I’m quietly optimistic.

 

[Anton Coaker Blog]

Assurance

One of the bigger topics of farming conversation lately is ‘farm assurance’, or ‘Red Tractor’. This clever wheeze came about 20 odd years ago, in the wake of various farming calamities, chiefly BSE- Mad Cow Disease. Apparently, public confidence in farming and food was at a low ebb – although given the expanding waistlines of a lot of people youmight question that assumption. So various worthies, led by the National Farmers Union, established a branded benchmark of wholesomeness for farm products. To qualify, farmers had to undergo basic inspections, to be a bit above basic legal requirements for various aspects of their industry. ‘Farm Assurance’s’ public face was the ‘Red Tractor’ logo, which was supposed to indicate that the produce on the shelf- with the logo- was safe, jolly healthy and produced by a friendly bright eyed farmer. Union Jack colours hinted it might be UK produce, although it was always difficult to call it specifically British.
Thruppence halfpenny was spent advertising this image, leading to…ooh… at least 0.005% of the population noticing and recognising it. Various inspecting companies oversaw our end of it, in some kind of franchising deal I’ve never been very clear about. Stakeholders involved in farming and the food chain ran it, with the NFU heavily involved, alongside supermarkets corporate representation. Similarly, few of us ever really understood how it worked.
From our perspective, it was supposed to be a way of earning a premium over ‘non-assured’ produce. For years I ignored it, as the last thing I wanted in my life was more paperwork and inspections. Tales abounded of clipboard wielding experts marching around farmyards pointing out heinous crimes on their checklist….. most of which sounded pretty stupid. But, eventually, the one local abattoir taking old cows started to demand they be Red Tractor. And the least I can do for my old girls when they’ve done their stint on the hill is see they’re given as easy an exit as possible. Their trip to the ‘Happy Valley Sunshine Home for Retired Suckler Cows’ takes a bit over an hour, but if they weren’t farm assured, it’d mean a trip of several hours, as well as a discounted price.
So Alison and I bit the bullet. Initially, we were with a firm whose inspection could best be described as ‘light touch’. The amiable old chap could see we were timed served, and knew more or less what we were about. But, as the years passed, the inspectors got a bit keener, while they progressively knew less and less about actual farming. It had got to the pitch that Alison forbade me being on site when the inspection was being carried out. This year, she’d been preparing paperwork for some weeks before the inspection. Feelings were running high around our kitchen table, as around many others.
The promised ‘premium price’ for RT assured produce seems to go the other way. Said abattoir is now discreetly accepting non RT cattle one day a week again….but at a huge price reduction.
Meanwhile, arable farmers have it even worse. Never mind that they can now barely sell any grain at all unless it’s RT approved, it is then tipped straight in the silo with imported grain….which isn’t subjected to any such scrutiny. It’s a complete farce. Given the UK now imports nearly half of its food requirements anyway, and none of that is Red Tractor – well, apart from some being mislabelled as such to con the consumer, but that’s another story- you’ve got to ask why we’re bothering?

Then, a month or so ago, news came out the RT had been having detailed discussions about introducing an extra ‘green’ module, where we’d have to tick eco-boxes to earn some added credentials. The NFU had somehow, apparently, been excluded from this discussion, while the supermarkets representatives were right in the thick of it. Pretty much all of us guessed this ‘optional’ extra would very soon become compulsory, and the signs were that the supermarkets were going to claim our green credentials as their own.
Unsurprisingly, there was outrage. Stung by criticism, the NFU and RT, and Uncle Tom Cobley and all have announced they’re going to investigate, and review what’s going on….although unbelievably, it looks like the reviews are being kept largely ‘in-house’, so they don’t find anything they don’t want to find.
The rows and recriminations within the various worthy bodies are festering away, while seemingly blindly ignoring the basic problem….us peasants don’t really want it any more. It earns us nothing, costs us money, and is a pain in the stern.
I reckon the gig is up. After all, if it completely ceased tomorrow….would anyone see a difference?

 

[Anton Coaker Blog]

COP

It’s with reluctance that we’re going to have to talk about the repellent COP summit this week- it’d be dishonest to look the other way. In short, my problem with the phenomena is this. Those attending, and those believing that ‘someone is doing something’, are deluding themselves, while adding to the problem and masking reality.

Let’s start with the venue. Dubai is pretty much a wholly artificial environment, plonked in a stretch of desert coastline than can sustainably support barely a handful of human beings. Happily, it lies within federation of the UAE, which has copious amounts of fossil fuels lying under its territories. Their economy is pretty much made of oil, and their wealth is stratospheric, albeit kept in very few hands. And one of the things they’ve done with this wealth is to build a monstrous city where it ordinarily couldn’t exist. They haven’t got around to installing a municipal sewage system to some of the shimmering towers, but hey? Who needs that? The façade is helped by facile empty heads who’re drawn like moths to its glitzy trash, helping to support and justify its existence as a ‘destination’ in its own right. Personally, I’d sooner eat worms than go anywhere near the place. Ironically, I’ve greatly enjoyed drifting along with the sand on what deserts I have experienced. But Dubai? No thank you.

News was leaking out before it had even kicked off that several Gulf States were using COP as an opportunity to schmooze foreigners, lubricating oil deals with hospitality amidst the puerile tinsel. This was rather endorsed when COP chairman Sultan Ahmed al-Jaber, himself the big cheese in the Dubai’s state oil concern, tried to deny fossil fuels were causing climate change. This rather flies in the face of the espoused aims of COP itself. Goodness but I wish I could make this stuff up.

Numbers are somewhat hazy, but 84,000 delegates were registered to attend the summit - fossil fuel lobbyists outnumbering any single country’s contingent. And you can be fairly sure precious few arrived on a bicycle, or by camel. No. They flew there, in jet planes burning fossil fuel for all they’re worth. Oh, and please don’t be distracted by news that someone is testing a long haul plane on ‘renewable’ low carbon fuel. The fuel in question includes a bit of waste veg oil- the supply of which is very limited. Mainly it’s made of virgin (ah ha!) vegetable based oil. So, if we want to fly using it, we’d have to take masses of arable land out of food production, but still intensively farm it for aeroplane fuel.

At the same time as COP was kicking off, the mind numbingly wasteful circus of Formula One racing had been in a neighbouring Gulf state, burning eye watering amounts of resources for a bit of fun. I bet anything you like some bright sparks took in both events!

Back to the 84,000. I know one or two. One in particular comes to mind. He goes to every one of these summits, and could be reasonably called a ‘climate change’ professional. Nothing he – or any of them- does is going to change our behaviour, and it has simply become a self-sustaining endless beano. I’m deeply sorry for those who cling to the idea that they’re saving the world, as they’re part of the lie. Simultaneously, I despise the fact that they then go about their normal lives pretending they’re doing their bit.

Sadly, whatever delegates agree, whatever ‘deal’ is thrashed out in the wee hours after hours of compromises…..delegates then have to go home and sell it to the punters back home. And as recent history has shown us, 10 minutes later, a populist politician will come along, and gain power by promising to allow us to carry on mincing baby dolphins for lamp oil..if that’s what voters want. It’s even bleaker than that I’m afraid. I’m a weapons grade cynic about such things now, and have no doubt that-for instance- Boris knew perfectly well that he could make all the promises he liked when he was in power, because it wouldn’t be his problem later. It might’ve made Carrie simper with adoration, but it didn’t fool me for a minute.

Get this straight. Atmospheric CO2 is skyrocketing, and appears to be warming the climate. Burning 350 million year old hydrocarbons – that’s twice as old as the dinosaurs- seems to be the cause. There is no such thing as ‘net zero’ while we keep burning it…indeed, our best efforts just multiply up the problems for our grandchildren.

People who attend these summits, and glibly gush about net zero? They’re lying.

 

[Anton Coaker Blog]

Bums

Sorry to disappoint if you were expecting my thoughts on this week’s publication of the Fursdon Review. I have read it, and am still ..what’s the term? ‘Processing’. Instead, we’re going to hit more lofty heights of cerebral flight, so sit tight.

Living under a rock on a rain sodden hill, it’s largely passed me by that a cadre of young ladies nowadays seek to have bum enlargements. Really, this is a thing, despite it hardly being a secret that later in life, some will be wishing things were heading in the other direction. I understand the process is referred to as a ‘Brazilian Bum Lift’, shortened to a ‘BBL’. Seemingly the idea is that these inflated backsides are more attractive, and will presumably snare the lucky girl a premier league footballer, or that epitome of modern attainment, a reality TV star- and we’ll have to excuse the elastic snapping stretch of the word ‘reality’ here….because the whole business is about as far from reality as you and I know it as could be.

But I suppose, if you must, we’d better dwell on the subject- to see if there’s any intelligent life left down here if nothing else. Spoiler alert….I’m beginning to doubt it. Indeed, a common denominator amongst those pursuing such a goal seems to be markedly low intelligence quotient levels. Ironically, of all the bits of their bodies they want to inflate, brains don’t come into it.

So, what’s it about? Well, despite any claims to the contrary, it is ultimately about attracting a reproductive partner. The presumption is seemingly that a more appealing sire for your offspring will be drawn in by this un-naturally enlarged feature of your physique. Whether he’ll be equipped to materially support the fruit of any union might well be lower on the sub-conscious wish list. Apparently there are various other body parts that need to be accentuated to snag this partner, despite it being pretty obvious that the field will be thinning with every such ‘improvement’. It sure beats me how girls can get drawn into this imaginary world, or indeed that the penny doesn’t drop.

I don’t think you need to be Charles Darwin to work out that humans have managed to successfully reproduce to date without such embellishments. And unless this was somehow achieved by a reluctant nod to a necessary chore, you’ve got to presume that chaps are attracted to gels pretty much as nature makes them- and presumably vice versa. A rational analysis of mere physical attraction would suggest the signs of healthy fecundity would be the baseline. This might be a balance of the appearance of youthful physique, natural feminine characteristics, and openly in some cultures, the carrying of a few spare pounds to help raise such offspring as might arise. We’ll ignore the unhealthy Western fetish for alarmingly stick thin models, which seems to be attractive to those running the fashion industry- but just about nobody else.

It’s as basic as that in the end. Of course, you might conclude that the enhanced bums and boobs et al are just accentuating these natural attractions. Curvaceous figures indicative of feminine traits are one of the key attributes of physical attraction, but I’d guess the moment such embellishments become evident, the needle is heading the other way once more. A bit like make up. If it’s noticeable, then it’s already way too much- to my tired old eyes at least.

While we’re here, it’s certainly true that being ‘fair of face’ gives a clear edge, in this highly competitive field. However I understand that the ethereal quality of ‘beauty’ is best explained as being- as contradictory as it seems- largely ‘average’ within a group. I realise this sounds perverse, but it’s true nonetheless – take a minute consider that. Moving on, we’d better consider on shoes. There is this idea that high heels somehow make a girls figure more attractively feminine. What’s actually going on is that a fairly modest heel gives a girl the appearance of being up on the balls of her feet- ready for fight or flight. From that to the unnatural tottering about on anything higher is another example of ‘less is more’. I admit that I much prefer the natural gait of someone barefoot, or at the very least, in flat shoes.

I realise that all the above will irritate some readers, but it’s just my opinion. And you have to remember that opinions are like backsides- getting back to where we started. Everyone’s got one, it’s just that some are more pleasing to behold than others.

There, and we even managed to avoid gags about keeping inflation under control.

 

[Anton Coaker Blog]

OK. The Fursdon Review (19.12.2023)

Or whatever it’s titled. Eminent worthy David Fursdon – and he’s a thorough, decent and intelligent man- pulled together an esteemed panel, and examined what’s been going on up here, regarding Natural England’s attempts to drive most of the remaining livestock off huge tracts of Dartmoor’s SSSIs.

The 15,400 word result is a weighty tome, which takes a lot of getting through. It covers so much detail that just about anyone can find what they want somewhere. Like others, I’m sorry that David has majored on the unproven peatland restoration fantasy, and has avoided mention of the equally fanciful ‘rewilding’ ideology that’s infested NE. But, critically,

NE do come in for a pretty extensive caning. Even then, their CEO can say- seemingly with a straight face- how much they welcome it, and the suggestion they she gets a lot more staff… Making her desk proportionately bigger. Worse was response from NE’s regional director, who came on the local TV news explaining that the reports of cuts had been greatly overstated, implying his staff were only making some minor tweaks, in one or two pockets. This was a bald faced lie, and I’m hopeful he’ll soon get called to account for such public dishonesty. I’ll let you decide who to believe, because unless several very straight colleagues I’ve known and worked beside for decades, and I are lying, NE have tried to force through 75-90% reductions in the remaining livestock grazing across thousands of acres of the land around me.

I note David considers the high profile public debate around these differences, and our combative attitude, hasn’t been helpful. Fair enough David, but if we hadn’t kicked off- if we’d meekly accepted what was being foisted upon us….well, the review would never have been triggered. But we did kick off, the detailed review was carried out, and we’re now waiting to see what ministers do with it.

Meanwhile, at Chateau Coaker, things continue to unfold. After Alison begged me not to report on what was happening, for fear of reprisals, so too followed a number of ‘entirely coincidental’ challenges from various DEFRA offices. To date, one of the hardest kicks was an accusation about an alleged shortcoming of ours, which instigated a huge penalty. When Alison pointed out the rule being cited simply wasn’t in their rule book, they thanked her for observing this, and said they’d amend that immediately. Meanwhile, she did her best to adhere to their demands, and by the end of the summer they’d repaid the fine, sent us a formal written apology, covered our out of pocket expenses, and a £500 ‘We’re very sorry’ payment.

As it happens, it’s not the Fursdon Review you need to be focussing on at all. It’s a paper released by no less a worthy body, The Royal Society. Just as David was retiring to write up his opus, this in-depth nationwide study was published*. It details what happens to biodiversity on historically grazed upland UK sites, when you take away the livestock.

Because what ensues is that biodiversity falls off a cliff. Apart from a handful of nematode species that then proliferate, everything else- from microorganisms up- collapses. And while you and I might seldom give thought to little bugs you can hardly see, and who do their thing below ground, there are a host of other beings who rely on them…by way of the fact that they eat these tiny critters, in that interconnected manner that links all life.

It’s only a coincidence that I had Oxford Uni’s pre-eminent dung beetle expert visiting last week, and she assures me that Dartmoor, having continually hosted grazing beasts for millennia, also hosts some exceptionally rare dung beetles. Some of them are specific to sheep- who knew dung beetles were so choosy- and require the year round sheep droppings to persist. Put simply, if NE’s plans were followed through, these bugs disappear.

Simultaneously, a leading authority on ground nesting birds on Dartmoor has been studying them for 20 years and more. These are, you’ll recall, the flagship species whose disappearance NE hail as symbols of farmers’ destruction of Dartmoor. This fella is pretty adamant that he can identify their decline very clearly….as NE schemes removed half the stock across Dartmoor in the last 20 years, so too these birds went.

Taken together, this says to me that removing half the livestock has been a disaster, and removing most of the rest would be catastrophic. The law of unintended consequences will destroy the very thing NE claim they’re trying to save.

Extra NE staff sent to Dartmoor? I’d say that’s about the last thing Dartmoor needs.

Cessation of grazing causes biodiversity loss and homogenization of soil food webs

There is widespread concern that cessation of grazing in historically grazed ecosystems is causing biotic homogenization and biodiversity loss. We used 12 montane grassland sites along an 800 km north–south gradient across the UK, to test whether ...

www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov

 

[Anton Coaker Blog]

My Festive Feelings (27.12.2023)

My festive feelings of peace and joy have been somewhat tempered by the extant meteorological conditions. A warming ambivalence to one and all is harder to sustain when yet another morning dawns with raging winds and driving rain. I suppose looking out of the living room window at such things isn’t so difficult, nor perchance planning to go on a brisk walk- bundled suitably up for the conditions. But, take it from me, when your daily responsibilities involve venturing out into it every morning, with several hours physical work exposed to the elements, the novelty wears thin.

Happily, I grant, the mercury stayed mercifully further up the thermometer than it might, and numb hands weren’t added to my trials. That makes things properly grim.

Nonetheless, this last week or two hasn’t been much fun. Never mind the rights and wrongs of whether we should keep livestock up here, my day to day focus has to be on making sure everything is fed, watered, and has what it needs to persist. The weaned calves in the sheds are now onto the lovely hay I made in June. Sounds easy enough doesn’t it? Take the bale to the shed, remove the strings, place the hay in front of the barrier feeders. Jobs a good’un. Yes, it would be, but for some logistical detail. Spreading my bets, the only good hay I made last summer was on off land 15 miles away, to we’re fetching it back steadily as we use it. That fits in with feeding youngstock over there, which we can’t move for TB restrictions, but who’re happy on the 2nd cut silage. Once the June hay is home, I fetch a bale into each building every morning, and feed it out. Regrettably, it is short brittle stuff, which was frying as fast as we could make it in that heatwave. So the moment the strings are off, the bale is falling to bits and armfuls of wispy hay are blowing away down the length of the building- or at least what hasn’t lodged in my eyes en route. If I had to feed this stuff outdoors, I’m not sure what I’d do. It would simply blow away. You might well ask why I don’t ‘close the shed doors’? That will be because if you fully enclose a cattle building up here in the clouds, your calves are very quickly wheezing, full of pneumonia. They’re much healthier with air moving through the building…albeit there’s a bit too much of the blasted stuff moving just now. Whinging farmers eh?

Once the housed cattle are fed- or ‘foddered’ as our Irish cousins sometimes say- I have to venture out away from the yard. Some of the adult cattle are at round feeders, with a round bale dropped in as needed, while others out on the veldt, getting a few chunks of square bale hay out the back of the Landrover. Those within striking distance of the yard are stocked so as they have a bale each day, while the more distant groups have feeders filled so many times a week. The feeders up here are catching gales such as I’ve had to abandon my usual hat, and switch to one that’s nearly glued to my head to stay put. You have to carefully hold the tractor door as it opens, or it’ll get torn away. The roof hatch is tied down, having blown away last year, taking the hinges with it. 2 field gates have been smashed in the last few weeks, caught by the wind at the wrong moment. Trundling out to the cows, I am feeding a couple of groups of ewes that want some extra- although most are finding ample grub by what they’re picking.

Arriving at each feeder, I have to do a quick headcount, as they ladies jostle around. Then squelch through the porridge to de-string/de-net the bale held above the feeder. The soggy dumplings made in the wetter back end of summer ache to collapse on the end of the net, as the hungry cows push you aside to get to breakfast. Bits of bale cord and silage whip your face as you work, and at any moment a cow will accidently stand on your foot- even just the edge of a welly, pinning you to the spot until she deigns to move. And you’ve to constantly keep watch for those upwind of you…because when one raises her tail and arches her back to pee, your troubles have only just begun.

Happily, while I’m largely ambivalent about people, I adore my cows….so by and large I’m deeply content. Festive greetings to you all.​

 

[Anton Coaker Blog]

Feeding Calves

I’d like to say how relaxed and comfortable my life is- really, I wish I could-, but frankly, it’d be a big fat lie. Shorthanded on the farm, and with a busy sawmill, my time is very short. I go out mornings determined to get the yardwork done as smartly as I can, to attend the ever growing list of jobs then needing my attention. If I’m undisturbed, I can remember to pick this bag of nuts for those ewes, and that bale for these calves as I go, to open that gate as I pass so I don’t have to get out of the tractor when I come back. Because if I forget any detail, and start having to go back on myself, my day is soon cooked, and daylight is gone before I’ve got everything seen, fed, and watered.

Matters are complicated by having to winter all the extra youngstock. I’ve never had to hold back all the South Devon steers before. They normally sell like hot cakes straight off the cow- and to be fair, I can see why. Of all the cattle in the buildings, they respond best to a bit of hardfeed. I’ve had to take some advice, never having fed much more than a handful of corn to weaned calves, but these boys- and the surplus SD heifers with which I’m also blessed- really deserve a much higher level of nutrition. Where a kg a day would’ve been a good feed for the hairy urchins off the Galloways, these shiny orange chaps apparently justify starting off at 3 kgs and rising - and it’s already showing. Because we haven’t sorted everything yet, the hirsute Belts and Riggits are also getting more, although so far it’s seemingly just making them grow ever hairier. We’ll see. What I do know to date is that it takes more time to carry 3 kgs a head to 100 weaned calves than 1kg to 60. The bills are somewhat bigger too.

The ration itself is settled after some discussion. We tried a coarse mix, delivered in from one supplier, but after the first driver turned up 2-3 hours early, my eyes glazed over somewhat. Remember I can’t get lorries in, so deliveries have to be unloaded and carried up from the narrow bridges that separate me from polite society. And despite assurances that this mix wouldn’t have much soya, it turned out to have loads. So we’re back collecting the nuts we’ve used for years, from another supplier using more local and less controversial ingredients, plus 30-40% crushed barley from a local pal. I’d add some sugar beet nuts, but can’t be doing with the faff of more bags/bins. Already it’s doing my head in to keep supply collected continually, stored safe, dry, and rodent free.

And in case you’re wondering why my calves need this ‘hard feed’ supplement, when they’d live perfectly well on the hay that makes up most of their diet- albeit growing slower. It’s fashions and fads outside my control. There is a fixation that cattle must be fed harder to grow quicker, although it doesn’t make economic sense in itself. Grazed grass will obviously be the cheapest feed they can get, and the winter supplement of conserved grass-as hay or silage- from our own mowing ground is the logical answer to the lean months. But things get complicated beyond my farm gate.

During the mad cow disease era, where only older cows showed this slow-burn ailment, it was deemed in desperation that anything over 30 months should be incinerated. But as cases disappeared- curiously, soon after some feed companies stopped making animal feeds out of….er…cow brains- this age restriction was slowly lifted. However, the meat industry never quite let go of the age prejudice, and there are still financial penalties if a fat bullock is presented over a given age. Then there’s the cow burp nonsense, where the fossil fuel lobby has convinced everyone that methane from cow burps- which are made of..well.. grass and rainwater- is somehow worse than the copious methane seeping from oil wells and coal mines. Our own industry leaders have allowed this to go unchallenged, and are now talking about additives to feed cattle to lower their burping. Worse, some are suggesting that cattle should be killed younger, so they’ve less time to burp. Seriously, people have bought into this. So I’m effectively being encouraged to feed my calves harder, potentially with soya grown on cleared rainforest, and chugged across the Atlantic on a boat certainly not powered by unicorn farts. And this will save the world.

Don’t cuss me maister…. I didn’t come up with all this.

 

[Anton Coaker Blog]

Godwinson



This week, we’re going to try and follow a rambling train of thought that I’ve returned to this last couple of days. It involves migrants in small boats- so do get ready with a ‘letter to the editor’… they’re very handy to fill another page-, as well as a contender for the ‘all time act of bravery’ award, and one of history’s great putdowns.

But first, a bit of pedantic argument. It irritates some people no end that I refer to myself as being indigenous. I do so a bit light-heartedly, but the fact remains that I’m partly descended from a line that’s been shuffling about the South side of Dartmoor since the local clergy started writing down the names of those hatched, matched, and despatched. Indeed, a bit of rhyming doggerel repeated by a learned local gent puts my forebears here in 1066 – a year we’ll come back to dreckly. But apparently, some people refuse to accept a white European can call themselves indigenous.

Which is curious, because although we tend to apply the term to whoever ‘got here first’, the definition originates from the Latin, more or less meaning "sprung from the land, native". So if you really want to pick away at a sore spot, only a black African, living in Africa, really qualifies for the description. Oh I know there’s the fairly preposterous Chinese theory that they’re different, and no doubt there’s various religious groups will cling to the idea that they’re special too. But anthropology is another science I seasonally graze on, and it’s hard to deny that we all came out of Africa originally. And while there’s certainly descendants of pictsie tribes out in the wild Western fringes, whose ancestors walked across Doggerland before the North Sea rose, most of us descend from migrants arriving in boats.

Famously, the Romans came, stayed 400 years, then gave us up and decamped again. They were followed by waves of new arrivals in open boats- you can’t really call them ‘little’ when some of the Danes arrived sailing 100’ longships. The incoming flow hiccupped along, sometimes a trickle of people who assimilated without troubling history, other times as invading ‘armies’. And that’s where we get to 1066. We all know about William the Conqueror, whose force landed on the South coast, defeated Saxon King Harald’s army, and how poor Harold lost the infamous game of ‘I spy with my little eye something beginning with A’. What gets forgotten is that Harold Godwinson- who’d only been crowned the previous January, came within an ace of being one of our greatest monarchs. Not only had he been chosen by popular decision- admittedly the electorate were a small council of nobles- but that he’d then quickly had to face another invading army when a Norwegian contender –confusingly called Harald- had landed in Tyneside. Remember this was at a time when a determined bloke who could raise enough swords could- and did- seize control of entire countries. And most of these ambitious bandits were closely related.

Harold marched an army North in just 4 days to face the Norwegians. Somewhat annoyingly, amongst the invading force was his turncoat brother, Tostig, with his own men. The forces met near York, where a lone envoy from the English boldly approached the Norwegians. The first order of business was to offer Tostig various rewards if he’d stand his men down. Tostig declined, but asked what could the Norwegian king expect? And in what must’ve been about the coolest retort in the circumstance, the envoy generously suggested words to the effect ‘He can have 6 feet of English soil, or possibly a little more as he’s taller than most men’. This offer evidently didn’t appeal, and as the envoy then coolly returned to the English ranks. The Norwegian asked who that bold man was, to which Tostig had to admit that it had been his brother, the king himself.

My goodness, Harold Godwinson had some bottle. His army set to, utterly defeating the invaders, killing both Tostig and Harald the Norwegian. The English then had to immediately to march South again, hearing news that the long anticipated Norman army had landed on the Sussex coast. This culminated in the fateful encounter with William’s host at Hastings, where King Harold fell, alongside his loyal brothers Gyrth and Leofwine.

It’s right that 1066 is imprinted in the national consciousness as an important year in English history- not least because it was a year in which we had 3 separate kings. But we tend to gloss over Harald Godwinson’s singular courage and leadership, so tonight, I’m going to raise a glass of something warming to his memory.

 

[Anton Coaker Blog]

indulgence

There’s an extraordinary thing currently going on in the English countryside, if you’re wearing the right specs to see it. As you’ll no doubt have noticed, we left the EU a while ago, including leaving their farm support payment system. Westminster promised to keep up the same level of support…or at least until the next election. They then announced that post Brexit farm payments would be based on delivery of ‘public goods’, which means environmental stuff. And that all sounds sensible enough doesn’t it? It must be a good plan, having the fizzing intellect of Michael Gove behind it.
Well, several years late, the grand plan is still being developed…at the same time as it’s supposedly being delivered. And it’s little less than a fiasco. Some people –curiously not always the working farmers- are scooping up huge sums for doing nothing, while others can’t get diddly from it. It’s pretty unappealing to me, as I’m already loaded with wildlife, pretty flowers and the like, so there’s not much to be ‘gained’. Indeed, I have a clear incentive to bulldoze broad acres of land so as to then have some ‘environmental improvement’ to make.
Those with an easy gain are arable farmers, who have wickedly ploughed up their fields all these years….dastardly rascals that they are. Complex schemes abound where they can plant wildflower mixes, trees, leave fields fallow, block the drains that allowed them to plough the fields in the first place. Anything, in fact, but grow actual crops. And in that typical Whitehall manner, when ‘take-up’ was languishing somewhat below the promised universal adoption, DEFRA threw ever more money into these schemes. Unsurprisingly, some schemes are now very attractive, to which we’ll come back in a moment.
The whole loved up ‘isn’t nature wonderful’ thing is vast now, fuelled by the guilt most of us feel for trashing the face of thiswobbly ball of molten rock we fly through space. People want to rewild whole landscapes, flood drained places, plant new forests of pointless trees. Money is changing hands to create new wildlife areas to mitigate what that new supermarket car park destroyed. The trees are locking up carbon …so that’ll fix global warming. You know the stuff. Fill yer boots lads, the gravy train is up and running.
Coupled to that, outside investment is buying up land, at every level from individuals buying a field, to corporations buying whole estates, expressly to do this nature stuff. And by golly I wish I knew half as much as they think they know.
And here’s the thing. Go back to the ordinary farmers, and their old EU subsidies. We used to get this basic area based payment, irrespective of how much actual farming we did. Rightly or wrongly. And what almost every single one of us did was carry on farming, using the EU payments to prop up otherwise unprofitable production.
That’s rapidly disappearing now as the old scheme is run down. And under the new schemes, there’s clear financial incentives not to ‘farm’ at all. With very slim margins, and miles of waterlogged fields of ruined winter wheat that failed to survive, being paid a guaranteed income to plant some wildflowers next spring has suddenly become rather attractive. Farmers face endless risks and problems trying to farm, when they can now simply throw it in, and take the money. Lucky tenants will be encouraged into this by their landlords, those less lucky are already being unceremoniously be dumped….. so owners can cash in themselves.
DEFRA are surely already gearing up to crow about the unprecedented success of their much vaunted new plans. And if you can’t see the pebbles trickling at the top of the scree slope, you’re not wearing the specs I mentioned earlier. Because we’re on the cusp of a national disaster, as the UKs farming industry is deliberately run down.
Potentially, in the medium term, skillsets will start to evaporate, infrastructure will go, family labour will diversify. Farm layouts will be neglected to follow alternative businesses. In the long term, it will take real investment---very serious investment- to grub the stupid trees out, re-drain all the marshy rubbish, and train up a new generation. You may have noticed I’ve omitted the short-term. Because the unpredictably timed short term effect that concerns me will be more or less instant. And it’ll come as a hideous shock.
The winding down of our food producing industry is an indulgence we cannot afford. It doesn’t bother me personally -I’ve got survival instincts that’d shame a sewer rat, and see 68 million souls merely as so many calories in a crisis.
But you’d think it’d concern them.

 

[Anton Coaker Blog]

Soil ……. not

I was going to write about soil this week, but my attention is somewhat distracted. Things all started going South last spring, when you might recall I had to calve a particularly grumpy Galloway heifer. We’d put her with the South Devon bull, already suspicious she had behavioural difficulties, and not wanting purebred progeny. This was a chancy coupling, but she’d already tested my patience. And with an inevitability that you could put money on, the only Galloway that needed calving was this spiky little soul. A deep brick red in colour, a good doer, and as neatly put together as you please, she had much in her favour. If she’d calmed down, she could’ve had a long and happy career. But her personality really wasn’t what I want in my life. As I recounted at the time, it was a simple enough calving, but within seconds, she leapt up with evil in her eye, and attempted to grind me into a wall. This behaviour won’t be tolerated, so she had the harshest treatment of all….she was put away to rich pastures far from the moorland peat – ah ha! See, it is about soil! And much as this made her glow with a shine to her coat, and raiseher calf to be a thumping great lump of a thing…it also meant she was far from the bulls. And while she mightn’t have realised it, that was to be her ticket out of here.
Through the summer, she managed to partially infect a large bunch of yearlings with her nonsense, then returned home in the autumn so her calf could be weaned…he’s a real beaut, and as quiet as a lamb. I dropped her in a group coming to a trough beside their round feeder, getting a few scoops of barley to hang some finish on em. And this morning was her day. Alison has a list of folk wanting some beef, and a once calved heifer of this ilk is considered to be some of the finest. So before dawn, I fetched her in, and loaded her in the trailer. There, simple as that. Only of course it wasn’t. I’d had to spend some happy time in the chute with her last night as it was getting dimpsy, trimming some clinkers off her hairy undercarriage. This didn’t overly excite her, so I reckoned we’d be OK this morning. But she was being especially wooden, and even with a dopey chum, wouldn’t load. She’d looked to jump over the rails, but I’d seen that coming and deflected her attention. She’d managed to kick me a couple of times, without really connecting, and I was patiently keeping my cool. But eventually my attention slipped, and she managed to really sock me in the right knee, sideways on… bending the joint in a direction it evidently wasn’t meant to go. Waves of pain swept over me, almost bearing me down. I regret to admit that some profanity was invoked. But I so wasnot having this nonsense. So as she turned to put her head down at me, I used a handy old stockman’s trick- involving a seasoned hazel stick- to dump a load of endorphins into her system. Almost instantly, she calmed down, and walked easily down the chute with her mate, and on up the ramp. It took a minute or two to extract her pal from the trailer, leaving her in there alone. Paperwork already prepped and to hand, I smartly shut the ramp and got rolling, for the moment the vehicle’s in motion they quickly settle.
Arriving at her final destination, I was enjoying large economy size amounts of pain, and getting nauseous, but backed up to their chute as my turn came. As it happened, before me in the queue was a pal who knew the score, and he kindly came back to help me get her in the door- she penned with his much quieter heifer without histrionics. Hobbling round the side to find the staff, I met with the fella whose been receiving and dealing with my cattle for decades- indeed, before this job, he’d been droving my stock elsewhere since we both left skool. I put my hand on his arm, explained he’d need to watch himself, and asked that he permanently cure her of these behavioural problems.
So while we haven’t learnt much about soil today- we’ll revisit it another time- I’ve been able to do some trials on the analgesic properties of a very elegant single malt. And rest assured, I’m very much looking forward to the bit of steak that Alison fetches me home when she’s on a beef run.

 

[Anton Coaker Blog]

Earth

OK. As promised, …earth. Dirt. It’s what we walk upon. It’s the thing we ‘dig’, and call ‘mother’. We even name our planet for it- even though it would be a lot more accurate to call our planet ‘Water’. We can be ‘down to it’, or ‘the salt of it’. Farmers might be ‘Sons of the soil’, and the object of our earthly –ah ha!- desires might well be ‘100lbs of clay’.
Wars are fought over it. Indeed, it usually underlies any conflict. Whether it’s the rich grazing for the tribe’s goats, or its grain growing potential, or whose ancestors worshipped what sacred rock sticking out of it. Or now, what richness of fossil fuels lie under it. Then, whose blood has already been shed over it can obligingly perpetuate human strife indefinitely. We pace a very high value on the earth beneath our feet.
And rightly so, because it is everything to us. It’s what we’ve sprung from. We might’ve originated doing the breaststroke in some primordial soup, but it was when we crawled up the metaphoric beach that things started to happen.
Now I’ll admit I only vaguely know about its various technical constituents. There’s mineral stuff from the rock substrata, and if they’re mostly ‘fines’, it’ll be clay, but if the grains are bigger, it’s sandy. My best fields have a medium ‘decomposed granite’ base. Then there’s all the bits of previous generations of plant and animal material- organic matter. If the ground is waterlogged, the substrata acidic, and the plant material doesn’t decompose, it sometimes builds up as peat, which can accumulate to the extent that it has effectively no mineral content at all. People get very excited about peat, because if you say it’s damaged, and then that you’ve restored it, you can pat yourself on the back and carry on burning fossil fuels. Curiously, no-one’s asking how it accumulated in the first place, without these terraforming wizards help it. But then, no-one likes to ask themselves some questions.
And then, in the richest loam, there’s a huge percentage of tiny organisms. Healthy topsoil is very much alive, full of wee wiggly things, down to really tiny little ones, that apparently form the greater volume of life on earth. And combined with a good balance of the former …it’s pretty close to magic.
The quality of cattle, crops, or oak trunks off better- or poorer-soil varies to an extent you can hardly imagine. Farmers and foresters learn this of course, but to someone inexperienced, it’s hard to grasp the breadth of the difference. I know of a shrewd farmer who, decades ago, bought farms based on nought but the quality of the oaks growing in the hedgerows. And nothing is cheaper and easier than scratching some seed into the dirt, and letting the sun and the rain combine, work their photosynthesis magic to grow plants we can eat- either directly or via grass munching coos and sheep. It’s how we’re feeding the unbelievable and unprecedented 8 billion hive of human beings we’ve created.
And where I was going with this rambling train of thought is that, aged and experienced as I am, I freely admit that I’ve barely started learning about it, and how we’ve historically worked with it. I sometimes seek the wisdom of rural sages, or go looking for evidence to try and understand. It was only in the drought 2 years ago that I really noticed another benefit in one of the ancient scraps of residual ridge and furrow hard landscaping still evident here. As well as encouraging an early bite on the ridge- which allows winter’s rain to sit in the bottom of the furrow, these prehistoric features also then somehow hold that moisture long after the rains have gone. After 10 weeks without precipitation, and dead brown grass everywhere else, the bottoms of the furrows were then still growing green.
Similarly, elsewhere I’ve seen- and likewise struggled to fully understand- ‘dew ponds’. Dug ¾ of the way up chalk downland slopes, far above the spring lines, these ponds would always seem to inexplicably have some water in them, allowing cattle to be depastured on the Downs without modern plastic pipes and pumps. Some of them are thousands of years old, like that on Maiden Castle in Dorset. And afterdecades, I’m beginning to see how they must work. Through the evening, cooling air slides off the slope above them, condensing what scant moisture present as it’s briefly held by the bank of these ponds. Seemingly, they’re trapping a ‘sediment’ of water from the night air. Wow!
Golly there’s so much to learn and unravel, but so little time eh?