The Anton Coaker column thread

[Anton Coaker Blog]

Tragic Events

I can’t really duck out from mention of the tragic events in Plymouth last week. There’s not much more that can be said about sympathy we all feel for the families touched by this awful business…how could any of us imagine what it’s like to lose loved ones in such circumstances? We can’t, we can only acknowledge the depth of loss that those involved must feel.
I’m somewhat conflicted about the apparent business with the perpetrators shotgun licence. I’m surprised the law hadn’t previously picked up his apparent ‘issues’ from the social media posts being widely quoted. Whether they should go looking for such things upon an initial application is one thing. But when someone has a licence withdrawn or suspended subject to some problem, I would’ve imagined a closer look would’ve been taken before it and the gun was returned. Someone suggested to me it’s a privacy matter, but I’d presume you forfeit the right to a certain degree of such personal rights if you want to hold a firearm or shotgun. And while I can imagine some of us feeling a bit uncomfortable with the idea of someone painstakingly crawling through our entire on-line presence – which is sure to employ legions of extra staff- I would rather hope they’d recognise the difference between the puerile or distasteful, and the downright unsettling and deranged. I’m none too sure how it goes if someone deliberately covers their digital tracks, because that would be a very different task. And it’s a reasonable bet that someone with something to hide wouldthen do just that.
I don’t know. It’s easy in hindsight. I have no small degree of empathy for one or two individuals who must’ve been responsible for taking the critical decisions in respect of this case. They may very well have been following the guidelines to the letter, but will undoubtedly have to carry a very heavy burden for ever more now.
And then, of course, the wide and varied lobby working against private gun ownership will pile in on the actions of one evidently very sick man, to further their cause. I live and work in an environment where firearms and shotguns are often simply tools of the trade of various professionals. When- as can happen- a cow breaks a leg out on the rough, or a rogue fox develops a taste for my newborn lambs, I need someone to be able to despatch each with efficiency and surety. And the law already have a strict overview into, and control of, who possesses and carries what weapons- current mistakes notwithstanding. So I’m hesitant to see the kneejerk reaction that will inevitably be called for.
Ironically, some operatives within the forces of law and order privately concede that there are large numbers of illegal firearms in circulation in urban centres. By definition the owners of these don’t have to go through much of a screening process or background checks. But this tragedy involved a legally held weapon, so that is where the focus will surely settle.
Another aspect that will undoubtedly come under scrutiny is the on-line community this man seems to have been involved in. I’ve considered for some time that the internet and social media platforms have changed the nature of human interaction in ways we’ve hardly grasped yet. Like the anti-vaxxers, animal rights loons or climate change deniers, all kinds of nutters and extremists who can now search out likeminded twits online, exchange and recycle dis-information, and create a self-feeding cycle of egging one another on. By this means all manner of weird ideas can achieve an impetus, and lost souls find themselves thinking their mad ideas are normal and acceptable. Think about it- formerly, a young man with misguided ideas might voice them to his co-workers/sports team mates, or just fellow drinkers in the local bar….and would have probably got set straight pretty quickly. It’s a small but quite important part of how a society works. But things changed with the web, and we haven’t really worked out just how much yet. The terrible events in Plymouth last week might partially be blamed on the phenomena, and I suspect all kinds of extremist and single minded behaviour is being allowed to germinate where it would otherwise wither. There have always been such people, but it’s much easier for them to find each other now.
Perhaps someone should be scratching their heads what else this means. How do we tackle the strange directions that such people get taken off into? Indeed, what other bizarre concepts have found traction within the long straggling tendrils of online groups?
Anyway, my sympathies lie with the poor families blighted by this hideous affair.

 

[Anton Coaker Blog]

Forest Management

As a glimpse into what is wrong with human society, I’m going to bore you rigid with some forestry stuff. It’s pretty complex, so stick with me while I give it my best shot.
When trees grow in a natural forest, they’re often packed in tightly as saplings – perchance after a wildfire has created a clear patch, allowing light to reach the seed reserve. I once visited an area in the vast interior of Canada, which had burnt maybe 1-2 years previously. Conifer saplings were sprouting out of every available crack in the rocks, wedged in so tight they grew like grass. This forces the most vigorous individuals to reach up for the light, steadily suppressing their siblings. As they push upwards, any lower branches quickly wither away, eventually leading to a mature forest -of far fewer trees-, but each with a long clear trunk free of defects. This is obviously highly desirable to a sawmiller.
If you’re growing a crop of trees for timber production, as we have for some centuries in Europe, you can fake this process. Firstly, by planting at very tight spacings, thinning out the surplus as the plantation grows, then later by ‘high pruning’ further branches which might spoil your crop. Coupled to further progressive thinnings, where you selectively remove the lesser trees, allowing the selected final crop specimens more light, critically gaining much greater girth, and far higher value.
It is a highly skilled profession, rarely carried out well. Few landed estates manage to achieve the best results, never mind individual farming families. But financial results can be significant.
To put things in perspective, I want you to imagine 3 identical plantations, each ready to fell but having enjoyed 3 differing regimes. The first hasn’t been managed at all. It has 2000 scrawny trees of a low grade- many fit only for firewood. After felling and extraction, their net worth is £20 each. So the owner, after decades of investment, has at last realised £40,000
The second plantation has been arbitrarily thinned a couple of times, which yielded a few hundred pounds along the way and payed the lads wages to do so, but is now left 1500 trees of a better size. They’re worth £40 each after harvesting expenses… IE £60k net.
The third plantation has been carefully managed throughout, at some cost. The 4 or 5 thinning operations initially raised little revenue, but have latterly been yielding middle sized stems of some value. The owner has been able to recoup most management costs along the way. His final crop is only 1000 trees, but each is significantly bigger than it would have been, and of a very high grade. The net value is £150 per tree….. totalling £150,000.
Compare those scenarios – which obviously mask a myriad of variables and nuances, but would be quite representative.
Now consider the work of German forester Martin Faustmann– not the fella who made the deal with the devil, but the one who worked out in 1849 that you have to account for the interest on your land asset and expenses over the whole life of your planting. His stark economic model led to many foresters abandoning growing quality hardwoods, as lower value softwoods were marketable much quicker…potentially giving a better return.
Sadly, the same economic model can also then be applied to most sound forestry practises. It is very hard to justify the labour input of high-pruning a plantation which mightn’t come to fruition for many decades. The interest on that input might negate any increase in value. And this is where it gets tricky.
In the examples shown above, and in Faustmann’s rationale, each plantation is valued as a single entity. Of course, in reality, many well wooded estates would have a spread of ages within the forests, so while they’re spending money tending a juvenile planting in one compartment, they’re cashing in elsewhere, felling timber that was given this tender care in years past. Taken as a whole, such careful management is often a no-brainer.
Sadly, the growing of timber is spread over decades-often lifetimes- and the attention to such detail is subject to variable levels of management. It’s not uncommon for a careless owner to permit some smooth talking management spivs, or cowboy operatives, to come in and cash in on all the good work, while omitting to spend what should be spent to maintain the level of husbandry. It’s often all about selfish ‘jam today’.
It’s a sorry symptom of the way humans think. The rationale - and regrettable downsides- are more or less exactly transferable to any aspect of our lives, up to and including how we manage our entire planet.
Hey ho.

 

[Anton Coaker Blog]

Beavering Away


Oh all right then. Beavers. Wretched gnawing grubbing damming beavers. You have to understand I’ve got no problem with the furry critters themselves. And I am talking about the semi-aquatic mammals here….so put aside the naughty euphemisms. They, beavers, only want to do what nature drives them to do. My problem is that it quite obviously clashes with what we are driven to do- which is pretty much the same. We both want to procreate, and adjust the landscape to suit the needs of subsequent dependant descendants.
Some few of us accept the reality of this blind drive, and do our bit to facilitate it. Many remain in blissful ignorance, simply bonking away to fill the world with yet more hungry mouths –which are inevitably attached to equally driven bodies. A third sub-group of homo-sapiens recognise there’s a problem, but can’t face the awful depth of it. Instead they’re clinging to various flimsy pretences that they yearn to believe will provide salvation. And it is in this last category that you will find arch fantasist head of Natural England, Tony Juniper and his pathetic fellow travellers.
The facile dreamers peddle an array of associated hobby horses – planting a few rowan bushes here to counter, say, the cavernous pits being messily dug fromhundreds of square miles of Canada’s Athabasca Tar Sands, or perhaps re-wetting Dartmoors peatbogs so they can pretend it’s OK to nip over to a Mediterranean beach on a cheap SleazyJet….you know the style of thing.
In truth, they might as well be painting a mural of a unicorn under a rainbow on the oil refinery fence for all the good they’re doing.
In the specific case of beavers, the idea is that they’ll create glorious wetlands with their dams, which will apparently provide limitless benefits to everyone. The flipside is scarcely mentioned, which is a shame. Because if their proponents were prepared to talk about the downsides, then we could have a grown-up talk about how our landscape is managed. Instead, we’ve reached a point now where the head of NE – the government body who might have useful things to say about such things – is our dreary pal Juniper, who avoids mention of the real issues, to instead tinker at the edges.
Now I accept that he can’t turn the juggernaut of human behaviour around. No-one can. But his puerile fluff is worse than saying nothing, with the actions he advocatesmerely validating our continued behaviour. His is the face of excuses for human driven destruction.
His precious beavers, should they proliferate, will indeed build dams and create ‘wetlands’. The problem is that we’re already using this land for other things. He seems to think that flooding dry land can only be a good thing.
But that’s not what I see. In rural landscapes, perfectly good land will be rendered useless by beavers – as is manifestly shown in Scotland, around an early release site. One poor farmer has already lost hundreds of acres of formerly very productive cropland. Likewise, land growing commercial timber crops will be ruined, leaving scrubby willow which Tony will no doubt love. Sadly, the tonnage of timber notproduced will have to be grown and felled elsewhere, and shipped to the UK at great environmental expense. The corn and tatties that is no longer grown will be substituted by produce from….well….I understand the Brazilians are keen to clear some more tropical forest to supply us.
The idea is that the beavers will be heavily protected, and such few individuals as are deemed to be a nuisance will simply be trapped, and released elsewhere*. I suppose awhole army of ‘Environmental Studies’ graduates will gain employment to do this pointless work – which is especially upsetting when there’s tens of thousands of jobs that actually need filling, doing work that really is vital for a society of 67 million to function. ‘Beaver relocators’ could do useful work, but driving an articulated HGV tipper wagon of fish guts from a processing plant, or perchance repointing a crumbling Victorian sewer main, isn’t quite as glamorous for the poor likkle bunnies. We’ll have to go on trying to get poor migrants to do such work, to allow a generation of dreamers their fantasy.
*There’s scant mention of where they’ll release the problem beavers, or who has the right to impose them on anyone else. We’d better gloss over that bit.
It’s irresponsible fantasy, in a densely populated country like this, to pretend that we can put such a stupid sticking plaster over what we do, and that it’ll make everything better. It’s also a deep insult to those of us who manage rural land to say Tony and his pathetic acolytes know better.

 

[Anton Coaker Blog]

Combines roll

This time of years always reminds me what we really are, and how we exist. When I see harvest reports coming in, or go out and about and see a combine toiling away, raising a column of dust as it hoovers up tonnes of grain, or when I see fields of stubble where the cereal crop has been cut and put to bed in a jiffy, I’m humbled. I’m humbled that all the rest of our scurrying furtive doings rely on this masterpiece of civilisation. Hundreds of millions of us can do other things- fight, make peace, invent better mousetraps, fly to the moon, be furloughed, or whine about climate change - only, and absolutely only, because a relative handful of people know how to grow and harvest cereals on such an epic scale. While some might look at a video of a huge modern combine cutting a sea of wheat and see an exciting big machine, or perchance they perceive an ecological desert, I see the distillation of human endeavour and existence- for good or ill. One man, and maybe his pal running the loaded trailersback to the yard, feeding thousands who don’t even know his name.
So you can probably imagine what I might think of the rich and famous who’re buying perfectly good farmland just so they can ‘rewild’ it, sanctimoniously braying that they’re going to save the planet. I tend not to say it out loud, as I accept that not everyone sees things as I do, but my contempt for them is quite simply huge. If, in their ignorance, they want to cause the breakdown of a little bit of human culture, and the inevitable starvation of someone poor, far away, who am I to care. The chasm between their scant understanding of how the machine ticks, and their pampered existence, is beyond meeting or mending.
Some of them – they generally think they know it all-will glibly trot out the statistics about there being ample food – scarcely grasping what a feat that represents- and assure everyone how we can easily leave more land for nature. The fact that about 4/5ths of the world’s harvest grows in areas dangerously prone to droughts, floods and sudden heatwaves doesn’t seem to worry them. Indeed, consider that truly sobering Canadian heatwave in June…it spilled into tillage land as well as forest country, and fried large tracts of crop. Our woke friends might also be patting themselves on the back for being able to use the new E10 fuel in their hybrid car, forgetting what makes the ethanol in it. For that too is cereal based, relying on our arable heroes.
They’re likely lapping up plaintive calls this week for more hedgerows, to allow the birdies to twitter once more. ‘Wicked farmers ripped them out you know…..nasty people that they are’.
Because I know you find some amusement in my clunky number crunching, here is what a mile of hedge actually costs. A mile of neatly maintained hedge, 2 meters wide, and pushing cropped land a further meter back on each side, has a footprint of a bit over an acre and a half. It might otherwise be expected, with decent agronomy and a fair year, to yield over 4 tonnes of grain. Enough to feed a couple of householdsvery well - perhaps 8 or 10 souls. Furthermore, this mile of metaphoric new hedge also requires several hours of a tractor flailing it back each year to keep it under control. Of course, the luvvies might wish us to stop burning diesel trimming these hedges back each year….. we should leave them to grow up, which would sequester more carbon and provide more habitat, they’ll bleat.
And in their happy world, I’m sure that would be fine. Unfortunately, in reality every foot this hedge grows up is matched by the cropped area being pushed further back. Left unchecked for 3-4 years and the lost crop is maybe doubled. Trees will grow beyond flailing, undoubtedly making some people feel warm and cuddly inside – indeed, you all know I’m very happy to talk about trees as a managed crop. But, their unrestrained growth on a hedge leads to the endless task of someone going round and hacking off low hanging limbs. It may come as a terrible surprise to the merry eco-luvvies- that few farmers wish to mangle their £250,000 combine on an overhanging oak branch.
So, to return to the beginning…..what are we? We’re ignorant. Woefully ignorant that billions of us exist as we do only due to our collective consummate subjugation of nature. And demonising the farmers who do the work for you is a gross hypocrisy.

 

[Anton Coaker Blog]

Bank rates


What’s interesting me this week? Well, a lot of things as ever, but uninterestingly… er, once more mostly interest rates, or the miraculous lack of them. Somehow, and I have no idea how it is being kept so calm, bank rates are still being held low. The counterpoint is inflation, which has officially crept quietly up to 3% as of this morning. This itself must surely trigger an interest rise, but more to the point, the 3% doesn’t exactly reflect ‘user experience’. I suppose, as someone pointed out, if you measure inflation by a notional basket of goods, you can simply ensure the basket contains the right things. After all, I don’t suppose the price of flint axes, 4 horse chariot wheel bearings, or togas- to take some examples- has risen much of late. However, when I popped into the local trading estate the other day for a selection of sundries on my peasant shopping list, it seemed to my tired old eyes that price tags had more or less doubled on what I was expecting. Most of the things I buy in, for my various furtive business dealings, along with many of the things I then manage to sell, have risen by 20-100% on the year. Comfortably and demonstrably. Ironically, about the only thing I can think of that hasn’t slipped up is both credit and debit –rather confusingly, I’m often simultaneously lending similar amounts to that which I borrow. Perhaps the Bank of England measure inflation, and determine interest rates, based on……well, by interest rates themselves. ‘Hmm’, said Tintin, ‘that can’t be right, can it?’
Obviously, this stasis can’t be maintained. I understand the standard tool to curb runaway inflation is to raise interest rates, although my foggy brain isn’t altogether sure exactly how such things can be relied on. The next question is ‘what happens when rates rise?’ Because Ooogle-google obligingly tells me this morning that personal debt in the UK is running at about £32,000 per adult, or £62k per household. When you consider that not everyone is in debt, this suggests an awful lot of people- tens of millions- go to beddy byes night-times owing six figures. And that’s OK, as long as it’s on the house their sleeping in, which has a steady value considerably higher than the mortgage. And I rather suspect that isn’t always the case, and relies on a stable housing market. Unfortunately, this isn’t the end of it, because the government have somewhat questionably run up even higher levels of debt. That, the internet informs me, is more like £32,000 per person, man woman or child…..twice that of personal debt. And to whom will the government turn when they have over borrowed?
I’m clearly no Square Mile financial guru. My idea of ‘hedge funds’ is centred more on whether or not we can spare the lads to spend a fortnight steeping some hazel growth this winter. But the above all suggests to me that there are some very choppy seas upon us, very choppy indeed Cap’n.
Still, I’m sure Boris knows what he’s doing.
Onwards then. There is something else irritating me – a lot of things irritate me, which is why I’m so happy to spend my time amongst my quietly cudding bovines. They are so much nicer than people. See, also in the news are government plans to address farming’s lack of action to curb greenhouse gas releases and climate change. This undoubtedly includes the spurious and completely unfounded presumption that methane from cows is a problem- which, as the basic chemistry of cow burps shows, is a complete lie. They’re part of a pre-existing natural and, crucially, short cycle. But nonetheless, every man and his dog demonise the poor old cow. From Boris and his current wife, to NGO’s who fly round the world to plead for an end to climate changeand facile celebrities bleating away..the lot of them, keep saying how wicked livestock farmers are.
And here’s the thing. I heard this as I was going out the other morning, leaving Chateau Coaker under the care of a couple of lads of a rural bent. Their allotted task for the day was to gather some sheep of unfertilised untilled moorland, and sort them ready for sale a few days later. Some replacement ewe lambs were to be selected and sheared, and the ewes given a once over for the coming breeding season. They did this on foot, with dog and stick. No carbon was emitted.
But should these lads turn on the news, they’ll hear the aforementioned poison being continually dripped on what they do.
What a wicked way to treat people…..telling lies about blameless youngsters, to mask your own sins.

 

[Anton Coaker Blog]

Bruce Webb

I must thank my new friend Prof Bruce Webb, for challenging my assertions regarding methane contained in cow burps, and how worries about its effect on climate change are a gross red herring. Being a very clever academic, he’s challenged my scientific grasp of matters, suggesting I might’ve got my dodgy facts from the back of a cereal packet or somesuch.

Well, my understanding of cow burps and their wider effects are based on a bit of basic chemistry research on that wonder of the age- the internet, observation, and some straight line logic. But mostly, I worked it out for myself Bruce. Let’s take it in baby steps, and see where I’m wrong shall we?
Cow burps do indeed contain methane, which is apparently a very potent greenhouse gas. I don’t know what else is in em, cos they smell absolutely delicious, and as they only burp up ‘cud’ when they’re relaxed, it’s inevitably associated for me with a deep feeling that all is well with the world. But I digress.
As for this methane….I’ve been curious about what it’s made of, and where my cows get the ingredients? And oogle-google tells me that methane is made of 4 parts hydrogen and 1 part carbon –just like natural gas, the supply of which is so much in the news this week. The key difference is that one type has laid underground for hundreds of millions of years old, while the other the cows make from ingredients obtained in grass and other plant matter, and rainwater- which are more or less what my cows are made of. And both grass and rainwater have short, identifiable cycleshereabouts, however much you want to dispute this. I didn’t bother researching it - Ijust looked out the metaphoric window, and I’d love you to show me how I’ve got it wrong.
OK. So the carbon element in this methane must have been from the grass, which in turn had obligingly recently taken it out of the sky in the form of CO2, using summatcalled photosynthesis – again, I didn’t research that Bruce, I remembered it from skool. The plants obligingly release leftover oxygen.
The hydrogen element must, I’m guessing, come from water, whether it’s being drunk, or is contained in the wet soggy grass prevalent hereabouts. I suppose there’s a bit of hydrogen in the air the cows breathe, but it’s so little - 0.00005% - I’d be inclined to think it’s the former.
Now I have to revert to oogle-google once more, where I’ve learned that once expelled into the atmosphere, this burpy methane floats about, until apparently it’s broken down naturally somehow – I’m none too clear on exactly how this works, but seemingly, lots of better minds than mine are also a bit woolly on it. Critically, it’s back into its component forms again in something like a decade. Timescale estimatesvary a bit, presumably as molecules of individual cow burp don’t generally send postcards back to say when they’re feeling a bit ‘fally apart’.
They key thing is that methane is very short lived in the atmosphere, and seeing as the number of domestic cows is fairly static, cow burp methane can’t really be changing much. Indeed, it can’t be much different today than it was 10 years ago, or 100 years ago. This is unlike CO2 -and various pollutants from using fossil fuels- some of which will be floating about the atmosphere for many decades- centuries even- and which are currently being released in quite shockingly large volumes. And as we’ve noted, they formerly lay safe underground for hundreds of millions of years. Say thatnumber again for me. Say it aloud … ‘Hundreds of millions of years’. And the minute there’s a glitch in supply, Boris is squirming under questions about it. But you’re worried about my cow’s burps.
Onwards then. I’ve used the phrase ‘pre-existing’ to describe the cycle of elements within cow burps. Before homo-sapiens came along and domesticated ruminants, their wild predecessors were doing much the same…eating grass and burping. Further back, as we marched out from Africa, we found great herds of even bigger ruminants,grazing vast areas of the world. No-one really knows how many mega-fauna we ate or displaced, but it’s pretty clear there were lots of big hairy things burping happily away before we came along. All me and mine have done is redirect and manage that natural cycle for our own benefit.
I realise that a lot of what I say irritates you Bruce, especially as elsewhere I’ve criticised elements of various projects your precious University is industriously engaged in. But I’m not sure how you can change the nature of cow burps.

 

[Anton Coaker Blog]

Fuel Panic……. Don’t Panic

Fuel shortages? Perception is-as ever- the effective reality. So, never mind the impending zombie apocalypse…the beggars are already here.
And did I hear that right? With scarcely a trace of irony, we’re told ‘Essential workers’ will need to have first dibs on the last few meagre litres of petrol in the country. And as you and I have noticed before, ‘Essential Workers’ are nurses and firemen and the like, but apparently not tanker drivers. In fact, if you look the list up, it’s all kinds of safely salaried State employees. I’m always tickled that it doesn’t include sewer workers, slaughter men or fellmongers, fruit and vegetable pickers, jobbing plumbers or sparkies. Nor indeed, personnel trained to safely pilot 40 tonne tankers carrying go-go juice.
Yet such people are all just as essential for society to function. Indeed, unless you’re sick, or your house is on fire* you don’t need some of them at all. Whereas there are plenty of trades which we all need every single day. As we saw only last year, during the infamous ‘Bogroll wars’, the minute there’s the least hiccup, and supermarkets can’t keep shelves stocked, the world goes mad.
*I’m less vexed about the need for Trumpton, since their fire engines developed a bit of middle aged spread, and can no longer fit over the narrow bridges to Chateau Coaker. Should my abode catch fire now, it’ll burn merrily to the ground if I can’t make it out myself.
It’s a pity HM Opposition are busy flagellating themselves in Brighton. Because thereare some difficult questions to be asked of the Home Secretary. Government shouldhave been well aware of the fragility of staffing in vital infrastructure, and been preventing such hiccups. It’s happened several times, where industrial action or tax protests by a relative handful of people cause a self-feeding crisis. As I recall, a fewstriking Scottish refinery workers discovered they could bring the country to a halt in about 3 days flat. Studies were commissioned, and subsequent findings presented, outlining the issues. Presumably, if you knew which filing cabinet to rummage in, you could probably find dusty documents which warned of exactly this scenario.
Further, although I’m not any kind of conspiracy theorist –I’m generally an ardent believer in ‘Cock-up’ theorem- but I’ve been thinking. As the November COP26 Climate Change conference gets closer, and Boris tries his hardest to show a shiny green face to the world, we suddenly have a gas shortage clouting people and companies over the head with whacking great price rises. Then a perceived glitch in petrol deliveries showing up our feeble reliance on a ready supply of motion-lotion, and suddenly the sky is falling. It’s enough to make me wonder if someone isn’tpulling some strings to remind us- before leaders get carried away in Glasgow- how much we still absolutely rely on fossil fuels. Certainly, if I had a few million riding on it, I’d be thinking how I could focus minds.
Just a thought, eh?
And finally, I must briefly thank Professor Bruce once more. Still exercised about cow burps, he’s obligingly shown us how the number of cows in the UK is currently just about the median for the last 150 years. Likewise, he brings to our attention estimates of the historic numbers of bison in North America, which, taken with other wild ruminants now displaced, are weirdly similar to the number of cows that have more or less replaced them. Cheers for that Bruce…you don’t really need my help do you?
I would however point out that you seem to be blaming cows for all of the methane in the atmosphere. Seeing as oil, coal and natural gas production, and landfill seepage, account much more of it, that doesn’t really seem reasonable. Indeed, given that 150 years ago, there was precious little of these latter sources, but similar amounts of burping ruminants, I’ve got to wonder how anyone can sidestep the obvious conclusion.
As for global warming overall, I note that 150 years ago, there were no cars or buses -or petrol tankers! There was no powered flight, no municipal power stations, and a scant few steam ships…which weren’t burning oil. Cement and steel production was a tiny fraction of what it is today, and humans have multiplied 7 fold in this time scale. But it’s still cow burps.
Most revealingly Bruce, you accuse me of wrongly comparing domesticated livestock with – your phrase- ‘free-living’ species. Why? Are their guts somehow different? Do my cows- adrift on a 26,000 acre uncultivated hill- know they’re not ‘free-living’? Or is there some prejudice at work here old fella?

 

[Anton Coaker Blog]

Negative

As you’ve surely noticed, I graze on all kinds of ‘ologies, and this week it’s anthropology- or possibly archaeology. First came news that some finds in the Americas have put human presence there back maybe 5000 years, which is pretty big news. Obviously, it’s always a problem that we have to extrapolate our understanding from isolated tiny snapshots of finds. Dates are always being pushed back by new discoveries, and this one is important, as it helps explain one of anthropologies mysteries…how did humans appear right down in Patagonia 10 metaphoric minutes after they’d traipsed across the Bering land bridge. That’s a long way away when you’re on foot.
Another bit of such trivia which speaks loud -to me at least- is news of some flutes. I’m 12 years behind the curve on this, and it was lately passed on to me by a flute maker chum. See, someone grubbing in caves in Southern Germany in 2009 foundsome bone and ivory flutes, dating back at least 35,000 years. And after detailed scans, and subsequent 3D printing tech, a replica of one shows it was perfectly tuned. Mr Contempory Flutie assures me- quite heatedly- that this absolutely isn’t a case of knocking some random holes in a hollow bone and discovering it makes a pleasing tootling sound when you blow down it.
Indeed, the more I think about it, the more profound I realise this discovery was. Mr Ug, the erstwhile Stone Age flute maker, was alive 25,000 years before farming. He, or someone around him, had to go and catch breakfast every day, never being absolutely sure there was a ‘tomorrow’. There was no double glazing or central heating, no Bic lighter to kindle the fire, no Tesco’s. There was nothing but the skill in his hands and his ingenuity to adapt what lay around him. But somehow, he had enough spare time to not only learn how to make flutes, but to perfect the technique. And it’s reasonable to guess he could play them too….otherwise you’re suggesting he – or she- developed and made the flutes for someone else who could play. This raises some extraordinary concepts, because that would be a ‘trade’- something he/she did for reward. Then, did he learn the skill alone, or was he taught some of it by a predecessor? There’s no reading and writing, so knowledge could only be passed on by word of mouth. He didn’t look it up on the internet. Although even as I type that, I have to assume there’s some ironclad proof somewhere on the web that aliens taught cavemen how to make musical instruments, and the website address hidden in the Lascaux cave paintings if you look hard enough.
Still on such matters, another pal was walking on Dartmoor lately, and picked up a nearly complete flint arrow head. It’s an exquisite piece of work, so fine as to be almost translucent. It shows a degree of dexterity and skill that’s hard to grasp. And more to the point, the nearest supply of flints I can think of is 20 miles distant, and from recollection they aren’t anything like the quality you would want to be making this kind of thing. Curiouser and curiouser said Alice.
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I notice I was told off for being so negative backalong. I’m not sure it’s a fair criticism…. I’m generally a pretty happy go lucky soul. I wake up and charge at life every morning, admittedly working on the somewhat pessimistic presumption thateach day might be my last. I occupy my time grubbing about with simple honest trades and tradesmen, mostly very close to the dirt from which everything has ultimately sprung- often right in it.
When I look outwards, and consider the world’s problems, I can only judge it by these simple standards around me. I know all too well what happens when you over exploit a resource, or keep too many hens in the henhouse….mother nature pops round and gives you a kicking. She takes no prisoners. So if I might appear glum about some of this environmental stuff, it’s because I understand exactly what’s happening, and how it inevitably ends. And pretending we can control ourselves currently looks like futile baloney.
To illustrate this concept, I would momentarily focus your attention on something. Even now, it’s perfectly acceptable to buy a petrol powered leaf blower, and burn smoky old 2 stroke mix to pointlessly puff some fallen leaves around the garden.Think about that.
I’m more than happy to turn my attention to resolving our collective plight- I can see obvious positive steps we should be taking. Unfortunately, a lot of people would find my solutions somewhat, er, visceral.

 

[Anton Coaker Blog]

Bank Doings

I like it when some niggling mystery is solved. For instance, a few years ago I received a very earnest letter from the Association of Chief Constables, or whatever they’re called. This letter hmmed and hawed, tiptoeing around its intent, until the reader finally worked out that they were warning us not to let any of those dodgy foreign beardie fundamentalists get hold of our Nitrogen fertiliser. As well as squirming about trying to be politically correct, whilst still getting its message across, it seemed fairly preposterous. At the time, pretty much anyone could phone up and order an artic load of the stuff. The lads hauling the granules were also being given firm-if rather daft sounding- instructions as I recall, to unload it ‘out of sight’.
Then, sure enough, in the fullness of time it transpired some home-grown extremist nutters had indeed managed to buy a 600kg bag of Nitram, and were busily cooking it up into bombs in an urban lock-up. And this was why the cops had got the wind up…realising that tens of thousands of tonnes of the stuff is traded with barely any restriction.
Another such a mystery was solved for us again last week. See, I bank with the Gnatwest…have done all my life. Apart from odd youthful jollies overseas, I’ve always lived in the same house, and -despite some temptation- have never changed my name. I’ve had the same account the whole time. So it’s initially been a source of some amusement, but steadily evolved into a farcical pain in the stern, as said bank have hectored me for over a year for proof of who I really am. Apparently, having details unchanged since before the bank existed – I believe they inherited me from the National and Provincial or somesuch – doesn’t count for anything. Without giving away details to excite the Albanian scamsters – or whoever they might be this week- I do quite substantial chunks of continued business with this bank. I borrow what seem to me to be large sums when the need arises, and deposit similarly sizeable funds when the tide flows the other way. To ease their worries, they hold the deeds to some significant patches of English dirt…which have my name on them. I do have an account with them in the name of a limited company…but seeing as that business is somewhat vainly named after me personally, and based at the same address, I’m not sure it’d take ‘Nipper of the Yard’ to work out the connections.
Until they closed the local branch, I was on first name terms with most of the staff, including the manager. Ironically, as a spotty yoof, I often went to the manager for his proof of my good intent or standing, for other entities who mightn’t know me – including overseas governments. In fact, I also recall I attended the long ago birthday party of his charming teenaged daughter –although for the sake of probity I’m goingto have to gloss over some of the finer details.
But now, they’re seemingly desperately worried I might really be Pablo Escobar, or Lord Lucan. The insistent letters keep arriving, asking for ever dafter proofs of my identity details –and I have to say, writing to someone to demand they confirm their address begs a few basic questions about their intelligence. It’s not a little perplexing, and Alison and I are both fed up with it, offended that our business seems to be of so little value. We’re baffled how they can get themselves in such a knot over such a long standing customer. Goodness knows what it’s like for those less, er, settled.
Anyway, this week it all became clearer, when we’ve heard about the trouble the Gnat West is in over another esteemed customer. It seems a Bradford jeweller with a turnover of about £15m suddenly started depositing a bit more. Over 5 years, they socked £365 million away, £264 million of it in cash. At one point they were banking £1.8 million a week, bringing in holdalls stuffed with folding stuff.
Unsurprisingly, the outfit was eventually investigated by the law and shut down after a police raid. How on earth the bank failed to spot that there was something fishy about the business beggars belief. And the hot water they’re now in is pretty deep. It looks like the fines will be similarly eye-watering. I can’t say I’m that bothered, other than the fact that they’ll undoubtedly try to wring a bit more out of my dealings to pay for their own stupidity. No doubt insisting I prove my inside leg measurement into the bargain.

 

[Anton Coaker Blog]

COP is here

I know you’re suffering from ‘climate-angst fatigue’, and I don’t blame you. But there’s only one story this week, as Glasgow Cop26 is upon us. 20,000 people are flying to a conference to try and wiggle their way out of our responsibilities, making promises that will then discreetly be hidden down the back of the sofa. At the end, they’ll pat themselves on the back at a job well done, lamenting that China hasn’t fully committed.

There’ll be some earnest crusty demonstrators outside waving placards outside. But they’ll be keeping dry in plastic tents and raincoats, munching vegan burgers made of ingredients grown on recently cleared rainforest, and sipping almond milk that has an environmental footprint the size of a dead whale. Presumably some of them walked to Glasgow, but I’ll wager precious few.

However it’s higher up the foodchain where the real guilt lies.

To take a good example, let’s look at the ‘Insulate Britain’ loons. They’re surprisingly on the money with their banner title. Obviously, I’d be happy to see them recycled into an organic M25 surfacing aggregate, applied by use of a 44 tonne Scania….but we both recognise I’m a heartless monster.

However, the point is that the UKs housing building standards are hopelessly outdated, or at least barely enforced, and it’s a bellwether symptom. The newbuild estates of tat mushrooming everywhere really are just that. I’m hearing from inside the building industry that they’re a scandalous waste of resources and land, generally only serving to line the pockets of a handful of companies.

And it’s clearly no coincidence that the big house builders are such generous donors to political parties. Look at the enormity of what those donations are buying – a bonanza building shoddy structures which will then waste more energy to run. It’s driven by greed. Simple as.

The system is clearly broken, even in countries with approximately fair and open elections – and whatever some people would have you believe…we’re free to vote for whoever we like here- yet still we elect short term thinking, corrupted by legitimised bribes.

Of course Boris and his counterparts will be trumpeting this coming week how much they’re doing, despite it only being so much window dressing. You could play an entertaining game of ‘buzz word bingo’ with the speeches. Let’s revisit a couple of the buzz words.

There’s being ‘Carbon neutral’. Like the Swedes or the Swiss in WW2, talk of neutrality is subjective, and a bit hollow. For while those countries respectively flogged the Nazi’s satisfyingly large amounts of iron ore, and provided extensive financial services, pretending to be ‘carbon neutral’ while living in a western country is likewise a bit disingenuous. Boris is going to be claiming all kinds of carbon sequestration and storing to justify our excesses, but they’re all very short term. Growing a tree to store some carbon for 70 years before it rots away again, while flying about releasing carbon that’s been held for 350 million years, is simply deferring the impact. It’s borrowing from our grandchildren- and what have the poor little beggars done to deserve that?

‘Carbon Trading’ is likewise a scam. It’s just a sop to allow commerce to carry on just as before, Robbing Peter to pay Paul. The damage will still be done, but we can pretend it’s OK.

‘Net carbon zero’? Same again I’m afraid. At Glasgow this week, there’ll be no such thing unless, ironically, they’re choosing the lamb on the menu. The fact that the Saudi’s can claim they’ll be going net zero says enough doesn’t it?

A newbie buzz word is ‘Bio-diversity credits’. This is a fantastic swizz, where it’s OK to concrete over half a county, as long as you pay someone else- hopefully me- a few quid not to. The bio-diversity under the supermarket carpark is still gone, and I won’t have any extra….but we can pretend we’re taking steps. Brilliant!

Then, very much on the agenda is going to be rich industrialised countries giving money to poor ones, to help them build their own ‘green economies’. In reality, the cash will probably be spent tarmacking their own metaphoric supermarket carparks., and if they put up a few wind turbines, guess who will supply them? How else did you think we’d find the money to send?



What won’t be on the agenda is the real problem. And this is that there are far too many of us, and we’re hard-wired to take the easy route. It’s not our fault, we’re made this way. Our political systems are based on this ‘jam today’ mentality.

It won’t be discussed though…you wouldn’t want anything get in the way of a jolly good junket would you?

 

[Anton Coaker Blog]

Scottish Trip

To be bang on with the times, Alison and I slipped up to Scotland for a few days- driving a gurt big juice-slurping 4x4. I didn’t have a convoy of them like planet-saving hero Joe Biden…but hey! Give me a break, I’m just one man.

I did spend some happy hours with one of the boffins preparing to give a presentation at Cop26, whom I’m sure would acknowledge my input was most invaluable. I’d like to tell you this boffin pretty much agrees with me all the way on cow burps and the like, and is planning to give it to them straight at Glasgow. But I can’t say that. Because while they agree with me just fine – and this boffin is at the cutting edge of such stuff- they can’t speak out of turn about it. Such heresy would damage their scientific career, and there’s a mortgage to pay and a family to feed. How insane has this become?

And I should apologise to you dear reader, for not even noticing last week that half the delegates were then having a yet another conference in Rome, before hopping on planes for Glasgow. I just can’t follow it anymore, all this flying everywhere to pretend they’re saving the world. It’s a self-perpetuating job in itself now for many of them, incredibly even down to some of the protestors. Mind, I do wonder if there’s also a cadre of…er… ‘camp followers’, putting in the hours in that oldest of professions. Famously, important men away from home on vital missions are a rich source of employment for operatives. I daresay their tax returns show they too are involved in ‘climate change’ work. After all, I’m sure I heard someone say ‘we all have to play our part’.

Anyway, of far greater import, I was actually in the North to talk cows with some other cow-anoraks. Only modest amounts of whisky were involved, honest. I had to watch some beasts being fluffed up and led round the show ring – where I was only an interested spectator you understand. I also carefully followed trends at the subsequent sale, where I was likewise only doing my own research…keeping my hands firmly in my pockets.

It was notable that the champions in both male and female classes only sold for a fraction of the top priced individual beasts…proving that such competitions are wholly subjective. I can hardly crow mind…my choice of bull made even less, so what do I know. I can lay claim to some vicarious glamour however, seeing as we were lodging with the breeder who topped the heifer price, setting a female record at 10,500 guineas. We pretty near had to tow her along like a helium balloon thereafter.

Somehow I also ended up feeding cows, digging drains, climbing my favourite heather clad mountain, and unsuccessfully trying to trap a mink which was steadily beheading our hosts’ chooks. As you know, I take simple pleasures.





But back to the tetchy matter of showing livestock. It’s that time of year when we’re weaning the foals of the Dartmoor mares. We’ve a cut of pretty good pedigree females- if I say so myself-, and field a steady trickle of queries for registered youngstock. And one of the most oft repeated requests is that these youngsters are of ‘show quality’. This tickles me mightily, as just asking for such a thing is an indicator in itself – and this applies equally to cattle or sheep, and doubtless all kinds of critters. You see, entering a show with an animal is easy enough…anyone can do it. Getting the hairy little blighter quiet enough to drag round the ring is another matter, and to facilitate this we occasionally agree to get yearling Dartmoors, or Belted Galloway heifers etc., haltered for clients. It’s then a problem that not everyone has the knack of keeping them biddable long term. I’ve known many a quiet beast go onto properties where the new owner/keeper didn’t have the voice and presence to handle them, and things go amiss. Then, there’s the feeding and preparation for the show ring. Your entry has to be presented at the very peak of condition, and shampooed and fluffed up to within an inch of its life. I’ll never be a good enough feeder myself, as long as I live- certainly not while I’m farming up here. And despite decades of breeding stock which, by definition, has to be fit for purpose, my ringside ‘choice’ often differs somewhat from the judges’.

It’s all subjective, and often bears little relation life’s realities. A bit like claims by those thinking they’re going to save the world really.

 

[Anton Coaker Blog]

Gathering Blackies

It’s been that special time of year, where daylight has found me and the hound out on the hill, fetching the blackface ewes in off the hill for their annual MOT, bath, and tupping. The solitude and peace up there is pretty much beyond price to a man. Much of the time it’s been dog, stick, sheep and me. The wind seethes through molinia grass and rushes, snipe leaping skywards as we pass. The river runs timelessly below us, brown with peat. V shaped ripples in the shallows showing one or two salmon are still returning to spawn, clinging on in a changed world. The sheep haven’t reared a big crop of lambs- they seldom do-, but what is there is in very good fettle. There are plenty enough bonny ewe lambs to ensure the continuation of a flock which my Granny came with when she married my Grandad in 1920. I don’t know the circumstances of her father’s acquisition of the flock, although a legal dispute in 1910 over ewes straying had tested relations within the valley…resolved more by the subsequent marriage than the courts ruling.

The main group came easily enough off the ground they are usually to be found on- their ‘lear’. They’d already started looking down the valley wondering if the rams might soon be found. I left the lads going through them, treating for debilitating trace element deficiency and nasty liver fluke bugs. I slipped back up to expand my search for my own strays, and those of neighbouring flocks- we have collective ‘clear days’ when everyone’s sheep have to be gathered. My respective neighbours are based miles away by road, so there are phone calls each evening, reporting where odd strays have been seen, and who has gathered which vagrant ewes. If I’ve got 2 of Bill’s, and he’s got one of Fred’s, but Fred hasn’t finished yet and might get some of mine….who will drop which sheep back to whom? It is a warming feeling, being in a widespread but strong community, helping one another maintain such a deep rooted culture.

One colleague messaged to say he’d missed 5 sheep adjacent to mine, and could I kindly pick them up. In a straight line, these ewes would be about 6 miles from home. And then, the rather wrigglier route he has to take, avoiding wide bogs, and deep combes and rock clitters must be even further. He also has to crest a ridge of hills of about 1500’ to get home….and the cloud base is often rather less than this, which gives its own problems. It’s hard to gather sheep you can’t see.

His missing 5 were only 2 ½ miles from my yard, and within sight of my ewes, so it made sense for me to get them. As it happens, they were extremely testy little blighters –he admits they often give him trouble, lifting them out of the deep sided combe they generally lie in. Couple that to my having to push them in the ‘wrong direction’, and they certainly tested my boy and me when we got to them. Our first job was to lift them out of their hidey hole - a 45 degree slope with waist deep clumps of vegetation, above which I could barely see their heads – ‘Fly’ couldn’t see them at all. The sheep know the game all too well, and will trot along happily while you can see them, then drop into a hollow and stop stock still hoping you’ll pass by.

I should admit I tried to fetch them on my own the first day, but within minutes, they’d slipped out of sight like members of the magic circle. However, on day 2 we gently tickled them out onto more open ground. Thereupon, we managed to drive them down to a gate into an enclosure, from where they’d be secure enough that we could relax a bit. But once they realised what was on, the oldest ewe put her head down and bolted through the dogs. She simply wasn’t going to be driven through that gate - I note ‘One man and his dog’ seldom show such operations. Happily, my boy has an ace little collie which will ‘seize em’. She’s only slightly built, but on command will grab such an errant ewe by the base of the ear, and bring it down- without marking it. I trussed the old ewe up, and left her- undignified- within carrying distance of where we could get a vehicle. The remaining 4 accepted their fate, and were soon safe inside the gate.

The gather is complete for another season, and the tups are at work.

 

[Anton Coaker Blog]

Trailer tests

You might’ve heard backalong there aren’t enough HGV drivers, variously triggering petrol shortages, inflation, and Christmas being cancelled. It’s been blamed on Covid, Brexit, a ‘z’ in the month, and probably Uncle Tom Cobley and all. A cause not suggested is an attitude problem. You see, since Tony Blair reckoned everyone should go to university, and become rich and brilliant, the insidious message inferred has been very clear. An over educated urban elite imagine only poor and stupid people do menial or manual work – and we can bring migrants from impoverished countries for that kind of thing. Boris continues the trend, going on about how we’re going to be a ‘high skill/high wage’ economy or somesuch….and it boils my juices.
It’s subtle, and a barely conscious direction of travel, but it’s entrenched now- the idea that people doing such work are ‘lesser’. A generation imagine that, firstly, such work is beneath them, and secondly- by default- that so are the people who do it. It is a pernicious and dangerous thing to have allowed, as it fuels social division…ironic given how the luvvies who think we can all get a degree and become brain surgeons mostly pretend to cling to the idea of being loved up and inclusive.
Luckily, as the shortage of lorry drivers started to manifest itself, Sir Boris cantered along on his charger to solve the crisis. He discovered that the driving examiners who test lorry drivers had a tremendous backlog. He noticed- or had ‘people’ notice on his behalf- that a lot of testing time was bogged down on folk who just wanted to tow a caravan down to Cornwall for the weekend, or to tow Samantha and her little darling little pony to Pony Club. And they’re all having to take the silly ‘trailer test’.Well, he could jolly well fix that, and simply did away with it. As of the 15th of November, it was to be a free-for-all.
And as you may have noticed, that date has just come and gone, but the roads aren’t suddenly jammed with newly entitled drivers discovering that reversing a trailer is different, and difficult. I don’t know what happened, or what is happening, but Boris abandoned the change at the last minute. I gather I’m not the only person in the darkabout what’s going on – with a couple of useful lads currently left in limbo. It’s due to go before parliament in the next week or two…where, I’m sure, it’ll all be sorted out toot sweet.
Better still are the related but bizarre goings on with the HGV1 test – the category that includes the biggest articulated lorries. I’m hearing that, to push more drivers through the test, the requirements are being watered down somewhat.
It sounds like an HGV1 licence is as likely to drop out of a breakfast cereal packet as the plastic toy. As I understand it, the proposal is that you’ll be able to pass your HGV1 without proving to an examiner that you can reverse the articulated trailer, or astoundingly, show that you’re competent and confident about hooking it onto the tractor unit- that’s the bit at the front with the cab and engine….and rather importantly, the brakes power supply. The presumption will be that your instructor –IE, someone potentially under your immediate employ-ensures you’ve attained these minor skills.
Perhaps we should step back and consider the basic physics here. See, stopping 44 tonnes of speeding Scania, and its 23 tonne load of frozen fish fingers/hot water bottles/paperclips takes rather more braking power than slowing up a Ford Focus. The tractor unit obviously has very powerful brakes of its own, but critically, once properly hooked up to the trailer by those prettily coloured coiled plastic pipes, it also powers the trailer brakes. Should the trailer brakes fail, the tractor unitsbrakes can still slow the front bit down in an emergency….while the bulk of the weight being towed then tries to overtake the tractor unit. This results in‘Sally Traffic’ reporting a road being closed due to a ‘jack-knifed truck’, and a ‘shed load’. Large messy events you probably don’t want to be too close to.
And the suggestion is that no-one independent is going to be assuring future drivers actually know how to prevent this kind of thing. Current extra driver ‘CPC’ training – a mandatory one day per year- is flimsy enough, but this would take standards to a new level….a dangerously low one. Like those insane ‘smart motorways’, people will die in otherwise preventable accidents.
It’s a mess, and reveals the disconnect between the elevated strata where Boris resides, and where those grubby thick chaps do the actual work.

 

[Anton Coaker Blog]

Plant Based

As a brilliant marketing swizz, and to be right on trend, I’ve invented a new concept. This week, we’ll be marketing ‘plant based beef’. And unlike the re-constituted far travelled ultra-processed ‘plant based’ stuff you might foolishly buy in the supermarket, with a list of ingredients you’ve barely heard of, from all over the world …..ours will have just one ingredient. Bits of a 28 month old Belted Galloway steer. He lived his life within a couple of miles of where he was born, and was slaughtered after a 25 minute journey. He was ‘made’ almost entirely of a wide variety of naturally occurring herbage. Grasses, yarrow, ribgrass, knapweed and rattle all ‘infest’ the land he fattened on, and previously while he was with his mother on the hill, he and mum would’ve eaten whortleberry- billberry to you guv- gorse stems, heather, rushes, and a further assortment of wild grasses.

Admittedly, over his first winter, and now through his last few months, he will also have seen the occasional mouthful of cattle nuts. These nuts are made of various low-grade cereals and veg by-products that don’t quite make the grade for human consumption. I have to maintain a record of all of this, with a full analysis of the ingredients, but whatever the strident anti-meat brigade say, you and I wouldn’t have wanted to eat what he ate.

In the interests of fairness, I should observe the inevitability that he’ll also have inadvertently ingested a wide selection of invertebrates during his time with me. I mention this detail to be fair and accurate, and to put things in perspective. And for balance, it would be reasonable to point out he doubtless also provided habitat for various ‘passengers’ himself at times…nothing is as simple as it appears in the picture books. But, critically, I can’t really claim my steer was 100% ‘plant based beef’, because it wouldn’t be strictly true.

However, and this is the point, compare him to a veggie burger made of 20 ingredients from across the globe, which have a hidden impact beyond measure. Each of the crops that go into it are grown in what is, by definition, a man made mono-culture, devoid of anything much bigger than invertebrates- the wildlife that lived on that land before it was tilled is gone. And what do you imagine is the fate of any fluffy doe eyed…er…does who manage to sneak onto fields of crops to graze at night? Generally, wildlife that attacks commercial crops on any scale is dealt with in only one way. Can you guess what that method is boys and girls?



You see, I can be completely open about how my ‘plant based beef’ is raised. I can take you to the hill where he was birthed, introduce you to his mum, his sisters and aunties in their extended matriarchy. I can show you the fragrant green hay his pals are currently munching – and the equally sweet smelling wrapped bales of haylage they’re moving onto in a month or two. We could identify the impact his life has had on the planet to a pretty fine degree, and mostly within walking distance. Then, of course, we could come back to the farmhouse and eat him! But I want you to compare this with a ‘plant based’ meal out of the supermarket. You know, the ones with the glossy adverts telling you how good they are for the planet, but mysteriously omit mention of the Brazilian soya, or Indonesian palm oil therein. In a very real sense, by eating such garbage you are killing orangutans.

I note they also claim to be better for you, although I’m not aware of much evidence of how such a heavily processed diet will effect consumers in 20-30 years. Oh, we both know that there’s research proving conclusively that living on a diet of raw bacon and foie gras will make your arms fall out and your head explode….at least 10 minutes sooner than if you ate something else. But hey! You’ve gotta die of something.

Look, you can adopt whatever diet you wish - it’s none of my business. If you can’t face the idea of eating dead animals, then don’t. But don’t think you’re signalling your virtue, or saving the planet…because that evidently isn’t true. Each of us is part of a dense web of interactions, impacting eco-systems right across the planet. And all the self-righteous wrath directed at beef, and me, won’t change that. Ironically, to lower your impact, you’d probably do better to buy a bit of re-constituted moorland vegetation in the form of some ‘plant based beef’, from that half-wit Coaker.

 

[Anton Coaker Blog]

Valium bonios

I’ve had the same collie bitch line all my life, descended from a little Welsh collie my Dad had bought from a pal. Over the decades, they’ve gone hairier, smoother, brown, tri-coloured, back to pied, bigger, then smaller again. Some have been the most fantastic servants, always there to help…whether that’s by diligently helping gather the blackface ewes off the hill, or just by holding up a paw and telling me with their soulful eyes ‘it’ll be OK boss’. Others have been little more than ornaments, albeit often as much loved as the useful ones.
Currently, however, they’re testing our patience to the limit. My boy kept a slightly built bitch for his first working dog, and she’s proved a beauty. Kind of eye and nature, and a fantastic worker. Being a sensible lad- in some matters at least- he sought to breed a litter from her, and put her to a brown dog, known to be of good working stock. We hadn’t had a brown dog for some years, and when 2 fawn girl pups arrived in the subsequent whelping, my boy kept one, and my beloved little wife put her name to the other. And as adorable as pups generally are, all seemed well. They lolloped engagingly around the place as they grew, bright in the eye and of enquiring minds. I kept my own counsel, recalling that keeping litter sisters can give rise to a wide variety of issues.
And sure enough, as they approach a year old, Alison now finds herself having to walk the 2 hellhounds from Mordor each morning. They have to live on chains, as I wouldn’t trust them for more than about 5 minutes loose about the yard. They absolutely know what sheep are, and cows, ponies, ducks, chickens…anything. They very much like the idea of rounding things up, each having got one gear, no brakes, and a fondness for using their teeth. They were proving useful in the sheep shed during the summer, ‘speaking’ from outside the race, driving sheep along very proficiently. This was short lived, when one discovered she could simply hop over the aluminium hurdles, and take a far closer interest. She soon taught her sister the trick.
I’ve tried to convince their respective owners- and myself- that it’s better to try and pull up a keen dog than get a reluctant one to ‘go’, but my assurances are ringing somewhat hollow. John’s- ‘Pip’- especially seems to be made mostly of helium, rocketfuel and compressed springs. I thought her breeding was mostly collie, but we’re beginning to think some velociraptor snuck in the mix. If she’s allowed in the kitchen, she instantly squirms onto my lap, and likes to headbutt me in the face as she writhes excitedly around. Outside, full of joy and wanting attention, she leaps at your face - with a mouthful of teeth wide open. I know she means well, but it’s not a little disconcerting. Walked together, they are more or less a permanent writhing ball of snarling yappiness. We do love them dearly, but are starting to search online for Valium flavoured bonios.

Moving on, I was idly looking this week at a treasured document. It is the framed particulars of the sale precipitated by the demise of my Great Granfer Willcocks, in 1925. He farmed the next property down the valley, and his daughter- my Grannie- had married one of those shifty Coaker’s nextdoor. The sale bill is an apparent reflection of what a tenant farmer on Dartmoor might have to show for his efforts, and what would be of value to prospective buyers. He had 7 South Devon cows, and 19 Galloways, plus their associated youngstock. There were 2 South Devon bulls, but not a Galloway, and some of the black cows had South Devon calves at foot.
There was one cart cob in the sale, and 44 Dartmoor mares – including notably, several ‘fine greys’. All manner of horsedrawn farm implements, tools and sundry items were listed for auction, along with ‘the rabbits on the farm’ until the following ‘Lady Day’, when the tenancy would have been relinquished.
Not mentioned, and glaringly not offered for sale, are the share of Galloway cows his daughter had kept – the origins of the herd I grew up with, or any Scotch sheep at all. Evidently, Grannie kept all of them.
It’s an interesting historical document, albeit only fully understood if you know some of the local history. The best bit? The 2 above mentioned collie pups will surely settle down eventually, and take their turn working the very same flocks and herds.
Some things are beyond price.

 

[Anton Coaker Blog]

Free Tree

Lying awake in the pre-dawn dark this morning, listening to another gale howl down the valley, I huddled under the duvet hoping it’d all go away before I had to stir. When the radio came on, an earnest newsreader told me first that all of the poor blighters in the North East who’ve been without power for 10 days after the last storm should be connected today… although with the next blow already arriving, I did wonder if some unlucky souls would then immediately be plunged into darkness once more. Then I learned that everyone in Wales is being offered a free tree to plant, to help counter global warming. Those without a garden can have it notionally added to some planting scheme, while those who do have a scrap of land can collect their bonnie little sapling from one of 4 centres across the Principality. And I know you’re ahead of me already, as I wondered how many of those collecting their tree will be driving their cars to do so…..er, hang on?

In fact the 2 news items brought the baloney into sharp focus for me. After storm ‘Arwen’ brought down trees un-numbered, along with lots of powerlines, droves of men and trucks and chainsaws were rushed into action tidying up. And you can be quite certain that there was little thought given to the fossil fuels consumed in the hurry to get the lights back on. Likewise, apparently grown men and women are going to get in the car, and drive to collect a sapling which, as sure as the sun rises in the Eastern sky, die and rot down – or burn- in just a few short years.

Meanwhile, you may have heard about plans to outlaw burning wood -unless it’s crispy toasted and dry. This is one of Michael Gove’s fabulous ideas…by golly his brain must just fizz. The premise is that it’s more efficient to burn drier wood –which is surely true- releasing less nasty particulate matter and toxic gases. This might well be true, although I strongly suspect that what comes out of one of a jet plane, or a monster cargo ship, should probably be of rather more concern. But no, it’s woodburners and open fires which are the work of the devil, and need reining in.

So laws have been enacted to outlaw the sale of inadequately dried firewood. 20% moisture content is the magic figure brainy old Michael came up with. And I can tell you, naturally seasoned firewood at 20% is very dry indeed. Any lower takes artificial drying…which consumes power.

So, to avoid jail time, we’ve built a 40 tonne log drying cage, loaded and unloaded with the bucket on the telehandler, with mesh sides and a roof. Whether the material that comes out of it meets the specification remains to be seen, but this is the best I can come up with.

Some in the trade are getting subsidies to dry firewood with woodchip burners –good on em I say- although seeing as a lot of the drying energy is spent getting moisture out of the chips for the boiler itself, I suspect the subsidy is the real earner, rather than any firewood ‘by-product’. Some have come to arrangements with those running big generators burning methane from equally well subsidised bio-digesters – if I’ve understood that particular scam correctly- to dry firewood in the warm air that bellows from the generators. A sensible enough plan, albeit logistically tenuous.

Others yet are simply importing ‘kiln dried’ logs from the Baltic States, 1500 miles road journey away. You can guess how big the ‘carbon footprint’ of that kind of operation has, but happily no-one is asking too many searching questions. I notice the products are given local friendly sounding names.

At the other end of the scale, one front-line operator of our acquaint is drying his logs with a propane burner before sale. I’m sure Michael Gove sleeps the sleep of the righteous, knowing he’s making the world a better place.

Myself? I’m not overly concerned, as if pushed, I’ll quickly change to selling bulk ‘wooden garden ornaments’, or possibly ‘self-assembly wooden toys’. These may be highly flammable, and I will strongly advise customers against placing them in the grate, or permitting a struck match to be applied. I don’t think Mike likes the idea of people burning sticks to heat their houses, but hey! I can’t be responsible for what people get up to.

Cycling back to where we began, I notice TV news crews reporting on families cut off by storms in rural Northumberland unfailingly find them huddled around the one form of heating that hasn’t failed them.

Hmm.

 

[Anton Coaker Blog]

Lewis and Woodstoves

I don’t think I can be a real man, seeing as I’m almost wholly disinterested in car racing. And then, local banger races, or ‘run what yer brung’ hill climbs would hold more interest than the rarified airs of Formula 1, to which I absolutely cannot relate, or give any attention to whatsoever. However, fair do’s, multiple championship winning Brit Lewis Hamilton cut through my indifference quite proficiently. Soon after he was newsworthy, I'd decided I couldn’t abide him. And when he started on about climate change, and how he was a vegan…pontificating that he was saving the world, he cemented my opinion. The two-faced ignorance and arrogance grated right up my whatsit. He could take part in an obscenely wasteful cavalcade of conspicuous consumption, pandering to numerous sponsors who likewise trample the world’s resources in a frenzy of destruction. Then, like many celebrities, he seems to have imagined his fame made him clever…reality and a grasp of it seems to faded steadily. And from his lofty status, he was free to demonise my bucolic livelihood of raising livestock.
How do you think that made me feel Lewis?
Well, to give you a clue, I couldn’t give a tinkers curse if the Dutch lad puts live whitedoves in the blender for his supper, has shares in a Japanese ‘scientific whaling’ enterprise, or wears a cloak of kitten skins…. I’m still raising a glass of something warming to his win.
There, I feel much better for that.
Moving on, I’m hearing various conflicting stories about how the UK government are going to fix the environment. Curiously, outlawing Formula 1 isn’t on the list, but banning my oil fired Aga might be. Likewise, aviation fuel remains more or less untaxed, but use of ‘red’ diesel is steadily going to be tightened up on. The latter is going to raise several questions, but this week, we’ll consider the former. I understand the plan is to ban new fossil fuel burning heating installations in rural areas in a few years –anywhere off the mains gas grid. So should my Aga need replacing, it’scurtains for the planet destroying enamelled dinosaurs. The plan is that I’ll instead install an electrically powered ‘heat pump’ to warm my farmhouse- undoubtedly, Gove is involved somewhere. I have to concentrate to recall how heat pumps work, squidging up air, then evaporating it, taking heat from the process somewhere along the line…a bit like a fridge only going in the opposite direction. This uses electricityin itself, and as I’m hearing, isn’t very good at warming your house. They’re only really viable if a house is really well insulated…and I mean really well. Modern housing regs demand such standards of insulation, although seeing as I suspect most of the foot thick insulation is made of petro-chemicals, no-one is asking too many searching questions as they gallop along.
Anyroad, this isn’t of much use to me, given Chateau Coaker is a drafty pile, built in 1923. The Aga at one end of the house, and a seasonal woodburner the other, make it more or less habitable, although bedsocks are recommended. Everything I hear about heatpumps suggests they wouldn’t make it habitable at all, would send my leccy bills through the roof, and of most import, wouldn’t warm a pan of porridge, dry a sodden great coat, or save a shivering calf. And when storm Arwen blows the lines down for 10 days, you’ll have no heating whatsoever.
Subsequently, I have very little enthusiasm for the idea.
Luckily, the old Aga – which pre-dates me by a few years- is more or less indefinitelyrepairable, so I’m not sure it will immediately be an issue. And no doubt enterprising oil suppliers will already be considering how to supply a ‘renewable’ heating oil to customers who are ready to pay. And as I lately observed, stopping us burning sticks to warm ourselves is going to be quite a trick.
Funnily enough, I would superannuate my stove, if I could find someone prepared to make me the device I want. What I want is a woodburning device the size and heft of an Aga, with a gas powered, thermostat controlled back-up. So when it burns down halfway through the night, a low flame kicks on automatically. The same source of ignition could then kindle the logs I would throw in when I arise to make her Ladyship’s industrial coffee mornings. It’s always the bug bear of such stoves -no-one wants the faff of having to ‘light’ it each day. I’ve approached various stove makers over the years, but none seem interested. It’s a no-brainer for me, especially as it would mightily annoy Michael Gove

 

[Anton Coaker Blog]

Birdsong

The longest night has been and gone, and days are slowly lengthening again once more. As you’ll recall, I listen for the change in birdsong at this time of year, which is often notable right on the solstice. Well…I say I listen for it, when really I just bimble about the yard doing my chores, and can’t help but notice the twittering has altered. Last year a series of gales left them a week late- where do the robins and blackbirds and such go when the gale rages? How do they cling onto their little perches in the thorn bushes about the place? This always bothers me. I often see a foolhardy corvid trying to get about, and end up blown tumbling downwind, and I suppose the flocks of spuggies that live in the cattle buildings are OK, but what about the rest? Anyway, this year they were a week early turning their calendar page, but don’t ask me why. It’s been a topsy autumn, with the last blackberries at 1100’ being edible on the 21st November, and I’ve picked and brought wildflowers in for my lovely little wife right up to the last few days. That’s never right. And to be clear, I mean the unseasonally late blooms can’t be right, not my fetching some in to herself, you clot.
Another little sign the winter is ticking by is that the November tupped ewes are mostly starting to show a bit of gut, suggesting they might have more than chewed up grass in ‘em. What lambs they’re carrying can’t make the difference, but it’s there to see nonetheless. They’re generally looking very hale and hearty, while the tups look – I’m trying to find a suitable phrase for family viewing-….er…let’s stick with ‘tired’. So the portents are good. We’ll see. My cows likewise look well. The spring calves are all weaned and inside munching well, and the coos are mostly settled into their winter quarters – some spread thin across gorsey hillsides, some bellied up against each other at round feeders, and a score or so with young calves indoors to keep their wee’uns tucked up warm. One lucky beltie is tied in a stall in the old stable as a house cow – my boy decided he wanted a milch cow. A South Devon would likely have been more suitable, but none presented at the right time, so a hairy one it had to be. She’s very happy with the special treatment and extra rations. She bawls a bit when her calf gets shut away from her nights, so we can have fresh milk each morning. The calf doesn’t seem much bothered, and is growing like a weed as well. And trust me, porridge made with fresh Galloway milk is a sound start to a winter morning.
Fodder supplies look good, albeit partly because cow numbers are down as I’ve shipped out a lot of good cattle due to Neospora infection. To make space this last few weeks, I’ve had the curious task of feeding out the best July hay as quickly as I can. I’d rather save it right through for the weaned calves, but it’s in the way and I’ve still got a 20-30 beasts I want to get in. So the precious soft green fragrant bales are being fed to everyone, including some very contented dry Galloway cows. They’d eat more or less anything you put in front of them, and happily find a bellyful of rough if you didn’t turn up at all…… but they’re not complaining. Luckily, there’s also stacks of several hundred bales of very nice silage waiting to tap, and another barn full of that July hay carefully hidden away.
And though being wet and cold isn’t fun in itself, I adore watching the steady turn of the seasons…especially when the tiny incremental changes signify winter won’t last forever
With my other hat on, the sawmill has been pushed for time the whole year, with another manic session through this back end. I never really got to the bottom of what’s driving the frenetic pace, although colleagues around the globe report similar activity. A pal in Germany told me several US buyers turned up over a year ago, buying boat loads of timber to make up a shortfall across the Atlantic, while a French oak dealer was in my yard last year, explaining that a large percentage of what his company were purveying was going to China, ‘in the round’.
Make of it what you will, all I know is the phone hasn’t stopped rattling for months. So I’m looking forward to spending a few quiet days with just me and the beasts.

 

[Anton Coaker Blog]

Trailer Tests

So Boris has done away with the ‘trailer test’ for younger drivers, which has no doubt freed up any number of examiners to test trainee HGV drivers. For us in the sticks this means all manner of likely lads can now legally tow a livestock box behind a 4x4. And on balance, we’re finding this very useful, broadening the labour pool and allowing a lot more flexibility. However, something that was very quickly apparent hereabouts was a sharp reminder that simply allowing these enthusiastic chaps out on the highways doesn’t necessarily mean they’ll miraculously become competent overnight. While their livestock handling skills aren’t worrying me, ability to judge which hedgebanks are safe to stuff the trailer wheels into- upon meeting oncoming traffic in the lanes- still needs some practice. And as the boss, I’m finding this practice somewhat expensive.

I’m also finding a certain degree of irony to the whole affair too. In a lot of businesses, the simple trick was to buy a gurt big tractor-drawn livestock trailer. They’re lugging 3 times the weight, running on cherry-aide, and any yoof can jump in the drivers seat pretty much straight out of skool…no test required.

In fact, on the subject of livestock handling skills, I’m reminded that being able to legally tow the trailer is only half the job. These lads will now have to go off and sit the livestock haulage test –or whatever it’s called. I’m also vaguely mindful that the one I took 10-12 years ago might have expired - for as we know, the biology of sheep and cattle, and requirements for their wellbeing while in transit will have radically changed since then. I’ll probably have to go and take another such test…perhaps we’ll all go together. In fact, now I think about it, I recall the last time I went. One spring evening we took the whole team into town to tick some stupid multiple choice boxes – the answers, by the way, to every question is ‘ventilation’. Returning home, having been taught to suck eggs, we found a lovely South Devon cow, who’d gone down calving in our 2 ½ hour absence. There she was in the cold April rain… calf half out, both stone dead. But at least I’d got a certificate to show I knew how to transport the rest of the herd.

Harrumph.

One day I’ll tell you a bit more about my youthful experiences travelling beasts up and down the country. Livestock transport was in the family as it were, and although it was never destined to be my living, I was still in my teens when I was being dispatched with a 7 ½ tonner to trade and ferry beasts across hundreds of miles. It was an education I feel this sanitised shrink wrapped world lacks, but hey ho. What do I know? Very little, apparently.



And lastly, I have to doff my well-weathered hat to the passing of a couple of stars in our bucolic firmament. As well as the sad loss of comic legend Jethro, I hear we’ve lost erstwhile fellow WMN columnist, Ron Bendell. What a pair they were….and goodness, but it hardly bears imagination- the uproar should the pair of them be now met in some celestial watering hole. Jethro’s fruity humour had become an institution, never shying away from his earthy Cornish roots. You might venture that perhaps if he’d ‘reined it in’ a bit, he might’ve found an even broader audience…but then, that would hardly have been Jethro would it? In fact, I suspect he balanced it much more carefully than we realised. And as for Ron? While there are stories un-numbered of his mischievous antics, funnily enough it’s his time as the local TV weatherman that remain with me best. Without recalling them word for word, as I recall they generally went along the lines of… ‘There’s a cold front coming through, and it’s gonna be blessed cold. So be sure to put yer thermals on Mother’, or ‘It’s gonna chuck it down tomorrow. I should stay in by the fire if I was you’.

The world is surely a less colourful place for their passing, each a part of the antidote to the homogenised corporate culture society slips too easily into. Both will remain dear to the hearts of many of us in the rural Westcountry community- one they were each clearly proud to be part of. They were, probably without knowing it, significant factors in keeping alive a culture that’s under threat of being swamped.

Bless them and theirs, may the memory of both stay with us for many years.



There’s nothing more but bid you a peaceful and happy new year.

 

[Anton Coaker Blog]

Dissertation Title

It’s been an unexciting start to the New Year hereabouts. Bank holidays or not, the cows still have to be fed every day, buildings bedded up, and all the chores attended. And while it could be seen as a burden, there is a blessed harmony in it. Unless something is metaphorically ‘on fire’, the first few hours of each winters morning are pretty much fixed. If 2 or 3 of us are ‘on duty’, it’s soon dealt with and we can catch up with something else on the never ending list- fighting, as Dick used to say, ‘the old enemy’….time. Should, however, the work fall to a single pair of hands, there’s only enough daylight if nothing goes wrong. And it’s a red letter day when nothing goes wrong. A tractor with a flat tyre, a lame cow who needs attention, a calf whose ears are at a lugubrious ‘twenty past eight’, instead of a perky ‘ten to two’. There’s always something.

This week, although we’ve so far been very lucky with the weather, I decided we really should be getting a bunch of autumn calves and their dams indoors. They were in with a bigger group, jostling for space at a round feeder…and if you’ve played this game, you will recognise the danger signs in that. The mums who’re milking were steadily losing ground against their dried off counterparts. As the fatties push in first, getting the best feed each morning, they just get bigger. And the calves struggle to get even a smell of the hay. I’ve been going back late in the day several times a week, and putting an extra part bale in the feeder…..but the munters just stuff themselves stupid more than ever.

We’d finally eaten enough of a hole in the stack of hay bales in the designated building, that I could spend a tedious afternoon Sunday shunting the remaining 50 big bales into every nook and cranny I could find elsewhere. Several were just dumped outside, working on the premise that they’d be eaten before they could spoil anyway. That meant we could gather the group in Monday – we’ve a full team Mondays- sort out these outfits and get them inside at last. The Galloways were fine, cows and calves still handling well, but a couple of young South Devon cows in the bunch were noticeably plainer, with calves clearly needing dry backs and more grub.

Tuesday morning, when sleet was driving in on a raw Northerly, I was mightily glad I’d made the effort to sort that out. The calves haven’t started using a creep area set off to one side for them, but when they do learn to sneak through the calf sized gap in a special gate, they’ll find a few nuts in a trough waiting just for them. I don’t get everything right, that’s for sure, but on this occasion, that was just in the nick of time.





Someone close to me has been sweating over their dissertation over the Christmas holidays, trying to get within sight of a university degree. And after somehow dragging themselves away from various distractions, she’s finally just about got up to the requisite word count. Although I’ve no experience of further education, I do sympathise about distractions that trouble a soul when you’re trying to string words together under a deadline that throbs an angry neon red. For me, it can be anything…I’m as easily distracted as a kitten.

But somehow the student of the moment has just about finished. All that was left is a title. She’d be directed towards the most convoluted 12 word title, reflecting the level of complex nonsense they anticipate in such a dissertation. The author herself however is minded to be rather less pretentious and have the title- at least- in plain English. After much hand wringing, she’d whittled it down to 2-3 options, each as short and punchy as the next. I came in from my labours one evening as this last bit of decision-taking had reached an impasse. Eventually, the student consulted the highest authority….her Jack Russel. Sniffing the proffered notepad, the terrier couldn’t make her mind up either. So, with a scientific and inquisitive mind, the student offered said terrier an incentive. Each prospective title was smeared with just a smudge of butter….and the hound obligingly dived straight in to lick one in preference to both the others. Lo! An academic milestone is passed. Halle-flipping-lujah





And lastly, a correction. Last week I implied that the silly ‘livestock transport’ permit – or whatever it’s called- might run out after a time. In fact, we now can’t unravel what is happening…so don’t rely on me.