The Anton Coaker Western Morning News Column

[JP1]

With some cows and a bunch of weaned calves now in the new cattle building- and very grateful for it- I’ve been giving some thought to the concrete water troughs I’ve been using in recent years. I can see you’re excited already, and who wouldn’t be? I gave up on galvanised ones some time ago, both large and small. I had hit upon a neat and fast way of fixing those little bowls, fashioning stands from gurt blocks of oak, leaving an upstandy bit to bolt to. Sink the beggar a few feet into the dirt, couple ‘er up, and hey presto. And the little bowls do have some benefits I suppose. They’re blessed easy to clean out - as long as you’re not squeamish, and have hands like shovels. Mind it remains unclear how they come to need cleaning out so often. I mean, it’s a blessed small target, if you take my meaning. Perhaps it’s a competition. Also, if several beasts are at em, they tend to keep moving in the frost. Conversely, the other side of the coin is there’s a limit to how many yearlings can queue up at them before there’s pushing and shoving, which isn’t a good thing. But the real bugbear with them is their workings, and that silly little valve. They always, and I mean always, ends up leaking. The floats won’t stay where you leave them, the nozzles get bunged, the top comes loose, and the exposed feed pipe gets mangled. The latter proves very well that there is nothing made of plastic that a sufficiently bored bullock will not chew through or rub to destruction. Look at it from his/her point of view. Your life for the winter months is ‘eat, cud, poop, sleep’. Into that humdrum sleepy bovine routine, wouldn’t anyone want to inject the excitement of another game of ‘rubbing and chewing at the blue pipe’?

So I’ve gone onto concrete troughs. They cost more, but are giving me far less bother, although even then it’s not all plain sailing.

I’ve tried 3 different types, the preferred make not always being available. The ‘other’ 2 are both so low that they need ridiculously high plinths to have any chance of keeping them clean. I don’t mind spending an hour or so casting a foot to sit the things on, but I could do without having to think about bringing it up in the air. The better designs have the feed pipe hidden sensibly within the cast, although on one of them the access can be very small for ‘Mr Grumpy-shovelhands’ to reach the stopcock without scraping his knuckles, and the internal castings are such that the ball valve doesn’t screw up tight, or want to sit straight. Which is a bit of a shame, given all the trouble someone has gone to, making them.

The poorest still has the feed pipe exposed to bullock interference – it didn’t last the first winter before a bovine managed to chew through it. And for good measure, it doesn’t have a ‘lift out’ concrete lid, to access the gubbins, but rather a ‘bolt on’ lid, which involves going off to fetch the appropriate sockets. The lid also fouled the ball valve from new, but that was easily fixed by bending down the arm.

By comparison, when I can get the better ones, they go in easily, and to date, I haven’t had to touch one again once it’s set. Being a lazy beggar, I like that, so I bought twice as many as I needed, so as to have spares next time. And I will be needing them, as I notice the aggressive acid water hereabouts is steadily eating its way through the mortar on some of the earlier examples. Oh joy.


Moving on then, what a pleasure it has been to hear that Lily Allen maid right on form. I’m not sure what it is about her singing, but she sure hits the spot. She sometimes has to have the ‘potty-mouth’ filter applied for radio play, the poor girl. Perhaps it’s some kind of musical Tourette’s she suffers from.

And I’m not so sure about the duet she’s been involved with, cos she quite steals the show. In fact, I sometimes perform a duet with her myself, in the privacy of the loader tractor cab at least. Gyp gives me a baleful eye when this occurs…I don’t think he’s a Lily Allen fan.

 

[JP1]

I’ve a curious thing to report. You’ll recall last week I told a sorry tale of how, over 3 days, I lost a Belted cow and twins. It wasn’t with any pride I did so, far from it. I beat myself up dreadful over what I see as my own incompetence, but I’ve got to fill this column somehow- or I don’t get my handful of magic beans from the editor. Some weeks, for lack of sparkling inspiration, I simply have to scrawl down what’s occurring in my day to day existence.
But blow me if one or two messages haven’t come through from ‘leading figures’, folk highly regarded within the industry, congratulating me on telling last week’s story ‘just as it is’. One suggested readers need to know it’s not always like it seems on ‘Adams Farm’. Hmm.
Anyway, I’ve fetched that bunch of cattle closer to home, at a round feeder on hard standing. They’ll ‘clinker up’ directly, which is another issue, but at least they’ll be easily found. Once they’d settled in, I spent a quiet moment walking round the outside of the group as they chewed on breakfast. I was carefully looking for signs of more pending little arrivals, but decided that although there were a couple getting closer, nothing was going to happen for a week or two.
Sure enough, 2 hours later one moseyed back from the feeder, and heaved out a bliddy great full term calf. By the time I noticed, she was industriously licking it as it sprawled to its feet.
I’m beginning to think I should find another career, cos I evidently don’t know what the blazes I’m up to farming.

Mind, if I’m still in the job in a year or two, I see an opportunity coming. I’ve been reading about some bright spark who’s imported some Yak to AI dairy cows to. She reckons the Yaks 8 month pregnancy would be a boon to hi-powered Holsteins in block calving herds, to make up a bit of time when they’ve ‘slipped back’. As well as not knowing a pal of ours already has Yak over here, this nice lady isn’t sure what to do with the Holstein cross calves, although she’s sure the beef will be jolly delicious. What? Is she mad? If the heifers are fertile, they’d be the crossbred suckler cow to wipe the floor with all-comers. The Hereford x Friesian was the suckler yardstick for years, before breeds and fashions changed, but the principal is still sound. You take an easy care beefy sire, and dairy bred dam, to give you a hybrid cow with the best of both. The top performers I ever saw were Jersey x Galloway cows – if you can find them. They’ll rear calves bigger than themselves, living on fresh air and a good view. But a Yak cross cow …now you’re talking.


Right. To celebrate the publication of my 2nd book, we had a bit of a ‘launch party’ last weekend. In truth it was really just an excuse for a bunch of chums and I to eat and drink ourselves to a standstill- and we certainly gave it our best shot. I’m sure there’s a formula for such things, inviting various media pundits and socialites, and organising things rather more professionally, but where’s the fun in that?
Instead, I invited friends vaguely connected with the book for an evening jolly.
Being a bit of a skinflint, I baulked at the idea of laying on entertainment for my esteemed guests, rather suggesting- very gently of course- that they might each come prepared to say a few words, sing a little ditty, or perchance dance a merry jig, to help the evening along. There is, after all, no such thing as a free l(a)unch!
So Saturday night found a group of us cloistered in a backroom in an isolated moorland hostelry- possibly the infamous ‘Strangled Ferret’. Some seemed a touch nervous of how events might unfold, while I suspect others were straining at the leash to impress their fellow diners. Once we’d fed and quaffed sufficiently, a remarkably eclectic array of talents was laid on, catching me quite unawares.
Obviously, some invitees could have been expected to deliver the goods, but even then, the calibre was pretty durn good.
One couple got us singing along in Siberian, to send a video of proceedings to my reindeer herding lady friend on the tundra, while another struggled in with a TV, to screen a short film they’d made- of Galloway cows eating in time to music since you ask. Poems were read, quotes quoted, and strange dances performed.
I loved it. I hope I break even on the book, just so I can have another go in a year or two!

 

[jade35]

@JP1 Feb NFU column yet? I thought the comment '.....I'll help you find the right people if you can't work it out' sounded like helpful advice for the men from the Ministry

 

[JP1]

@JP1 Feb NFU column yet? I thought the comment '.....I'll help you find the right people if you can't work it out' sounded like helpful advice for the men from the Ministry

@jade35

Here's a version of said article:

This is an open response to DEFRAs current ‘consultation’ on TB rules, specifically, with regard cattle grazing the commons of Dartmoor.


I understand you’re thinking we ought to be doing extra tests, onto and off the common.

Seeing as (we suspect) you’re collectively sitting in a nice warm office, while I’m spending most of my days tending cattle which do in fact graze the Forest of Dartmoor, I might have some useful thoughts for you.


Firstly, you need to know that there aren’t any handling pens on the common, and indeed, setting them up would require special permission from the Secretary of State, it being a big no-no to build a structure on the common. And would we build one big race? Or a system for each man? Or at each ‘moor gate’? (I have 20 odd gates onto the common, not including shared ‘drift lanes’). Probably best if you forget about the ‘test-off’ idea straight away.

That leaves ‘test-on’ as a bright idea. And I suppose, from far away, it might seem to be so. I accept that many commons on Dartmoor run contiguously, with no physical boundaries for many miles between them, with several thousand acres of unfenced non-common also running contiguously. And yes, the herds grazing all this unfenced land are free to mix, with strays exchanged and returned during seasonal management gathering. Unsurprisingly it’s not unusual for the odd animal to be found missing, but then to reappear at a later date. BCMS and your own field staff know this full well, and simply have to accept it as the way things are.

No doubt this all greatly excites someone somewhere.

But here’s the thing. As your own vets will tell you, the incidents of TB being contracted on the commons can be counted on the thumbs of anyone doing a survey. It hardly ever happens.

Of the cases around me, including my own, almost all very obviously traceable to lowland pasture, away from the common.



In case you need it explaining, and it appears you do, there are some simple reasons why TB isn’t being transmitted out on the hill.

The stocking rate, of both cattle and badgers, is very low by comparison with lowland situations. The setts on the Forest are something in the order of a mile apart, and believed to be mostly healthy. There isn’t much ‘living’ for a sick badger up there.

Then the cows themselves are almost always in very static closed herds. It is quite normal for extended matriarchies to have been grazing the same piece of hill for many decades, with the only bought in animals being occasional fresh bulls. There is no trough feeding on the common.

The largest concentration of common grazing of cattle is in the Westcountry, where we’re all regularly testing already.

So the risk is tiny. However, the cost and burden of any extra testing is going to drive our cattle off the commons. The economics are on a knife edge as it is, without the chilblains arthritis and frostbite. Your claims to have done a ‘cost/benefit’ study, or whatever it’s called, are quite obviously a big fib. And we don’t like fibbers.

I believe other government departments with interests on the uplands and commons, have raised similar thoughts with you.

Your thoughts on extra tests on these cattle, coupled with the much vaunted ‘zero tolerance’, and ‘culling wild cattle’, and such grand statements, are in danger of further alienating a lot of very decent hard working farmers.


If you do want to do something about TB (and frankly, we’re beginning to wonder if you do), I’ll give you a few pointers.


First, you desperately need to stop it creeping north through the wildlife. We’ll come to how in a moment.

You have to adopt a method of locating and removing the infected wildlife. You might further explore the badger poop testing being done by some university, or you might ask someone like Bryan Hill to show you how by looking at wildlife behaviour.

(Don’t advertise for ‘experts’ and operatives…your ranks simply become filled with wrong’uns. I’ll help you find the right people if you can’t work it out).

Next, given that we’ve put men on the moon since you came up with the ‘skin test’, isn’t it time you got one that works better? I propose you offer a couple of million quid as a prize…it would be a bargain if some boffin can come up with the goods.

With immediate effect, you then need to slap the same movement/ID/testing rules on alpacas that apply to cattle. Your failure to do this thus far is an affront to every cattle farmer in the country.

(The above would fix the ‘northern creep’)

You might also make it a hanging offence to mention ‘vaccination’. Or are you thinking you’re going vaccinate every single wild animal that can get TB in one hit? Or every cow, forever and ever, amen.



There will be pockets which will need focussed attention, but these steps would fix the epidemic very quickly.

You needn’t thank me, or send me the money you’ll save, or give me a knighthood. Just stop floundering about and get on with it

 

[jade35]

Thanks @JP1

 

[JP1]

Ahh, another sunny day on the ‘Happy hill cattle ranch’, home to the sunny dispositioned happy-go-lucky chap you know. Heading out into the gales and driving sleet the other morning, I ventured off to fill feeders on the ridge. When I managed to get to the most exposed, I found myself clinging to the rail, just about flapping like a flag. Getting older and wiser –or just long in the tooth- I’d taken the precaution of starting with some gloves. Sadly, these aren’t of any use when you come to de-string a bale, so it’s back to numb fingers and deft economy of movements. Much as I love my ladies dearly, this wasn’t a morning to dally.

I had taken the precaution of picking damp enough silage bales, or it would’ve simply blown away as the cord came off. The stuff which does get blasted away either sticks to the loader tractor windscreen, where the wipers can smear if to and fro in that annoying fashion we come to recognise, or lodges in my eyes.

And as I bundled up the handful of cord at this most exposed feeder, and turned to glance across the valley, what did I espy? Why 2 minibuses parking at the cattle grid to disgorge their troops of kids to go hiking. Astonishing! I have to assume that they went home again pretty pronto, as the buses didn’t hang about, and it hasn’t been on the news since, which it surely would’ve if they’d sent the kids out that particular morning. I did speculate what would’ve happened as they opened the minibus door, to sample the local conditions. I reckon the gale would’ve near ripped the door off its hinges. I certainly have to watch the tractor doors, the weather here evidently being a little different to that around Mannheim, or wherever it is they make green tractors.

Despite all this, I’ve had a flurry of calves, now the cows have decided to get on with it again. One was born a couple of hundred yards back from said feeder, and with hood lashed down tight on hat, I ventured off to check it. There it was, 24 hours old, happy as Larry. Curled up beside Mum, thick coat making it look like it was made of dense foam rubber. And here’s where we get to the bit I didn’t want to talk about.

Last weeks new arrival in this group had been fine, up and skipping about, but in a fit of farmery-ness, I’d earlier decided to fetch it indoors. A stone byre stood empty, and the outfit could be penned there temporarily. Grabbing some keen assistants, mother and child were easily persuaded in the gate, and down the lane. Once into the back yard however, she started getting testy, and kicked me....hard. Explaining this wasn’t what I wanted, I got her indoors, and went on my way to a meeting. 3 hours later, I returned to the yard, to find that after she’d given my darling wife and various now reluctant assistants a mighty run-around, she jumped several gates, and got right back where she came from. They’d given up, and turned the calf back out in the field, where Mum was now careering about, head up, indicating she’d ‘not be coming anywhere near that claustrophobic building in this lifetime pal’.

Never one to blow against the wind if I can help it, I concurred with all opinions …she could stop out for a day or two. Now fast forward to the weekend, when the gales were threatening to blow the calf off its legs, and there was another new arrival. Alison and I set off once more, to fetch both outfits in. 2 would be quieter than 1 was my thought.

This entailed the two of us clumping about in full kit, through the porridge, trying to outrun the first cow who still wasn’t having a bit of it. Eventually, we had to bring the whole group down to the pens, to shed out the wretched creature, and get her and friend indoors. And now? Yes, as quiet as a little lamb.

What I’m not going to tell you about is the outfit the other side of the valley, because it’s a gorgeous Red Galloway heifer, who stole the South Devon bull. And I know you wouldn’t believe I’d be as slack as to allow her to calve on an even more exposed newtake unattended, or worse, then leave her and baby skipping about in the sleet. So I won’t have to admit it was 3-4 days before I even saw the calf, only knowing she’d calved because one day she was a bit empty, and she had a bit of udder which was cleanly sucked. Jeez but there’s some muppets about.

 

[JP1]

I’ve been off on a jolly again. I do know you hate me to sit under my rock too long, getting all maudlin, so I slipped the leash and irresponsibly jumped on a plane for one of my sporadic mysterious business meetings in the frozen wastes of the North. This involves sitting around a big table with a lot of rather dour auld beggars –with one or two notable exceptions-, and this time, I had a depressing epiphany moment when I realised I’m one of them myself. Aargh!

Travelling was the normal eclectic mixture of experiences and exposure to differing folk. I was travelling alone this time, both of my sometime fellow travellers having domestic responsibilities to attend. In the absence of the older of us 3, who airport security invariably are irresistibly drawn to search carefully, it was my turn for the intimate pat down. And sure enough, I drew a rather glum looking fella to run his hands up and down my legs. On balance, I suppose this was probably better than the effete chap pushing the snack trolley up and down the plane once aloft.

Now despite what you say, I’m a curious and garrulous sort when out and about, ever ready to make polite conversation with others I meet along the way. Even while in the tender care of ‘Cheapskate Airlines’. And my efforts were generally rewarding once more. Both up and back, I found myself crammed into a shuttle bus -across the aerodrome – with a Royal Navy officer (at least, he had a bit of scrambled egg on his lapels, so I suppose he’s an officer). He was bound for Faslane or somesuch base for the day, and was a genial and interesting chap. He did tell me more about his mission, but I’ve since forgotten the detail, so the MoD can be spared the effort of killing me.
And I’d say that if I squeezed bullocks into a trailer like ‘SleazyFlight’ had us on the coaches, I’d soon be up before the beak.

Flying up, I had a lucky draw, seated next to a sweet young thing heading off to organise some provincial outlying wing of the bank she worked for. And a very chatty and pleasant girl she was too. I discovered her hubby is training to be a solicitor, while she feeds them both, although she harbours a secret desire to go into fine leatherwork/sewing, while he really yearns to live by blacksmithing. This was, I considered, an interesting snapshot into the minds of tomorrows middle class. Oh, and I ascertained her mum had been a ‘cordwainer’, who made shoes –whereas a cobbler repairs shoes.

The only thing of note at my meeting happened when discussing whether the- very Scottish -organisation should be encouraging some separate regional activities down South. I asked if we Southerners might hold some kind of referendum to decide the matter. Uproar!

Coming home, at the end of a very long day, I seated with a pair of even younger babes, seemingly of Russian extraction. With reluctance, I have to admit this wasn’t as much fun as it might’ve been, as instead of bettering themselves by chatting to me, they giggled constantly about the perfume freebies they’d daubed on their wrists in the duty free shop. If I spoke Russian, I might’ve gleaned that ‘zis perfume smells so much better zan ze orrible old man next to us’. Who knows? I kept my head in my book.



Home again, and still on books, I forgot to admit something. At the ‘book launch’ shindig for my latest tome backalong, my party piece was to read a poem by evocative early Oz poet Banjo Paterson (‘A Bush Christening’ – google it). I had considered singing a bit of a song, but had a nasty suspicion that 2- 3 different guests have the ability –and the scurrilous nature- to record me doing so, and subsequently sample bits of my dulcet singing voice, splicing snippets into some rave/techno beat, and quickly stuck it online. Probably complete with an image of my photo-shopped head glued on a ‘nodding head dog’. That’s why I didn’t sing!



Now it’s back to the grindstone, with the gales and torrents of rain still very much a feature of my life. I’m still bemoaning that cow who kicked me last week. She’s left me with a very sore leg, and smacked about elbow. The other elbow is still giving me a lot of tennis flavoured gyp, and something very like sciatica is running down the same leg the cow smacked. I tell you all this not because you wanted to hear about all my occupational ailments –very likely you have your own-, but rather so you’ll forgive me if I allow myself a fairly hefty snort this stormy eve.

 

[JP1]

Isn’t it novel, having all those ministers and big guns worrying about the Westcountry- or they were until the Thames started spilling over. Better they’d closed the old stable door before the horse swam away, but hey-ho.

I’d better fess up, and admit at least the floods rush past me. I do find myself a tiny bit nearer sea-level after every storm, as another wheel barrow full of dirt goes galloping off down the Dart. And while the howling gales have made my daily routine a bit of a grind, in truth, I’m still here, and so is everything that was sufficiently nailed down before Mr Beaufort got his measuring device out.

But what of our inundated flatland cousins, and the fringes where ragged edges are fraying under sustained floods and repeated battering by gales? Various coastal defences are to be abandoned in the face of unpalatable bills, and the protection of lowlands – including, but not exclusively ‘the Levels’- is apparently open to some kind of negotiation. And of course, there’s that stretch of rail line dangling over thin air. Despite current Ministerial promises, hands are being wrung about the cost of it all.

As a rule of thumb, I’m inclined to regard protecting such communities and communal assets as the mark of a civilised society. If the majority cannot help the minority, then a fundamental cornerstone of civilisation goes out of the window. If you let a coastline erode, or a flatland increasingly flood, because ‘it’s only a few folk at the edge who’re affected’, who’s next?

Abandoning the rail line from the Exe round to the Teign, in favour of a more protected route, holds no water for me. If you do that, what of the row of houses subsequently exposed? What of the existing rail infrastructure? Unless there are already overwhelming reasons to abandon the coastal route, better bite the bullet and make it storm proof. It certainly isn’t beyond us to fix the immediate breach, and implement an ongoing program of summertime work to form better wave protection 20-30 yards further off shore. The cost will be miniscule compared to the absurd alternatives, so do get on with it chaps.

The ‘Levels’ situation also seems to be pretty clear cut, in that dredging the rivers concerned would likely alleviate a lot of the problems. The only discussion should be about how localised the funding has to be. There are longer term considerations to be aware of there, as smallest rise in sea level will likely have a monstrous effect on areas like the Levels, but I would expect us to be making massive efforts before we ever got to the unthinkable choices about that. Ask me again in 50 years.

Sea defences elsewhere come back to the rail line argument. If you let one bit go, who’s next in the firing line? With a finite footprint to live on, we as a nation should, without hesitation, presume to prevent loss to the sea. There will be places where the cost is vastly disproportionate, but the costs shouldn’t just be sitting on the shoulders of those on the front line.

However, flooding elsewhere starts to venture into some murkier territory, with graduations of blame and responsibility. Many of us have watched new developments being put on ‘flood plains’. These areas of dead flat ground, adjacent to water courses, are flat because the water spreads across them in times of deluge, leaving deposits of alluvial material behind. This is inevitable, and building on them is simply irresponsible. And while the occasional inundation generally doesn’t harm the agricultural output of this productive ground much, covering it with houses and industrial units absolutely does. Likewise, in that row of quaint old cottages down by the brook, inhabitants of old accepted that downstairs was going to get drenched occasionally. The cottages were cheaper, and occupants had to be stoical about it. Nowadays, however, relocating urban refugees, having chucked out that frightful lino and fitted nice carpets, and filled the downstairs with electrical gadgets, kick up a huge row when their lives are turned upside down by the same occasional deluge. I notice they’re rarely seen with a preventative pointy shovel over their shoulders.

My sympathies are stretched somewhat in such instances. Perhaps we should encourage an autumn ‘gutter and storm drain clearance party’, for every community.



At least, on moorlands upstream, we’re gently being encouraged to hold up some of the floods through peat bog restoration, and prevent silt going down the swannee with improved tracks and silt traps and the like. The schemes are generally quietly getting on with it, but there is a definite change in direction.

Next week, maybe I’ll try and dredge up (haha) some dusty desert tale from my wastrel youth, to make you feel warmer.

 

[JP1]

Having opened my big mouth about flooding, I’ve been listening to some of the drivel coming from ‘single interest groups’ and farmer hating journalists. (For there are such things in papers less ‘rural’.)

One loud mouth rabble rouser keeps going on about ‘rewilding’ the uplands, to hold up floods in hills which are ‘overgrazed by sheep’. He’s evidently a cheap soundbite, as he’s been spouting his theories –as facts- on’t telly and radio, as well as in the papers.

Sadly, his prejudices are a decade out of date, and he doesn’t seem to have noticed that the UK’s upland sheep flock has plummeted. After headage payments stopped, numbers slipped, and many flocks have vanished off the toughest UK hills. Combined with environmental agreements, severely curtailing what we can graze anyway, there is currently far more vegetation, and fewer sheep, on our uplands than there’s been for decades. But then, I don’t think the bloke is overly bothered about the actual truth, rather just his version of it. He wants us and our tibby-baa lambs completely off the hills, which will apparently make all the floods go away.

In fact, ‘we’ve’ been grazing the uplands in the Southwest for approaching 10,000 years hereabouts, having cleared the scrub woodland that preceded us fairly early on. And, as it happens, the upland bogs the bloke is carping on about grew as a side effect of our presence on the hills.

Rightly or wrongly, we’re here now….. along with 60-70 million, mostly urban, lowland brethren. Anyone wanting to talk about rewilding areas currently in any kind of production will no doubt be happy to point to those who will have to starve.

And I know they’ll tell us we can import our victuals, although the same journo is outraged, I’ve been finding out, that nasty Brazilians are clearing the rainforest to grow soya beans for….well, for us as much as anyone. Blind prejudice and hypocrisy I’m afraid.


There are soul searching questions to ask, and to avoid monstrous social chaos, we have to find a way forward, one step at a time. And accepting that it’s homo-sapiens that are vastly overstocked is going to be a far bigger pill to swallow, if one rather more necessary.

I’m happy to talk about how to replant vast areas of upland with –productive- trees, re-wet peatlands, and hold livestock production down, but will only do so if, at the same time, we’re going to talk about the tens of millions of urban Britain’s who want housing, food, and a ‘modern’ standard of living. That is the elephant in the room my friends.



Right, that’s enough of that.

As a tonic, let me take you somewhere hot and dry- I did promise we would, didn’t I?

Now, something you might not know about scrubby deserts –certainly, this peasant Dartmoor farmer didn’t- is that the ground is often carpeted with dead twigs. However far apart those gnarled little thorn trees grow, once they topple over, with very little moisture they’ll simply lie there desiccated, for years. In some places, this might be for decades, centuries perhaps.

I discovered this whilst driving across a vast, red dusty Australian waste as a youth, and pulled over to answer a call of nature. Foolishly stepping off the surfaced road in bare feet, I got 2-3 paces before I realised I was walking on a thick coat of crunchy thorn twigs. And trust me, this focusses the mind. Then, having got 2-3 paces onto this mat barefooted, how to get back again? Ouch.

A few years later, whilst trudging on foot across an empty dusty scrubland in the States, I was wise to the phenomena. As evening came on and the sun dipped majestically behind the mountains off my starboard bow –I was heading South in this case- I’d start to think where I might pitch my little tent.

If I’m strictly candid, being an affable soul travelling alone, I often found myself being taken in by whacky characters I met along the way, like some hungry waif. I wasn’t hungry, restocking the pound or so of cheese and a hunk of bread in my pack whenever the chance arose, but hey! Who turns down a free supper? By their nature, such evenings often gave rise to stories of their own, but we’re digressing.

There were evenings where I’d have to scout about for somewhere clear of an itchy bed of spiky dead twigs. And for good measure, in this particular high country, there were masses of tiny spiny cacti as well. Double ouch.

I suppose the flip side of the coin is that I rarely got rained on, and came out the other side with quite a tan. And that’s something I surely haven’t been getting up here of late!

Right. Onwards.