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The Anton Coaker Western Morning News Column
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<blockquote data-quote="JP1" data-source="post: 119273" data-attributes="member: 54"><p>Loath to miss the weather, we pressed on with cutting grass. As I tap at the keyboard tonight, we’ve passed 130 acres cut and baled, with about half as much to go. Most of what’s left wasn’t stood up until nearly midsummer and could do with another week or two, so I’ve taken the mower off for a bit. This suits me well enough, as I’m a frazzled wreck. The last few days baling was wrapped, as I’m soon going to run out of shed space. The platt where we wrap and stack is covered in 2” of dust, ground to the consistency of flour by constant heavy traffic. Alison and I did 124 on Monday in that heat, and frankly it wasn’t the romantic rural idyll some of you think we inhabit. I tried throwing a bit of water about, to keep the powdery muck down, but it only lasted an hour or so. A couple of times, dust devils blew up, in which you couldn’t see or breathe. Lovely. </p><p> Some of what’s gone through the baler was cut a bit sooner than I’d prefer, but at least I’ve managed to bale up loads of the wretched ‘yellow rattle’ before it can set too many seeds. A succession of late harvests have let it run rampant through the mowing ground, gobbling up nitrogen to no good effect.</p><p> I know various folk who believe, by turn, that mowing ground should carry nothing but souped up hybrid ryegrass, on a 3 year rotation and a diet of Nitram. Then there’s folk who reckon that we should deliberately allow every little weed to seed naturally ‘man’, and send an urchin ahead of the team of men with scythes, to shoo away the voles and harvest mice. I exist somewhere between these points, never reseeding if I can possibly help it, the cows and I loving the variety of wild flowers in my crops, while at the same time trying to keep them from overwhelming more productive species. And I’m more than fed up with the ‘rattle’.</p><p> </p><p> Still, I now have the luxury of having in-bye fields available to hold stock as we get back into ovine and bovine task for a minute.</p><p> Shearing is upon us, and poor defrocking technician Dave has already done a day or two in sweltering conditions. I should congratulate him and his delightful wife Helen on their hatching of twins since last summer – I think, to be honest, that Helen did most of the work. And how novel it is to have a shearer with twins that are the same age! I should explain to those who never worked with infamous ex-mutton juggler, hedge builder and raconteur ‘Uncle Terence’. To speed the monotonous hours in the sheep shed, Terry would often tell us about his twins, one of which was apparently a year or so older than the other. Now he’s retired from wrestling sheep, I sometimes see him in town, and always ask how their getting on –one has passed 30 now I believe, while both remain, to the best of our knowledge, quite fictitious. Although, with uncle T, who could ever be quite sure?</p><p> Next on the job list is to fetch together some cows, and get them with their appropriate husbands. It’s a week or two past when I want them sorted, and the boys have been straining at the leash. The valley echoes with their trumpeting, bass wailing and grumbling. Each is bawling that he is the top dog, and that everyone should look out. 2-3 have jumped the gun –and some inappropriate heifers- on various occasions. This hasn’t been helped by a succession of gates being left unfastened by walker/visitors –along with their countless illicit encampments/bar-b-qs/abandoned cars/ families and dogs romping through uncut hay fields, trash left everywhere, and the like. I’m generally an affable enough chap, but the workload has left me in a poor state of mind to deal with the fallout from such relentless pressure. There is public access over hundreds of acres of my farm, to walk upon and enjoy the peaceful beauty, but that just isn’t enough for some people.</p><p> For good measure I hear some bright spark thinks I shouldn’t put cows on ground with public access, due to one or two unfortunate incidents involving people taking their dogs in amongst cattle. Well forgive me, but how are you going to walk through the majestic landscape if my hairy little friends haven’t kept the vegetation down? Armies of park rangers with strimmers? The very pastoral beauty itself, which we find so attractive, is a product of the livestock.</p><p> I’m sorry, but I’m just too tired and irritable, after weeks of relentless long hot days grind to discuss the matter like a grown up. We got here first, and if you don’t like it, best take your leisure someplace else. <em>(sorry Ed, will try and be a bit more upbeat next week)</em></p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="JP1, post: 119273, member: 54"] Loath to miss the weather, we pressed on with cutting grass. As I tap at the keyboard tonight, we’ve passed 130 acres cut and baled, with about half as much to go. Most of what’s left wasn’t stood up until nearly midsummer and could do with another week or two, so I’ve taken the mower off for a bit. This suits me well enough, as I’m a frazzled wreck. The last few days baling was wrapped, as I’m soon going to run out of shed space. The platt where we wrap and stack is covered in 2” of dust, ground to the consistency of flour by constant heavy traffic. Alison and I did 124 on Monday in that heat, and frankly it wasn’t the romantic rural idyll some of you think we inhabit. I tried throwing a bit of water about, to keep the powdery muck down, but it only lasted an hour or so. A couple of times, dust devils blew up, in which you couldn’t see or breathe. Lovely. Some of what’s gone through the baler was cut a bit sooner than I’d prefer, but at least I’ve managed to bale up loads of the wretched ‘yellow rattle’ before it can set too many seeds. A succession of late harvests have let it run rampant through the mowing ground, gobbling up nitrogen to no good effect. I know various folk who believe, by turn, that mowing ground should carry nothing but souped up hybrid ryegrass, on a 3 year rotation and a diet of Nitram. Then there’s folk who reckon that we should deliberately allow every little weed to seed naturally ‘man’, and send an urchin ahead of the team of men with scythes, to shoo away the voles and harvest mice. I exist somewhere between these points, never reseeding if I can possibly help it, the cows and I loving the variety of wild flowers in my crops, while at the same time trying to keep them from overwhelming more productive species. And I’m more than fed up with the ‘rattle’. Still, I now have the luxury of having in-bye fields available to hold stock as we get back into ovine and bovine task for a minute. Shearing is upon us, and poor defrocking technician Dave has already done a day or two in sweltering conditions. I should congratulate him and his delightful wife Helen on their hatching of twins since last summer – I think, to be honest, that Helen did most of the work. And how novel it is to have a shearer with twins that are the same age! I should explain to those who never worked with infamous ex-mutton juggler, hedge builder and raconteur ‘Uncle Terence’. To speed the monotonous hours in the sheep shed, Terry would often tell us about his twins, one of which was apparently a year or so older than the other. Now he’s retired from wrestling sheep, I sometimes see him in town, and always ask how their getting on –one has passed 30 now I believe, while both remain, to the best of our knowledge, quite fictitious. Although, with uncle T, who could ever be quite sure? Next on the job list is to fetch together some cows, and get them with their appropriate husbands. It’s a week or two past when I want them sorted, and the boys have been straining at the leash. The valley echoes with their trumpeting, bass wailing and grumbling. Each is bawling that he is the top dog, and that everyone should look out. 2-3 have jumped the gun –and some inappropriate heifers- on various occasions. This hasn’t been helped by a succession of gates being left unfastened by walker/visitors –along with their countless illicit encampments/bar-b-qs/abandoned cars/ families and dogs romping through uncut hay fields, trash left everywhere, and the like. I’m generally an affable enough chap, but the workload has left me in a poor state of mind to deal with the fallout from such relentless pressure. There is public access over hundreds of acres of my farm, to walk upon and enjoy the peaceful beauty, but that just isn’t enough for some people. For good measure I hear some bright spark thinks I shouldn’t put cows on ground with public access, due to one or two unfortunate incidents involving people taking their dogs in amongst cattle. Well forgive me, but how are you going to walk through the majestic landscape if my hairy little friends haven’t kept the vegetation down? Armies of park rangers with strimmers? The very pastoral beauty itself, which we find so attractive, is a product of the livestock. I’m sorry, but I’m just too tired and irritable, after weeks of relentless long hot days grind to discuss the matter like a grown up. We got here first, and if you don’t like it, best take your leisure someplace else. [I](sorry Ed, will try and be a bit more upbeat next week)[/I] [/QUOTE]
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