Grass Roots - January 2002 | | Anton Coaker is a Devon hill farmer whose stock was culled as contiguous to an outbreak of Foot-and-Mouth.
Ten years ago he diversified into the sawmill and timber business, he also retails beef and lamb reared on the farm.
Each month he takes a look at the state of farming, from grass roots level: |
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Well the shortest day has been and gone, and a new year is upon us. Not surprisingly, most of the Chrimbo cards that adorned our living room suggested that 2002 ought to be a better year. I'll drink to that!
 | Just a dusting of snow on Dartmoor
this Christmas |
Here in "peasant land", where the men-folk smell of silage and the women have to pretend they don’t notice, we have been eased into winter by the mildest autumn I can recall.
Anyone who earns their crust in the great outdoors, (and I’m talking trawler-men, electric linesmen, fencing contractors and the such, rather than abseiling instructors and mountain bike service technicians), will know just what I mean when I observe the difference twixt this mid-winter and the last!
Another like last winter, and I would have "taken stock of my personal motivation in the sphere of career choice". I’ll not tempt fate, May is a long way off yet.
Farming-type work on the list this week has included weaning the last of the spring calves. The cows have carried themselves well up to now, but some serious weather would soon drag the flesh off cows still in milk if they are to spend their time out on the side of the hill.
 | The cows have carried themselves well
up to now |
There is a handful of late calves still skidding about, including heifers on bought in cows, which I need to acclimatise ("lear" in the vernacular) to their home for the next 10-15 years. Bit of extra feed needed there I reckon.
On the subject of fodder, we have started to think about hay/silage requirements for the rest of winter, and I suspect I may have a surplus. (My life seems full of new experiences, suddenly.)
I will close with a warming tale of a farmer friend of mine, who is now, sadly, long since under the ground. (The tale has no relevance to this column, but it’s my column, so tough!)
When I was a teenager I rode a motorcycle. One day, whilst in the hurry that teenagers always are, I was crossing a windswept common bisected by a road and hit one of this gentleman’s ewes, which had chosen that very moment to cross said road .
The poor old ewe came off much the worse.
The farmer, a very senior and much respected man, was, as all the local lads knew, a fire breathing dragon in such matters.
It was with fear and trepidation, and a chequebook, that young Coaker went round with the news.
 | Drive with Moor care - the advice for motorists on Dartmoor roads |
The farmer took the news quietly, and relieved me of a cheque equal to the value of the sheep, (also equal to about three weeks disposable income for a farm lad at that time - and my haven’t times changed!)
For me and the sheep that was the end of the matter.
A decade and more passed. I found myself stood at a farm sale beside the farmer. I had, in the intervening years, been regarding him as a hard but fair man. He and I discussed all of those things that farmers do at such occasions.
I had grown enough to listen to what a very senior man, by this time, had to say. He then turned to me, and asked if I still had the motorbike. "Yes", I replied.
"Did I remember when I hit a sheep of his one day?" He enquired. "Yes", I replied again, wondering where this line of questioning was heading.
"And you came right down, and gave me a cheque for that ewe?". "Yes", I responded, starting to worry. "Lot of b******s! Shouldn’t have bothered to do that, boy...."
He paused, holding me in his beady eye; "…I still get that cheque out and look at it, sometimes."
ANTON
You can comment on Anton's Diary on our Farmers' Forum and there'll be more "Grass Roots" next month. |
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