Two entries in one day! It's because it's a lazy day and my internet is working.

We've lost our wonderful tenants, as tenants that is. But tnhis morning there they all were in the gardne wathcing us build a hen pen. They'd been staying in our caravan after attending a party in the village. We were supposed to go but we were too tired - or too old! Please, dont feel sorry for us, we had a lovely cosy evening, thank you.

I shall miss them all in different ways. Jan because we're mates; Mark because he's so clever. and can make anything; Jo because he's one of the nicest little boys I've ever met and Naomi because she's just the best when working in the cattle shed. A natural with the animals and a fund of the most awful jokes I have yet to hear. Cheers me up no end.

Here's looking forward to the next party, visit or mooch about the garden.

Morose musings on a windy day

It’s
been ages since I wrote in this journal.
It’s because we’ve been having our TB test and found wanting. We didn't worry about TB, our cattle graze
well away from other cattle and their robust health is a byword. Guess by now everyone knows that to our
dismay we had two reactors at that first test which meant that they were sent
for slaughter; that we can’t take any animal off the farm when the ground is
now exhausted after the winter, that we can’t sell anything and that we can’t
show our cattle. And shows are our shop
window.

Before
all this happened on a blissfully warm evening we sat outside with a pre-supper
drink watching the sun set over the lakes and the Hills of Colorado darkening
from lavender to deep indigo. It is so
utterly beautiful here that one forgets why it is as it is.

It’s
because of geology, to be sure. But it’s because of agriculture as well. A place like this Valley is the result of at
least a couple of thousand years of farming; mostly sheep; it is a place of
infinite variety and beauty. Song bird
numbers are declining enormously in the rest of the UK because of arable farming
practices. This Valley teams with them.
We have a band of cuckoos here that drive us made. I kid you not! I know that cuckoos are solitary, territorial
birds, but this Valley is called Cuckoo
Valley and quite rightly. There are at least four every year
cuck-cucking away into utter insanity.
The Skylark is on the wane, but not here; its nests are in abundance. The reason for the huge song bird numbers is
because of cattle. Highland
cattle are eclectic grazers; some cattle are not. This means that they eat whatever grows
naturally up here and their dung is rich in seeds from grasses and fescues
which in turn feed the songbirds. They (the cattle, not the song birds) prune
the more virulent plants like molynia and whin, they stomp on bracken and they
open up the ground for ground and create a plethora of habitats for the creepy
crawlies to beautiful song birds and their predators. But they do none of this to the exclusion of
anything else.

So
you can understand we have many reasons to love our cattle. They are beautiful, co-operative, they
manage habitat and we eat them. It is a fact of agriculture and
conservation that if one did not keep cattle to eat, the proliferation of wild
life would decline rapidly. Moreover we
care for our animals, genuinely care for them even unto death. I guess that this is you would be forgiven
for thinking that we’re sentimental about them when they die untimely.

By
untimely I mean that they die for no reason.
Every time I talk to people about our TB reactors they ask: “have you
got badgers?” The answer is “yes”. “Well, there you are” they say
as if badgers are the answer to everything. Perhaps they are, but what about a
whole raft of other mammals who get TB and are not tested? What about a vaccine? I ask in all ignorance because I hate to see
lovely, healthy animals slaughtered without being certain why they go to their
death. It is even more distressing
because the animals that do go off for slaughter go with an unknown man, in a
strange vehicle to an unknown place to suffer I know not how or what.

What
I would like to know is what the danger of cross species infection is? Surely badgers aren’t the only carriers. What different strains of TB are there that
affects cattle? Why can’t we have a vaccine?
Do we have to kill cattle and/or badgers? I know that badgers are a top predator and
have seen the damage they do to lambs. But like all predators they are over
protected, just look at our skies swarming with protected raptors. I remember the environmental and personal
devastation of the Foot and Mouth epidemic with grass burnt by disinfectant, the
sky black with the smoke of burning cattle and the grief and anxiety of farmers
at the loss of precious animals. We seem
unable to behave in a balanced way with all this, either we want to kill them
all or we are in conflict with the people who want to preserve them all. This is a big debate that can range from the
health of our farming stock to the health of our planet to our own health and
still not come up with a universally acceptable answer. But if we don’t have the science, and I don’t
think we have, then we’ve got no chance at all of making an informed choice as
to what we do to preserve our wild life and our food stocks.

I
said earlier that we had great confidence in the robust health our cattle. The TB test is a test of immunity not
specifically for the presence of the disease.
It is at best only 80% effective and that it can be skewed by the
presence of impurities in the blood or infestations like liver fluke. Moreover, if there is a reaction is more
likely that the cattle have been exposed to the disease and fought it off and
are now immune. And then we have them killed! It makes a nonsense of animal
welfare putting them through all that stress on a regular basis. In any other situation whoever was
perpetrating this outrage would be had up by the RSPCA!

At
the risk of sounding utterly wet and a weed it may be that 20 years of careful
breeding will go down the pan as at the latest TRB test we had four inconclusive. If, at the next test, they are still inconclusive they will be killed. All four are all of our very best animals, constant
show winners and breeders. It will set
our breeding programme back a dozen years at least. Not that it will stop us, things could be
much worse. I think of the average age
of the farming population, which is 60, and it seems to me that there may be
some mileage in trusting us old ‘uns get on with feeding the population and keeping our animals healthy instead of beating us over the head with half baked ideas about health and safety.

Theatre

It is most provoking, as Humpty Dumpty observed to Alice, when people can’t tell
the difference between a tie and a belt, or in my case between waving and
drowning.

Due to an overdeveloped social conscience and a desire to continue showing off, I
have conceived the idea of founding a Youth Theatre. Frankly I think it’s rather big of me. Not because it’s altruistic, although it is in the way outlined; but because it’s over-ambitious!

I last ran a Youth Theatre over 30 years ago. It was easy. A friend lent us an old barn up in the hills of Llanfair. 18 children aged from 5 to 18 came each Sunday afternoon to learn about performance, telling stories, writing scripts, making scenery, costumes and how to co-operate. We drove around the area piled somehow into my old Landrover, all 19 of us squeezed in amongst props, and costumes with really very little thought as to health and safety. I was the only adult and we
performed puppet shows, pantomimes and reviews in pubs, in fields at village
fetes, town festivals. All the material
was devised, designed and written by the children. Sometimes it was ad hoc and sometimes it was pretty professional; it all depended on how long we’d had to rehearse and make props, scenery and costumes.

It’s very different this time, we have to be a constituted Charity, we have to have CRB checks, we have to have Trustees and then we can get “Funding” I wasn’t expecting that and now I know why potential Prima Donnas are popping up. To date I am the official and only recognised PD. And it is here that we come to the provokin bit.

I have been promoting the thing so as to get the thing off the ground. The sooner the better in my view. Within what seemed like minutes but was probably a couple of days, to my delight, people were contacting me. But they just wanted to tell me how to set the thing up, how to teach, how to direct and how to run it. They even went so far as to complain that I hadn’t done it as they would have; but refrained from going into too much detail.

None
of these are particularly provoking in themselves. However, what is provoking is the inability to tell the difference between a grateful welcome to some practical help and an inability to know what I was doing.

In the end, of course, no practical helphas been forthcoming and I am at liberty to set the thing up to please myself. As I would be taking the lion’s share of the responsibility and am currently funding it this suits me to a degree.
In this way, when the inevitable rush of people wishing to be on yet another committee arrives; either to gain kudos for cute costumes for their offspring, or to put pressure for same to be in the limelight, I will be able to resist in favour of the talented and the dedicated.!

Now I’m off to Zumba which should take care of any last vestige of aggression that I have left after this rant!

Since I drafted this, two of my very competent and skilled old students have consented to serve on my committee; and the perfectly fabulous Helen Jones without whom things would have gone particularly pear shaped on the first workshop! I am an ungrateful cow! Bless you girls I love you xxxx

Losers!

Today is not like any other day. We lost an adorable little bull last week and this week our TB test threw up two reactors, this means that they will have to be slaughtered. One was a really beautiful heifer: the end of a distiguished line. This means that we can't show our animals at any shows this year; so no shop window and no sales for six months, probably. There will be no movements off the holding so our 30+ steers don't go to their summer grazing lands: and we lose the income from this too. Much loved animals and a big chunk of income lost in one fell swoop. We feel raptored indeed.

But we've had worse and many other people have gone through this experience and the feeling will go away soon. Meanwhile, the garden waits, there are heavenly walks over the hills and a felting project to finish!He looks rather macabre at the moment, dont you think?

Teenagers! All that hormonal angst

Having not long ago gone through that most enigmatic of women’s Rites of Passage, the menopause, I have been forcibly reminded of that awful time of loneliness, alienation, self hate and anger that is characterised by the hormonally deranged. I love teenagers!

This is not to say that I have endless patience with them. It is the most wearing thing to be grunted at, ignored, abused and reviled. Nevertheless, this is exactly how they are feeling and, whilst one may not be able to all sweetness and light in their company if they push you too far, they do it because they hate everything. We, on the other hand, know about all that and love everything. Don’t we????

Naomi is a teenager and she lives in the Vally; she says she wants to help with the animals. So I ring up in the morning:

“Hi Nai” I say, “we’ll be down at the yard in about ten minutes.”

“Nghh!” she says

“See you there?

“Uh.” she replies. It's like talking to a little rooting creature who is busy rooting.

At this point I think: “she won’t turn up, she’ll be grumpy and uncooperative, why did I ever bother to encourage this young thug?” When she arrives she is nothing of the kind. She has a dry sense of humour and a lopsided, sardonic smile and works hard.

“Mum woke me up when you rang!” she says. After yesterday’s assertion that she always woke early and was ready for the outdoor life she and I both know that she is as much of a sleepy head as her mum. But her smile tells you that she knows that.

We get to work.

Yesterday we washed the little beef shorthorn bull. Geoff leads him out into the sun where he poses shyly by the catle crush. Today we are working with the Highland Cattle. She is good with animals and learns

quickly. It takes her a while to get used to talking and working at the same time. Every time she thinks of a joke or a remark she stops in the middle of what she’s doing; whether she’s preparing to heave some muck into a wheelbarrow or halter a yearling. The yearling gets bored and wanders off and we have to start all over again. But by the second day she’s haltering them all by herself. By the third day she’s managing to combine the work and the questionable jokes. She's a useful addition to the "team".

Up here in this high Valley the grass seldom comes before May. This year it has arrived early. I am surprised. After such a cruel winter one would have thought the grass would be even later, but the glorious warm weeks of April must have given it a boost that most years don’t offer. The fields are that heavenly tender emerald green that you know means lush early grass. Consequently the cattle have got the squitters. The rich sound of dung hitting the ground reminds me of the opening bars of Eastenders - or someone falling down stairs. Their bums are rather horrid as a result and we’ll have an uncomfortable time getting them clean when it comes to washing if the rain doesn’t come to give us a hand. Dung, as you know, can dry to a concrete consistency. They used to plaster walls with it, after all.

The garden is reacting in much the same way as the grass. Bluebells have invaded the little oval back vegetable garden

and the shrubs that haven’t died have put on quite a show. Things are harsh up here and I am still a novice at decorative planting. The consequence of this is that I just put in whatever cuttings I glean from chums and think will look good. This means that although I’m glad that azaleas and rhododendrons, bridal veils and clematis, and no doubt wigealia, syringea in due course, have lots of flowers this year – there are still huge gaps. My copper beech looks dead, but I know it isn’t and a little oak I planted by the chestnut fence about four years ago still has a mantle of dead leave. The fruit trees in the orchard have more blossom on them than I can ever remember. It is a joyful time in the Valley when the sun shines like this.

As the Show season approaches the training steps up a pace. Every morning after breakfast Geoff and I march solemnly round the yard leading a young animal. They’re bored and we have to heave them along to begin with. It’s exhausting work and I think to myself: “dumpy little old ladies getting on for 70 shouldn’t be doing this!” But I know that if we get it right they will be easy to lead on the day and I will be proud to take these lovely beasts round the ring.

We are proud of our cattle. It’s taken over 20 years to develop a type and it is very special to see them all dolled up for show. They are inveterate show offs and love the buzz and excitement of a Show; and the bigger the better. Cattle are good at body language and atmosphere. They can read you better than any human. If you’re bored then they’re bored; hence the rather lumpen performance at home. As soon as you get to a Show you can feel the excitement and so can they, and they rise to the occasion. Even the bulls who are notoriously slow put on a bit of speed.

Naiomi and I will be looking after the farm on Saturday because Geoff is going to the Chelford Sale. I'm glad to be working with her, I love teenagers!

Was I really 67?

This photograph taken 60 years ago is of me at the top of Hong Kong Peak overlooking the harbour. Now I'm 3 years off 70! There was a time, doesn’t seem that long ago, that I thought getting to 60 was a long life. Now perhaps I’ve only just begun to learn things. But then, I thought the same in my forties and my fifties.

Trouble is that as the 60s progress one forgets things. However, it’s not the lessons one forgets it’s the day to day things. The ability to do several things at once is diminished. Today I was listening to the radio while I filled a saucepan to cook some polenta and did some washing, But then I nearly dropped a pair of knickers into the boiling water meant for the polenta and would, no doubt if left to myself, have thrown the polenta over the drying rack!

For my 60^th birthday Geoff took me to Positano by way of a heavenly romantic sleeper from Paris to Rome and a small hotel in Capri. I had not been to Positano since I was 14 and I thought it hadn’t changed much. But that was because there’s no space for make changes. But the tourists had changed. When our parents took my sister and I on a tour of the Amalfi coast in 1958 Positano was the playground of the “Beautiful People”. Large white yachts floated serenely out in the bay and skeleton thin, tobacco coloured women in shocking pink, yellow and black bikinis, like colourful hornets, stalked the streets or sat in the seaside restaurants. But my ambition was for a “sloppy jo” to wear with my calf length jeans. I persuaded my mother to let me have my fluffy juvenile hair cropped short in spikes round my face and changed my Start-Rite sandals for a pair of black pumps.

I think by the time we got to Ravello I was no longer a little girl. I remember a flame red dress with a tight bodice and a deep square neckline that probably gave my juvenile tan an added glow. Posturing young men made an appearance when I went bathing which embarrassed and puzzled me. Once I cottoned on to the fact that it was in order to impress me, to my shame, I became a giggling, simpering idiot.

It was that visit down the coast to Positano and on to Ravello that began my fascination with the Ancient Greek world. When I passed through Southern Italy with my children on our way to Malta I walked round Paestum, Pompeii and Heculaneum with Barney as a toddler on my hip and Toby aged nearly 3 holding my hand. [Here are Toby, his cousin Jiggs and I on the walls of M'dina].

It was magical. Paestum was still an open site in those days; anyone could go and visit and we picnicked sitting at the foot of a great column of the Temple of Poseidon.

No wonder Poseidon was important along this coast. That smiling sea can change with alarming speed. Later on sailing down to the Straights of Messina we only just escaped losing our spinnaker and being “pooped” by a white squall. The Galli rocks are said to be the haunt of the Sirens. Of course there is now little doubt that the Odyssey is an account of the Greeks’ spread westward and the mythic quality of the narrative is just what you’d expect from sailors who had come back from wild and unknown lands. They were not the first or the last to report that “here be Dragons”. Or in Odysseus’ case “visually challenged anthopophagae”. (with thanks to Eve Williams for that quote)

These days, however, I like to spend my birthday around the farm; we always have breakfast late because we do the yard animals but on my birthday it’s leisurely for me; I’m excused yard work. My day’s my own to write, garden, create and walk with the dogs. For supper there’s chicken casserole made with chilli oil, leeks, artichokes and wild mushrooms followed by raspberries, strawberries and blueberries in a Framboise sauce with whipped cream. Geoff, no doubt will bring out something fizzy to drink while we watch the sun slink over the hills. It will not be a formal evening; but a cosy one with a soppy film to watch over coffee and chocolates and then bed and utter sleep. Heaven!

CAN SPRING BEFUR BEHIND

reflections on grooming and training the wooly beasts

The weather has been so benign that I had almost forgotten what it was like last month. But today brought it all came home: the mud, the wind and the staggering over rough and slippery ground. Today I slurped through it in my enormous Wellingtons to get to the field behind the big shed. I have enormous Wellies because they are reinforced up to my ankle. My job is to groom the young stock, it’s close work and I don’t like having my toes squashed or my ankles bashed by clumsy young animals who weigh a great deal more than me!

Pansy’s become a competent cattle dog over the last four weeks. Last month Tina Turner, she of the wild hair style, was right at the top of the field and I had doubts whether Pansy would be able to get her and her particular friend with the wonky horns. I called Charlie to help and he gallantly dashed up the hill, round the heifers and had them cantering down the hill in a minute flat; as usual he went too fast and bit them so that they missed the gate completely and shot back up the hill again. We started all over again and I could tell that Charlie was getting a little stressed because he had a stick in his mouth. He looked as if he was smoking a large cigar. This time he was a little slower and he and the heifers swept past me and in through the gate. Then it was Pansy’s turn and she went a collected two heifers who were watching by the fence in horrified fascination as Charlie rushed too and fro with his quarries. With Pansy in sedate attendance they minced delicately along the fence and in through the gate as if to say “this is how you do it”.

“Stuck up cows” said Farquar’s friend a black steer. “Heifers actually ” said one of the heifers primly as she minced by.

This morning Pansy flew round the whole lot of them. They were scattered along the whole length of the hill, so it wasn't easy. She brought them donw to the gate at a steady pace with great confidence. She doesn’t bite and she’s white, both a bit of a disadvantage when moving animals. The black and white motif is readily visible and quite startling to cattle and sheep alike. This silky "Luck Dragon" is something to be examined, not run away from; so there’s often a stalemate while bovine and canine stare at each other nose to nose. If Pansy doesn’t do something to break it they could be there until lunch time. Today she fixed them all sternly with a policeman’s eye and they moved along.

Her grandmother was like that, WPC Daisy Spawton we used to call her. Here she is with her descendants: L to R Charlie, (grandson) Daisy, Lilley (daughter) and Pansy (granddaughter).

At last we came out of the driving rain and into the comparative warmth of the big shed. The smell of cattle is sweet and indefinable; it's very comforting. It's no trouble to tie them up because they are now used to the routine. They like routine; and they enjoy it because they get groomed and made a fuss of. For them it’s “what we all do” that matters; and “we all” get tied up and combed; the boss murmurs sweet nothings at us and walks about with us. So far they haven’t worked out the fun of a "showy" walk: a brisk pace and toss of the head. But they will, and then there’ll be no stopping them. They just love to show off. But today they lie down before I finish combing them and so I have to get down in ths straw to finish off. Then I lie down with them because it's damp and my back gave way! There's no getting away from old age is there?

They’re warm and cosy and sweet smelling and I think it’s a bonding exercise, but I’m not sure if they see it like that. After all, I’m supposed to be the leader. If I herd them they move; so what on earth am I doing lying down with them? The don’t ask, they just chew the cud and breath on me. Works for me!

Today we vote whether to give the Welsh Assembly greater legislative powers. We have been badly informed with regard to this and I have been wondering whether to go with my instincts or to try to think logically what will be best for Wales. In the end Abby O’Reilly gave my flagging thoughts a fillip and I am voting NO. Sadly, in a corrupt political climate, Wales is probably more corrupt than England. Giving the Assembly more powers to grab more of a few people is not the way forward. If this is democracy, and I have my doubts, then we need to make sure that we make these people behave as well as we can. It really is wearing to be governed by a bunch of semi adolescents with about as much brains and notions of honour as a loofa!

Spring must be here.

We’ve had the first calves: a black bull and a red heifer. The snowdrops are out at Gilfachwen. But best of all, the bees came out the day before yesterday. I had thought that they were all dead except for the hive containing a swarm that we took down to Llanfair Fawr for the summer. Indeed, that morning as I began work in the greenhouse, I saw that the Llanfair Fawr hive was busy, but my beautiful yellow WBC that Geoff made was silent. I didn’t expect the tiny cast that was housed in the furthest hive would survive.

We’d started to train the weaned calves that day. We began with our chosen Show Team: two heifers and the little bull Farquar. It is time consuming but very satisfying to see how they come on with a little firmness and a lot of coaxing. It was a gorgeous morning with a real spring fizz in the air and it was a pity to go in. That’s when I saw the bees coming out of the Llanfair Fawr hive. It was a disappointment to see that only one hive had survived and after sowing trays of lettuce, rocket and radish and putting some runner beans and broad beans in pots to germinate I went inside. I was going to barrow compost to my vegetable beds but my ribs hurt from the beating they got last year, so it was the study for me. Pansy, who had been sitting at the door of the greenhouse basking in the sun, followed me inside and looked reproachful as I kicked off my boots.

“Work tomorrow” I said.

“A likely story!” she said and plonked down in her mother’s basket. Lilly looked at the door to see if it would open. Lilly is incontinent at times and has Alziemers. She is Charlie and Pansy’s mother and worked hard for eleven years until she felt she could trust them to take over. Now she’s retired. Because she has Alziemers everything is a delightful new surprise for her. She loves life, it is stress free, she can do what she likes, even pee wherever she happens to be; and she gets looked after and loved. Well, isn’t that what retirement should be like? I shoo Pansy out and she lies down in a corner in a huff.

Up in my study the sun poured through the Velux windows and it was hard to concentrate. When Geoff came and needed a hand to bring the red cow and calf in I jumped at it. The calf, it seemed, hadn’t sucked so we had to help it. I dread this because it’s stressful for all concerned. Geoff’s back hurts because he has to remain bent double holding the whole weight of the calf as he tries to persuade it to suck, while I stand behind also bent double holding on to its back legs and trying to keep it from backing away from the teat. But this time Geoff used the cattle crush and did the job on his own while I began the endless job of getting the shed tidied up for the summer. As we got back to the house I mentioned that I was disappointed that the bees hadn’t survived and he said:

“WBC’s humming!” said Geoff. Old Eagle Eye had scored again! I dashed off to the orchard. Sure enough the WBS was wreathed in busy bees. The Llanfair Fawr hive had brought out its dead, as bees do during hard times, and had more or less retired into their hive again. But the WBC was covered in busy bees. I looked towards the little cast hive as I always do, even though it can’t have survived the dreadful cold of the winter with so few of them. But there, moving lazily in the sun, was a small crowd of. At first I thought it might be their WBC neighbours investigating an empty hive, but it wasn’t, it was them! How gallant, how brave and how marvellous to have survived all that until now.

I don’t suppose they are out of danger yet, it’s only mid February, but I do hope they get through to March. If they can just hold on soon the sycamore will begin to bud and they’ll have nectar to give them strength; and then they’ll be set for summer. Yes, I think it really is the first hint of spring!

Think of Warmer Days

There’s something comforting in remembering summer days in the height of winter. But winter has its charms too. The other day I saw Venus as large as a bright 5p piece setting over Banc Anton. I watched her set as the days went by. It’s dark when I look out of the South window of our bedroom. This evening the “hills of Colorado” were blue and mauve as Lilley and Pansy and I strolled down the long view towards the west along the shores of the lakes. The waterfalls were frozen. Isn’t it clever how the weather does such artistic things to the scenery? Winter’s the best I suppose: it has more to play with; all that snow, ice and a low atmospheric sun. I love coming in after working with the animals or in the garden on a cold, clear afternoon just as the sun is dipping over the horizon making everything dull and grey and cold, and finding a warm kitchen with tea and hot buttered toast. Or better still Crumpets

Twenty years ago, not long before we came to this Valley there was a golden summer. It was the summer when we had lost everything and were living in a caravan in the garden of very good friends. I have never known a kinder, more reliable summer. Each day was hot and dry and lasted for ever; there were no anxious eyes cast to the sky. Dot and I brought baskets of sandwiches and flasks tea up to the fields to feed the haymakers. At weekends the fields were full of people from the village lending a hand. I can still remember those heavenly afternoons with the light glancing off the golden stubble. On one hazy golden evening the boys, Timothy and Jonathan, and myself in a big black cotton sun hat, sat eating ice cream perched on the little red Fergie. All around us the last bales were being loaded, sunburnt faces grinned at us and we grinned back. As dusk fell, those of us who were left trooped back to the farm house, hungry once more. On the kitchen table we laid cold ham, bread and butter and salad. Arwyn and Geoff brought in cans of lager and through the open window of the kitchen you could hear the laughter and talk of tired but very pleased people sitting outside on the bench with their glasses and cups.

We walk down the track to the big shed in February when the rain and wind make walking a misery and think of summers when we strolled across the fields in T shirts in the sun. Actually there aren’t many recent summers that are like those two perfect ones at Llanfair Fawr. But there have been some heavenly days and evenings non the less. We are very lucky.

The new bull is called Farquar!

The only things about this post that is remotely amusing is the name of the new bull we’ve chosen out of this year’s crop of calves. He’s a true son of his father, the handsome, cool, kind Orag Mor 1^st of The May. He won as a calf at foot at the Lampeter Show last year, and was much admired for his charming manners. He was the first to be haltered for training this year.

Our methods of training are very different but they compliment each other. This is mainly because I have to rely on Geoff for the muscle these days and he relies on me for observation and communication. You’d be surprised how much you need it with any animal, cattle are no exception. . I need Geoff to catch the calves and halter them for the first time. Then I can go in and comb them and make much of them so that being tied up has good memories for them. Geoff is the tough guy, there’s no-nonsense with him, but being so strong he often uses strength rather than persuasion and the animals he trains are more mettlesome. There are very few stout little old ladies of my age who show cattle and I need mine to be bombe proof and have excellent people skills!

So there we were with the first two tied up and I didn’t even know their names I’m ashamed to say. But it turned out that we hadn’t even named the little bull yet. It came to Geoff over breakfast afterwards. He’s going to be called Farquar! Rather apt from a man who is an expert in expletives!

This training is essential since even the animals we don’t show need to be fairly biddable in order to sell well. Of course with as many calves as we’ve got it is difficult to find the time, even now I’m retired, to train every single one to the halter. So we content ourselves with socialising the ones we know we won’t show at the moment. We usually manage to get them up to scratch by late summer.

Subsidies? Subsidies? What are they? Who are they for? Do you think farming would be better off without them?

Look at the long view: farming has always been at the mercy of some busybody or another. From the enfoeffment of land by Saxons and Normans; the enclosures to the meddling by government since the Industrial Revolution. During World War 2 it was permissible by law for farmers to have their farms requisitioned if they did not comply with government guidelines. Land is precious; landowners have always been the villains of the piece. I can think of one or two who make us look a little more attractive: Chaucer’s Franklin, that stout and festive old egg and his Restoration counterpart Squire Alworthy, bibulous, sanguine, fond and with about as much sensitivity as a Newfoundland pup! On the whole a landowner gets in the way of rustic fun for our town cousins. We stop them frolicking in the countryside.

But in a crisis, we’ll be the ones who will feed Britain. Meanwhile, to get cheap food our masters have decreed that it be subsidised. The Supermarket story is a familiar one and so I won’t bore you with it. But the outcome of the ability to access cheap food is that there is a subsidy culture that will create huge problems to get out of. Supermarkets know within a penny what subsidies bring in and pay accordingly. This skews the real price of food production until farmers are forced to depend on subsidy. You can either be big to produce big and cheap or small and very clever at spotting a niche market. You can add value to your product, as those of us with Highland Cattle do, selling good breeding stock and superb meat to supplement the subsidy, but even that won’t take the place of subsidy unless you have time and energy to diversify. Farmers are conservative on the whole; their average age is around 60 and they’re getting nearer to when they want to tick along – not begin a thrusting new career. To ask them to change into a Del Boy would be too cruel.

Our own subsidy is small: our children are taxed more than we earn in subsidies, but it constitutes the basis of our income and without it we would have a cash flow problem. But as the “crunch” bites, and government, most of whom know diddly squat about agriculture and even less about rural poverty, decides to crack down; the small farms and small people are put under pressure. This is because government secretly knows that it’s not taking care of them, and that we know too, so we may, Heaven forbid! cheat to make ends meet. As we know those in Westminster never do this! For those who don’t cheat the scrutiny make one wish that one had! Chaps in 4X4’s, the same chaps of the cheap after shave and the shifty look, come roaring on the farm yard scattering dogs, cats, children and any animals you may be bringing from one part of the farm to another.

Paid a regular salary for a day’s work they use up the best part of a very busy farmer’s day to inspect a section of our animals. This is one day on many because it takes at least a day to look at a batch of our beasts at the May organic Farms – the clue is in the name, we are plural! They can’t find anything wrong, so they lecture us on rules that we’ve never heard of. I think they must keep them to themselves so as to have something to chivvy you with. Make themselves feel big. Keep you in line. Then, if you’re lucky you may get your subsidy. The thing is, it’s not their money, it is ours! We’ve never had single farm payment on time. It doesn’t matter as much to us as it would to many; we’ve had other experiences and no debts but many farmers know only farming.

I have my own thoughts as to whether subsidies are a good thing, but if they are to go there must be some consideration for the people who cannot adapt. Otherwise they’ll be a drain on the state, or commit suicide. Many farmers do in desperation. And then we’ll be sorry!

The Ministry men are coming again, I gather they’re bringing a chum – probably a Ministry Vet who doesn’t do mud, wellies, or cattle. Shall I let them into the barn with the steers?

This is not a new thought, thinking people have been bothered by it for a very long time. Once there were village children who could read, write and understand Grammar with a capital G. There were people from the lowest walks of life who could rise to take part effectively in a demanding public life and hold the reigns of power; (this is not the time to go into the power issue!). It hasn’t taken long for education to go through a radical, did I say “radical”? Well, it comes from “root” and so it must be correct. Our intellectual capital is about to be grubbed up. For the first time in centuries there will be no place for the pursuit of scholarship; the exploration of culture; the cut and thrust of polemic and the examination of our history through whatever means.

I seem to remember that Humanities became a dirty word three or four years ago. Lampeter University was a Humanities University, and it was good at it. You could read Classics, Philosophy, Languages - and lots of them, History, Geography, Archaeology, English, Religious Studies and Divinity and Theology. I may have left something out, there were a lot of choices. Then it became a University of “Liberal Arts” whatever that may mean and now it has no identity at all, and I don't suppose it's alone.

The people who purport to rule us have no identity as politicians; they are like school prefects trying to run the school. The teachers and Head have all disappeared because no-one has the trained brain or the depth of understanding and, dare I say, scholarship to do the job.

If our leaders condinue to be as intellectually nourishing as a celular blanket, let them. Dont be despondent. If we want intellectual nourishment we'll find it and teach it to our children or grandchildren.

Ours is a large establishment with few people and many animals. I went into the big shed with three of the dogs this morning to feed the farm cats while the youngstock were being sorted into groups. There was Cartwright, the tom cat, with his sisters reclining on a straw bail looking magnificent. Peebles is a pretty tabby and Nose is an immaculate and elegant black cat with smooth fur and a white nose and feet. But Cartwright is a huge fluffy cat with curling wisps coming out of his ears and a fluffy shirt front that is positively Regency. Most days he sits bolt up right on the forecourt keeping an eye out for intruders and making sure that his women are all safe. There’s his mother, Wilma wife of Fred who is now dead; Trug, the original black cat that Geoff found abandoned at 4 weeks old and who we brought up wrapped in a woolly hat in a garden trug. Up at the farm lives Boat, short for Bow Tie who is an awesome hunter; lean and black. And everywhere, moving in a mysterious way (like God) is Devizes, one of two Devizes. Boat had a big bow tie, but the Devizes had small bows, so originally they were called Small Bows, which naturally became Smallbones, and then Smallbones of Devizes then … well you know. Cartwright is currently the only male. There’s a handsome neutered black and white male at Panteg who is best friends with Boat. They hunt together. Cartwright will soon have his own pockets picked for safety and I don’t want to lose him, he’s so gorgeous and fearsome.

The reason why the youngstock were being sorted into groups is because we had an inspection today. It’s our bureaucratic master’s idea of making sure that we farmers toe the line. We have far too many cattle to be able to bring them all home at once to be poked and peered at by a Ministry official so we have to bring them home in batches. The Ministry official is very serious about his job but is scared of the cattle. “Good job you show your animals” he says “they would be difficult to cope with otherwise”. “Ho!” we think, “wait until you have to deal with 28 steers who have ranged wild and free all summer on the bogs of Tregaron and Fochno!” Some of them are 12 years old: great big chaps with enormous horns! But we say nothing; it may be a useful lesson to be a little scared of a very large animal with very large horns that is trying to jump out of a cattle crush. Perhaps we’re being unfair; but these guys get 60% of the money set aside for farmers for coming onto our farms and pushing us about. Not that we get much, our children pay more in tax than we earn; but the principle of the thing is still there.

If I think about it, I don’t really mind. That sounds as if we don’t need the money. Well we do in one sense. We like to be warm, fed and clothed with some kind of vehicle and time to see and entertain friends and neighbours, even if we don’t venture very far off these days. But in another sense, we don’t. We could be even more frugal than we are: it’s a good thing to try to free oneself from attachment to material things. One has to be less ambitious by definition and I rather like that, it gives one time to think about other things than Success and Achievement. What I do mind about is that the people who help themselves to our money come to our farm yard and talk down to us as if we were ivory – or maybe polystyrene - from the neck up! I am not a humble person although I try and arrogance makes me boil; especially from a jack in office.

So I won’t be alerting our Ministry man about the steers, nor will I hurry to pacify these largely very gentle animals when things get athletic as they so surely will!

Are we a co-operative animal?

How difficult it is not to take something of one’s own time back to the past. If one tries too hard not to one is left with a dry and unappetising bit of writing that interests almost no-one. If you don’t develop your narrative voice the characters can be modern and unconvincing. The writing of history as a story, and let’s face it, that’s what it largely is, is an art; few people can do it: Mantel, Seton, Renault, Sutcliff and possibly Graves.

Many years ago in my early teens I read Anya Seton’s Katherine. It was my first taste of historical romance and I was captivated. Seton’s book, so evocatively written, has been the inspiration for Alison Wier’s Mistress of the Monarchy Wier’s book, as usual, is minutely researched but not scholarly, so it should be a good read, but somehow it isn’t. She gets bogged down in evidence and forgets to finish what she’s actually saying. You have to pick the bones out of a lot of assertions. Nevertheless, she puts some of Seton’s historical “factoids” right and that is always helpful. It is hard for us to imagine the immense wealth of someone like John of Gaunt whose estate was worth some 8 billion in today’s terms. Or is it? He owned a third of England and large parts of France and Spain. There are people as comparatively wealthy today. What do they do with their wealth? What they and Gaunt have in common is their ruthlessness.

Ruthlessness is human, isn’t it? I’ve just been looking over the 2031 Transition discussion document for the Lampeter region and it has no place for personal ruthlessness. The document is accompanied by a questionnaire. One of the questions is whether we think that a very seductive vision for the future that includes a large element of co-operation and thrift is realistic. I would love to think it was, but since comparatively few people seem to think that a little thrift and community spirit is a Good Thing maybe it isn’t realistic after all. This means that we haven’t a hope of convincing them otherwise. What this may mean for all the little Transition towns in every country is that the population is polarised and the energy, health and education services that could be made available are not forthcoming. By that I mean that if a significant amount of people wish to continue to consume, then it will be at the expense of the rest who wish to live more sustainably. After all how do you exclude a large percentage of the population form using the good things whilst continuing to use and use and use?

We're moving cattle on the road today. The sight of a farmer driving his animals along the highway is an unusual one and I haven't got a photograph of it. Nor will I have because I still don't have a camera. But here is one of the end of a recent drive. The steers are coming into the Panteg farmyard with Geoff and Lilley behind them on the quad.


As I said it's an unusual sight, cattle being driven on the road, and not one that is always appreciated by passing traffic.


Up here in these remote hills it was not that long ago that we had the privilage of the roads to ourselves. Or if we didn't the people who drove up here were more familiar with rural ways, more forgiving and in less of a hurry. Of course it was unforgivable of us to stop in the road as we passed a neighbour and chat in the sublime knowledge that we weren't holding anyone up. Or not for long anyway. Visitors hoot at us now.


We can't really blame them; the world is getting more and more crowded and we are failing to understand that. So we continue to clutter up the road. they hoot crossly at us and we apologise for the inconvenience. To our relief some say graciously "lovely cattle, very quaint, please don't mind us." Others, the important looking ones, try to push past us; they have meetings to attend, work to go to. We, on the other hand should know better than to hold up the march of commerce. But pushing past on horned cattle, however, docile, on these narrow roads is rather a waste of effort.. The cattle stroll on in a leasurely way, they know the road and they dont like being hurried. The driver guns the engine to try to intimidate the hairy mass of horns and muzzles and then the vehicle gets bogged down in the ditch and in a frenzy he or she hoots and shouts and finally stops and gets out. We hear that we are not popular. We are very sorry but must get on. We leave him or her behind commenting on the brass face of the hayseeds who have usurped the sovereign right of a car and it's driver to dominate the highways. Or in our case, the byways.


Moving animals is best in the early morning. Especially on the top road above Banc Anton. That new washed heavenliness is everywhere. Below us there are two valleys. In the valley on the left the mist is puncuated occasionally by a black slate roof and the rising sun makes the tops of the hills opposite look as if someone has tipped a tin of golden syrup over them.


We work well together; Geoff with his dog and I with mine, keeping the animals to the road. We're on open moutain and among the sheep here, so we need to keep our charges focused on the road ahead not allowing them to dash off onto the open land on either side and get mixed up with the sheep. I am always morbidly anxious that they don't do this becaue I have visions of the dogs, in an effort to chase the sheep away and the cattle back to us, will inadvertantly chase one or other, or both, over the cliff and down, down into the valley hundreds of feet below.

This has never happened and we walk swiftly past Careg y Bwchi, the ancient stone that is the subject of so much controversy. Is it the remains of a Roman Fort? If so those Legionaries, probably Iberian, that came up here must have thought that they'd come to a peculiarly British kind of hell: dank and wet and remote. But then they would have experienced the heaven of an early morning, and would have found this mysterious foriegn land delight, if rather chilly. A cow's eye view from the top field at Gilfach of the forest and hills beyond.

Perhaps careg y Bwchi is just the stone of the bull, or a place of meditation for New Agers. Or just a bloody great stone. What I do know is that it is a sublime place to climb up onto the look down on our valley: the one on the right that is filled with growing light. Down there we can see the three farmsteads and their little surrouding fields: Panteg, upright and sturdy, Gilfachwen looking as if it has grown out of the ground with its three glinting lakes and a few cows grazing beside the chestnut garden fence and in the middle Ystafellwen, the biggest and once the wealthiest of all three, but now a ruin among its trees. Beyond them is the forestry, and the slate blue and lavender of the distant hills.

The fields where we are taking the cattle are lower down and you don't get the amazing vista that you get from Careg y Bwchi. Mind you, the cattle are perfectly happy with that. They have the shelter of the trees on a bad day and a bog to graze in and the company of each other. What more could a beast want, good company, good grub and a cosy bog?