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?