Husbandry
A short story of the land
The buttermilk flanks of the White Park cattle scattered the pasture’s western edge by the beech copse, unmoving in the morning mist, as if a loose huddle of field-mushrooms had sprouted overnight. As the rising sun began to burn off some of the fog and the chill, distinctive black noses and ears bobbed up as the entire herd looked to my arrival and the coming feed. They were fantastic grazers and mostly self-sufficient, but with the diminishing numbers I was determined to ensure that the calves and bullocks had the best chance of thriving. After the long winter months spent within the confines of the barns, their first few weeks out to pasture had certainly enlivened them, but also brought back the risks of exposing them to the elements: the biting insects, the downpours, but mostly, the badgers. I heaved over the bucket, and as the pouring flaxseed gave its distinctive metallic rush into the steel furrow of the feeding trough, it rang like a dinner-bell and brought the older, more sanguine cattle lumbering over. “Weey, Hooo! Come on now, come on you boys.” With a few whoops, I tried to encourage the less enthusiastic stragglers; those not in tune to the signal of easy food.
Mixed in with the wafting dust from the seed, I could smell the warm earthiness of the herd. It sat naturally with the other notes around the farm; blending with the sweet hedgerow blossoms, leather-scented stable yards and well manured fields. I couldn’t imagine the farm without it, this signature of the rare breeds my father had dedicated his life to nurturing and building up from just a handful of bull-less heifers. They had always seemed an innate part of my own little share of the landscape, but I could already feel the ache of their growing absence. Seeing their field now so sparsely inhabited, it left a void, like waking to a dawn without birdsong. I feared some of the farm’s vitality would soon be gone forever.
The emptiness of my upland fields was thanks to the ravages of bovine tuberculosis. It was infecting livestock farms across the breadth of Britain’s, from Scotland’s Highlands and Belted Galloways to the Milking Devons of the South West; taking with it thousands of livestock and incomes. With each tuberculin skin-test more of my favourite herd were being condemned to death; reduced to useless carcasses and destroyed immediately, irrespective of their age or value. The compensation for each case couldn’t even cover the cost of a new cow, leaving herds wasting away with their owner’s livelihoods. I’d lost more than a third of my herd, but couldn’t buy in more replacements as movement restrictions basically shut down the infected farms. The quiet of the cattle sheds made me thankful for my other livestock, and I spent increasingly long periods doting over my rare-breed chickens, which is where I then headed to lift my spirits for the morning ahead. My Derbyshire Redcaps and Rosecomb Bantams appeared all the more extravagant as they’re pampered feet scratched on the coops’ ever-cleaner floors. The Rosecombs were poor layers, but Julie loved them for showing, and with their impressive tails and bright combs and wattles they often brought back a healthy pile of ribbons from the county shows. The Redcaps however were my favoured breed. Being both ornamental and hardy free-rangers, they would lay large, hearty white eggs with caramel-smooth yolks that made the perfect breakfast. Trading their eggs and themselves as breeders, as well as using the eggs for our homemade cakes and produce, had enabled us to keep teetering in the black, if only just. But it couldn’t be sustained long-term, not with the shut-down conditions from the TB, as we simply couldn’t operate as normal, and it drained so much of the time needed to keep the farm flowing.
Thankfully though, our last TB test had been clean, and so God-willing, today’s 60-day retest would return our Officially Tuberculosis-Free status, and free our farm from the movement restrictions. Life could be returned to the farm, with new stock for the spring, and by ridding it of this accursed spectre of disease that seemed to cloak the land like the low rain-laden clouds. Yet, as much as a relief as it would be, regular tests must continue, and we could be shut down at any time if it is found again, meaning this permanent feeling of uneasiness would never truly be gone. It would well ell up at the site of freshly dug badger setts or deer tracks, knowing such benign marks could hold malevolent significance. Badgers and deer are blamed for the epidemic, but badgers in particular have become tainted as an increasing blight to farmers across Britain. My father always had a soft spot for old Brock, and would leave our leftovers by the labyrinthine sett holes that permeated our field margins and stream margins. What would he think now? What would he feel as these setts faced extermination by badger culls, draining yet more life from a farm that felt ever more like a museum piece, a relic of a world all but gone?
My father had been the spirit of this farm. He seemed to have grown out of the very landscape around the homestead, in tune to the rhythms and flows of the farm’s seasons and life cycles. As a child, his russet, calloused hands would heave me up to his shoulders and we would proudly survey the land together; his long legs below striding through the verdant green of our lower fields. I would gaze down in fascination, dreaming one day of legs as long and powerful, and so in command of this magical place. I also saw the small patch of thinning hair on his sunlit crown, and wondered if the sun had burnt it away, up at such height. I often patted it in reassurance, or covered it with my small arms on the sunniest July afternoons. As we wandered among the fields, his quiet but sure voice would join the birdsong, listing the names of the plants that leaned out of the hedgerows and lined the thickets learnt from his own father before him. The farm was well laden with his favourite, the hawthorn bush, because as a child he had learnt of its folk-name of ‘bread and cheese’, and had assumed it must be for the hidden delights of the leaves’ flavour. Thus in the meagre days of the still-bare spring landscape, he eagerly plucked and wolfed down a leafy bundle, only to be quite disappointed at the woody pulp sat on his tongue. However, it did leave him with a lasting passion for the folk names of the world’s flora and fauna. He would pass me stems of sweet violets, honeysuckle and flowering nettle, knowing I could suck out the juicy nectar held within. Like a gorging bumblebee I would float across the meadows as his broad shoulders took the strain, until we reached his favourite spot; the White Park herd. Here he would lever me to perch on the fence post as he called over his old heifers and bulls, each by fondly given name.
“Toby! Cordelia! Bobby! C’mon fellas. Tally ho!” His calls always brought them eagerly to muster, as if they were simply glad to see him, whether for a scratch behind the ears or as a novel sight to ruminate over. The looming curves of their alabaster horns had at first filled me with awe and fear, and slight panic would rise in my chest as my father ambled straight in amongst the cattle’s weaponry, shared by both bulls and the cows. The gentle lowing and slow, lackadaisical movements soon reassured me of their benign natures, and before long I was in amongst them, stroking the silky ebony snouts and feeling the smooth ivory arcs of the horns for myself. This time though, he was letting them loose on the stubble turnips, which were excellent supplement food they could pluck straight out of the ground from the leeward field. He strode away at the front of the herd, and I waited up on the fence post in fascination as they followed obediently across to the stubble turnips. At his return I saw his weather-lined but beaming face, glowing with contentment, and knew then I would continue the family farm.
How little I knew then of the hidden stresses and strains my father must have weathered throughout his time managing the farm, with the multitude of crises and drives for higher yields after the rationing and foot shortages of the war. Even as I felt stuck climbing an ever-steepening mountain; I remembered to appreciate the modern comforts like vaccines, medicines and protocols that would have seemed a dream to my father’s generation. But all the technology in the world had not prevented further blights to the land. Foot-and-mouth had seemed to be conjured overnight, almost demonic in its incessant ravaging of livestock nationwide. The sight of burning pits of animals had taught me then that even the most regulated and sanitised farming industry was fallible. That knowledge was again being realised with the more slow-burning malevolence of bovine TB. This was a disease that didn’t wipe out stock, but instead brooded within the land and lingered, only to appear unannounced and unwelcome within cattle that looked bright and healthy, making their immediate destruction all the more sudden and painful.
As the next TB test morning had arrived, it brought up the dread from the pit of my stomach in a few prolonged dry-heaves, and had stopped any chance of breakfast; even with the offer of two fresh Redcap eggs. As I reached out to pat the White Parks still feasting on the flaxseed, the hopelessness again rose in my heart. The day before had not helped, when a phone call to my born-again urbanite son further sapped my resolve against the trials ahead. He had asked me from his café lunch-break in London:
“Why are you still wasting money on that flaxseed when half the herd may be dead by the afternoon?” He was always pragmatic, not doubt useful as an insurance broker.
“I’m not going to neglect them at their most vulnerable. The healthier I keep ’em, the better chance they have, surely?”
“Dad, don’t you think you’re fighting a lost battle? Why not just forget the Cattle, move onto the arable side, maybe organics? People seem to love spending money on all that hippy eco stuff. You should see what they pay for it here!”
“In London maybe, but White Park milk and beef has been made here for generations, it is the farm. No, giving up the herd I won’t do. Your Granddad worked for these cattle, this herd, his whole life you know.”
“Look, times change Dad. A straggling herd of near-extinct cows is never going to be financially secure, let alone turn a good profit. I’ve always thought; farming’s such an uncertain business, no guarantees.” I could hear the usual air of dismissal as he veered into the tone he used especially for farm matters. Along with resigned shakes of the head and pained knots in his brow, he used the condescension to great effect to curtail too much of such talk. Over the years I had recognised this defence, to ward off my hints and suggestions about his inheriting the farm, and it had worked. The question of an heir to the family business was, quite incredibly, never brought up openly until the day he left for London.
As I held forth on the finer points of husbandry and its benefits and rewards beyond the financial, I could hear the urban prattle surrounding him in some crowded Starbucks or Costa or other generic Italian café, so long as it that sold his lunchtime espresso macchiato. His thoughts and expertise on the matter continued to tumble out with a comfortable detachment, knowing I would never listen, until his voice drifted and dimmed; blending in with shouting baristas and rushed city chatter. His lack of interest still hurt now, years after it became obvious he had no intention of taking on the farm, our family business, my way of life.
“But we’ve only had 2 cases in the past 6 months, we might even be able to open up and trade livestock in a few weeks. Your mother’s already rung up Trevor from Sleapshyde to see about loaning us another bull.”
“Tell her not to get too ahead Dad, I mean what’s the point in even asking right now?”
“There’s nothing wrong with a bit of optimism, Michael. This isn’t just a business to us, remember that.”
“Yeeeah I know I know… But you should remember yourself that there’s more out there, y’know? Stuff other than keeping rare breeds, preserving some old life in aspic. Maybe a bit of a break, like a holiday or something, would do you guys good. Crete last month was just gorgeous, sun every day. The people are so friendly, so friendly, and the wine’s as cheap as the food!”
The call ended with my son’s distracted invitation to his Villa, as if we could just set aside our life for a while and forget the farm, as he had done. For him it was some old ill-working contraption, in need of ‘streamlining’ or ‘efficiency-savings’, like a regretted corporate investment. With sadness, I saw in my son the changes that I saw increasingly apparent elsewhere, where everything was viewed in terms of loss and gain, buying and selling, with no innate worth in work at hand, in the world around us.
Once the tension from the phone call had faded, and I looked out onto the contours of the valley, I only saw the richness of life in the intricate web of hedgerows, sprays of gorse thickets and the seas of trees that stretched beyond. There was value beyond beauty in the land left to nature. There was a lesser known, innate wealth, as my father had shown me in the delicate rabbit burrows, robin nests and moth cocoons that hunkered underneath the surface. With an attentive eye, its richness became so clear if the time and patience was taken to look. My father once revealed this to me, as I lingered over a new burrow found under the old Elm tree. With baited breath I peered down through contorted, rooted tunnels, reluctant to leave without a sight of the inhabitant. But, my father explained: there were spaces in the world not for our ken, but for the other creatures of this world. I believed his word above all others, and saw the proof in the valley’s hidden nooks and crannies. What were once mere margins, the forgotten edges of things, seemed suddenly bursting with life, enveloping all in what I would eventually be learn to be a scientific fact; that some part of life fitted everywhere. The exquisite variety of life came from its adaptation to all environments; all governed by Darwin’s theory of evolution and survival of the fittest.
Such a clear appreciation of my small but magnificent realm, however, was garnished by something a little more intriguing, from much more mysterious foundations. These were the folklore and legends told by Nast Hyde’s elder generation; often straight from the pub-bar by old men in threadbare shirts and cloth caps, who seemed to inhabit another time and place entirely. Many of my summer Sunday afternoons were spent captivated by Old Joseph’s tales of the faeries in Bilbeck pond, the old peg-legged war veteran living in Furze wood, and the white lady who appeared in The Three Horseshoes window each midwinter. Such stories had been within the Nast Hyde community for generations, forming as much a part of the landscape as the sylvan hills and clustered cottages and farmhouses. As the years brought their changes to village life, and the outside world became nearer, and so much smaller, I saw the minutiae and eccentricities that had made our community begin to fall by the wayside, fading more to history with each passing of those like Old Joseph.
When I married and took over the farm, I still saw us farmers, and me and Julie, as custodians of the land. We were here to preserve and let thrive what was given by nature, while putting a share to work to sustain ourselves and provide food. Before long, I saw how this approach was changing, how people were looking at the land and seeing only waste, unfulfilled investment potential or possible development sites. For-Sale and To-Let signs were dividing up and compartmentalising the landscape like a nationwide production unit. Where in the streams and field margins my son had once caught butterflies and raced pooh-sticks, he himself now saw only ‘wasted space’ that could be cut out to increase our output and profits. I had finally encouraged his city move when he suggested selling the less productive, stony eastern fields to housing developers.
For Julie and me this land wasn’t only our life, our history and our home, but the life and history of the whole community, and all that was dear to me. That morning, as Julie had tried in vain to get some breakfast in me, I tried to express what I had as ever failed to with Michael.
“I know there’s ‘more’ out there, but a bit of perspective on the farm won’t lessen my love for it, something Michael will just never understand.” I gazed down at the crisp toast, starting to soften under the two large eggs as the generous yolks were spilling out onto the crust.
“Honey…” She looked at me with that knowing smile of hers, and made me feel all the worse for pushing aside the congealing egg, my spinning stomach unable to face it. “…it’s ok. He’s just all caught up with that faster, city pace of life. You know what it’s like, there’s always something new going on, new people, new places, new jobs. Nothing’s permanent or routine. It’s just….different.”
“But it’s not just him, is it? It’s this whole bloody business with the White Parks. It’s seeping the life out of this farm, and it seems like there’s nothing to stop it. I can go on all I like about loyalty to this place, but it’ll be out of my hands before long anyway…”
“Look, let’s just get through today and see what happens, any road. What if it’s good news? We were TB free last time, and so to get this one clear means we get back the Tuberculosis-Free status. We’re nearly there, and we’ll be able to get up and running and get in some more stock for the herd.”
“And if we have a reactor?” Added to the indifference from Michael and the foul clouds gathering outside, the tenseness of the day had blinkered my usual optimism.
“Whatever happens, we’re not down and out by any means. We still have all our chickens and the crops, and the chutneys and preserves are selling a treat. There’s always something to be done love.” We sat both gazing out of the kitchen’s leaded panes, with me taking comfort in Julie’s reassurance; her softness guarding me from the reality outside. A shadow suddenly came upon her face, shifting over the gentle contours of her grey-tinged crown and tainting the rosiness of her cheeks. I looked out to see the culprit: Our tommy Monty was sat crouched on the roof edge, casting his gaze out to the courtyard and his shadow over our kitchen window. I saw what had sparked his interest, as a mud-spattered van appeared on the brow of the drive. With a final, lingering squeeze on my shoulder Julie ushered me out to face what lay ahead, and I headed out to meet the vet, almost relieved that the ordeal was finally to be done with, whatever the result.
I walked quickly up the gravel track, as the cool northerly wind nipped at the back of my neck and made me hunch further down into my jacket collar. I felt like hiding away, retreating from the cold wind that had sprung up, but more so from the cold dread that penetrated much deeper, and I couldn’t warm from. In the drive I saw Edward already unloading the packs of sample bags and score sheets, with those dreaded pliers protruded from his pocket. Those small pincers were soon to hold the future of my herd in their grasp. Just one unwanted measurement would send my beloved White Parks to their deaths. The herd had been injected with the tuberculin three days before, and the size of any lumps on the injection site would reveal if my herd was infected or not. As my eyes dwelt on the pliers, Edward no doubt saw my feelings written in my shaking hands and the poor attempt at a smile as he attempted a friendly greeting.
“Why Jacob, where’s the May sun hiding eh? ‘ow do? Silly question. I’m ready when you are, are they round the back field?”
I didn’t bother to answer the first two, but tried to affirm the third question with some kind of amiability. As unwelcome a site as he may be today, Edward had been our farm’s regular vet for nearly 7 years, and had shared many of my ups and downs in those years. With a warm Lakeland lilt, his voice was always quick to reassure, and ready to drift into anecdotes if he saw me getting too tense. Though younger than myself, his doctoral confidence and sure manner meant I had often looked to him as a mentor since my father’s death. He was one of the few consistencies I could fall back on when hit with the doubts and hard choices once taken under guidance from my father. When in need of advice, the reassuringly direct gaze he gave over the thin, gold frames of his spectacles was accompanied by a pause, with all bodily movement suspended while the problem was considered carefully. His hands would be slightly raised, one to his chin, while the other’s open palm showed the earnestness of his efforts. These informal consultations were worth more than he would know, as watching his ritual process of contemplation gave me a respite from the heavier worries that could overcome my thoughts if left unaired.
We rounded the farmhouse where all twenty-three of the cattle appeared, stood silently, slightly perplexed by the rows of galvanised fencing and the cattle crush. Their loneliness suddenly struck me as I remembered the setup from four months previously, when thirty-eight had crowded around Edward and me. An unprecedented number, thirteen cows and two prize breeding bulls, had been condemned. At the time I was left reeling. I was so physically shaken I couldn’t even manage to guide the remainders back to the lower field, and just retreated to the house, and sat silently for what may have been hours. Thankfully Julie understood that I needed time, and I didn’t see her or Edward until they’d already organised the compulsory slaughter, sending fifteen of the farm’s dearest animals to a useless death. I watched this smaller herd closely and imagined their dread as they stood huddled, cowering, for who knows what they must associate the test with, when it can spirit away nearly half their kin?
Edward and his assistant farmhand paid for by DEFRA helped me begin to manoeuvre the first cow along to the crush for the testing. As I patted her flank, hoping to coax her along with the minimum stress, I imagined I could feel her ribs below a little too clearly. Was she sick? Would my very first cow be a reactor? Before I can get too carried away Edward reaches round to check the lump size.
“She’s alright, this one Jacob” He smiled cautiously. “Clear of TB”
My shoulders relaxed ever so slightly as I saw my first healthy cow stumble out of the gates back onto pasture, blissfully ignorant of her brush with execution. A few more cows passed through the same way, and waves of hesitant relief mingled with the remaining dread as eleven of my herd were still to face the verdict. My favourite breeding bull Farley stood glossy and rippling with muscle, before he lumbered into the crush entrance, surprisingly docile. Four months ago all three of us were forced to practically kick him through the gates. That day we had lost two of his calves. Perhaps he had lost some of his confidence, and I prayed that that was all that was draining his usual spark. Edward whipped over the callipers, and appeared slightly uncertain when peering down at the measured width. Please God no, not a reactor, not Farley.
“Hmm, this one’s a bit uncertain” My eyes were held fast to the injection spots. “hmm, no It’s OK, it’s only twelve on the lower test. He’s fine.” His face lit up, as visibly relieved as myself as my most expensive animal wandered back out onto the field. Right, we were getting there. Perhaps this was it. Could we really be free, and start trading the cattle again? The remaining cows and bullocks passed through in a haze. I could hardly accept that twenty-two of my stock were all clear and healthy. Just a single heifer to go. She wandered placidly to the cattle crush, unaware of the farm’s future weighing on her haunches. I heard Edward draw in a breath as he squatted down to gaze closely at her flank, no doubt willing it be flat and swelling-free at this final hour. As I felt her smooth warmth beneath my hand, I just couldn’t imagine any disease coursing through her veins below, and I thanked the lord as the callipers pinched her skin tightly; surely a sign of minimal swelling.
Edward rose, callipers in hand still set to the thickness had held.
“Congratulations Edward, the testing is all-clear, the farm’ll regain its OTF status.” With an earnest smile, he rose and reached out to shake my hand, which I grabbed in my trembling grasp, unable even to utter the thank you that could barely cover my gratitude to him, the test, and my precious cattle. They hadn’t let me down.
As the kit was repacked and loaded back into the crates, the only traces of the dark morning that remained were the fencing’s pock-marks in the grass; soon to fade and be smothered by the virulent growth of the spring grass. I asked Edward to join me for a mug of hot tea, or perhaps something stronger, to thaw out the dread that had filled the preceding hours. He had two more farms to retest that day, and so couldn’t yet relax as I, but deigned to join me briefly, knowing the day’s significance. “Only a quick brew mind, to help me face that dowly squall outside.” I only hoped he would be giving the other farmers the same good news.
“I thought this day would never come Edward. It felt different this time, and Michael kept telling me to use it as an opportunity for change. I was sure the farm’s death knell had been rung.”
“The way I see it Jacob, is this. There’s always going to be some virus, fungus or some other calamity trying to fell the crops and kill the livestock. But those are the facts of life, it’s all a part of the fight for survival: for the animals, for the farm, for you and me.”
“But isn’t it a losing battle? I mean, maybe I am trying to preserve the past, and it should just be left to the past. Maybe I should change with the times, move onto something more secure, where I have more control. Sometimes here I feel neither use nor ornament.”
“Control? Control isn’t what you need Jacob. Life on this land can’t be controlled, it works only by cooperatin’. You know that, and that’s how you work too. Here you can see the changing landscape, the seasons, and the life on the farms here. I mean gee, who wants control on that?”
“Well, I wouldn’t mind some control over the lives of the herd, I’ll say that!” I knew what he was saying, and believed little in my own protests, but when even the greatest will to help my cattle could be made futile, it was still tempting to imagine having power over something.
“I spend my life treating the poor creatures facing the rougher end of farming, and by that I mean the animals and people!” With that he gave a hearty guffaw; a glint on his eye hinting at experience. “But when I see the spring fields full of those bonny lambs or the new crops sprouting through the fields, I see the beauty in being part of something…something…sublime, even in the ordinary, with all the rises and falls that may come with it.”
“ ‘Eck Edward, how do you always know what to say? The fear these weeks left me doubting everything. I didn’t realise how, though I couldn’t forget it, it had obscured what I loved the most. Though I’m sure I’d sooner have wanted to knock your lights out if the tests had gone differently.” I grinned while he gave another quick chortle, before draining the rest of his mug, signalling he could delay no longer. I gave out my hand for a firm shake, and with a pat on the shoulder and a “tarra!” he headed out into the bluster outside, to face the tempest of life elsewhere in the fells and uplands of the dales.
As the heavy whirr of diesel faded up the track, I stood looking out on a scene that had seemed withheld from me for so long. The smooth horns of the White Parks curved out from their silken crowns, gleaming under the transient sun rays as the clouds occasionally dispersed. Their mellow whiteness was softened further against the early growth in the valley, as carpets of daisies ran up to bulging verges of cowslip. The farm seemed to be overrunning with regrowth, in a pallet cleansed of colour; ready for the vibrancy of a spring that may now come, unfettered and free.
