My meditation, although perhaps I didn’t realise it at the time, was done on the long solitary walks I took around the farm

Margaret Gillies Brown

Itried to reason it out. “Perhaps it is the sense of freedom that farmers have,” I said. “They think they are their own bosses even although it’s a complete fallacy.” “Yes,” said Ronald, “farmers must do whatever the market and governments dictate. They must follow the party line to keep alive at all. If governments say ‘produce something cheaper’, you have cut out every little expense.

“You don’t always produce better food that way but you’ve got to do it or go down and that’s not hard to do. Many farmers are living on borrowed money. A bank has just to foreclose. It’s a constant worry.”

“Maybe it’s the love of the land that keeps farmers farming,” I suggested. “Well, maybe,” replied Ronald, “especially if that land has been handed down through grandfather, father, son.

“It gives a sense of permanence, belonging, which you didn’t find to the same extent in Canada, where farms are so new. Farmers there would sell up at the drop of a hat.”

Was farming such an elemental thing for a man to do? Is he being truly himself in providing what’s necessary for life. As with anywhere in the market place, there is jockeying for position, competition. The survival of the fittest, who will survive, who won’t.

Discussion

I loved to listen to the snippets of discussion that got up among farmers. Whoever said they were not clever? A bit slower than town people, perhaps, but clever, astute when they needed to be.

In the springtime an influx of Irish dealers could be found in the market bar selling cattle from Ireland to fatten on the sweet, lush grass of the Carse.

Ronald bought cattle every spring. He usually bought them from an Irishman. The thin but rangey cattle he had for sale did well on the good grass of Inchmichael. Ronald was never quite sure if he had paid too much for them or not.

What would the price be at the end of the day? “Ach well, if I’ve got to be cheated,” he would say, “I’d rather be cheated by an Irishman. They do it so nicely.”

Ronald loved the ready wit of the Irish and their charm. “Charm a bird out of a tree, they can,” he would say. Ronald used to say to me from time to time: “If anything happens to me you may have to sell up, especially if none of the boys want to come and farm. It’s too difficult for a woman. It’s a man’s world.”

I didn’t altogether agree. My mother had taught me from an early age that a woman can do anything.

“I’ve left it so that you’ll have the life rent,” he went on. “It saves double tax and then all seven will have an equal share, but no way could seven live off the farm. It would probably have to be sold unless you could think of doing something different, but what?”

If anything happened to Ronald, God forbid, I would have no desire to be a farmer, I’d had a ladleful of it. There seemed little place for women in this world.

There were some women farmers but I think they had a pretty tough time of it. One I heard of was in pigs and from time to time had to go to the market to buy pigs. She was nicknamed Boar Annie. I had no wish to be called Boar Maggie.

The dream

The practical necessity of the market place was one part of my life but running parallel with it was the other side, the dream, the introspective seeking to make sense of things.

Poetry helped to fulfil this role. Any part of the day or night when I could get a spare moment was devoted to this in some way or another. It involved also the religious path I was on.

From time to time they came together. My meditation, although perhaps I didn’t realise it at the time, was done on the long solitary walks I took around the farm. I loved those walks; the getting away, the freedom if even for only a short while, the wind in my hair, the rain in my face, tingling frosty fingers, the sun.

I loved to watch the other occupiers of this land – the wild flowers bordering the pow, each in their different seasons; the greylag and pink foot geese feeding in our fields in winter; the air filled with lark song in spring; the coming of the curlew and oyster catcher to their nesting grounds, the swallow to its barn; deer leaping our ripening crops and the hares in congregation playing mad games.

I was also now reading whenever I could: other poets, philosophers and religious men; Eckhart trying to bring religion together, the Christian mystics, Bhuddist, Zen Bhuddism, some aspects of which I felt I could identify with. I read whatever book I could lay my hands on. By this time I had had a lot of poetry published in magazines, anthologies and although I had never met him, I had three collections done by Howard Sergeant. And not having met him was to change.

One of the poetry magazines I took, called Pause, had a real entrepreneurial editor. He hatched the idea of a special weekend to be held in Birmingham where there would be prizes given out; one to the person whoever, in the eyes of a selected panel of judges, was seen to be the most fitting to win the prize, one who over the years had done the most to forward poetry and help up-and-coming poets and the other for the best poem written by someone between the ages of 16 and 18.

It was to be an annual event. That year Howard Sergeant was to win the prize for the poet who had been the most help to others and a girl from Edinburgh won the prize for the best poem.

Enjoyable

The Grand Hotel in Birmingham was the chosen venue. I wanted to go. For one thing, here would be my chance to meet Howard Sergeant and other poets. It was to be a big gathering. Ronald didn’t like not having me around but agreed that I should go.

He liked to encourage what he saw as my hobby when he could. It was all arranged and Mahri came with me. As far as I was concerned it was a most enjoyable weekend. Mahri thought so too but for different reasons.

Although she liked poetry she had no great interest in it but as she was a pretty girl some of the poets made quite a fuss and were kind to her. She was a shy girl and her years around leaving school had been difficult. This attention was good for her bruised ego.

For some reason I felt that Howard Sergeant would hardly know me, but, to my astonishment, he knew all about me. I didn’t realise how much a publisher does know through reading the work of the people he publishes.

All I had ever had from Howard were brief notes, telling me where I had gone wrong. At the gathering he didn’t have much time to talk to me as he was much sought after.

More tomorrow.