Mindy Hammond

When it comes to haymaking, our columnist doesn’t let the grass grow under her feet...

Well, despite the rain deciding to visit us too regularly early in the summer, in the end the sun managed to squeeze its head through the clouds and the British population headed for the beaches or began passing out in their gardens after overexerting themselves inflating paddling pools. Meanwhile, we country folk turned our attention to the most important time in the summer calendar… haymaking.

As the saying goes, you should only make hay when the sun shines. However, hay bales, like rome, aren’t built in a day, and without four or five dry sunny days in a row, they aren’t likely to be made at all.

I am obsessed with the weather at any time of year, but when the grass has grown to thigh height and last year’s hay stocks are getting low, all I pray for is a run of sun.

Martin, our local farming friend, was on standby with his team of tractor drivers. He was watching three weather sites, I was monitoring another two and our daily conversations (apart from catching up on Love Island) were about the location of rain clouds. We also became avid TV viewers; the BBC weatherman would roll his eyes and warn us rain was imminent but the nice lady on ITV would share her delight over the blistering temperatures about to fry the country. Who to believe?

We cross-referenced every report several times a day and finally agreed we were better off asking the elderly whether their arthritis was playing up. (At which point we came up with a great idea – Saga Island – the OAP version of Love Island. Instead of shenanigans in the bedroom, there would be conversations over knitting yarn and hip

operations, with the odd trip to the chiropodist thrown in for fun.)

Finally, with the grass turning yellow, we had three and a half days of guaranteed heat to get the hay cut. The tractors arrived early on day one and the cutting began. A couple of hours later, the fields were shorn; the hay lay peacefully on the ground, “making...” in the sunshine and all was well.

Day two is “turning” day when the tractor drivers revisit to flip it over, ensuring the hay at the bottom is as dry as the top. Then the rake comes and rows it into a long, neat pile ready for baling. Day three was baling day and we knew we were working against the clock. Heavy rain was forecast for the evening, by which time the bales needed to be under cover. Martin was in a very important all-day meeting but had sent the lads to get on with the job.

Disaster struck when the rake hit a telegraph pole and mangled itself. A minor fluster, which was soon rectified, but it was made worse by the baler catching fire. Poor Martin must have been perspiring by now. Ours is the tiniest crop compared to the thousands of acres he harvests each year, and although we all expect hiccups, the problems were coming close to biblical proportions. With his top bloke away at a funeral and an erratic phone signal in his meeting room miles away, we were all feeling twitchy. A thousand small bales had been made from our bottom field and a few enormous round bales before the baler gave up the ghost. At least the small bales were done and my horse feed for the next 12 months was secure, but the remaining hay was still in rows along the ground as the rain clouds crept towards us. Martin returned home from his meeting, and jumped aboard his tractor. At 9pm I watched the headlights zooming up and down our fields: Martin was baling for all he was worth (and missing the Love Island final). Amazingly, the rain missed us and next morning we woke to fields dotted with enormous bales and two huge trailers laden with small bales waiting to be towed off to Martin’s barn.

Then catastrophe struck. The lads who toiled on their tractors weren’t licensed to tow the trailers and as the first huge spots of rain fell my heart sank. Charlie, our lovely ex-farmer/gardener was pulling his hair out, but there was nothing to be done.

Eventually, Martin managed to get it all under cover. A few bales have been lost but, hopefully, the majority will be fine and at the end of the day, there’s little point getting in a tizz over a load of grass. Nobody died, the fields had a haircut and even if some of the hay isn’t quite right for horses, it’ll be beautiful stuff for cattle, and Martin remains an unflappable farming hero. Before you think it, no, I am not shopping for cows as a result. Haymaking I can deal with, milkmaiding is another story...