Cattle, good for the soul in deep midwinter
SO, the shortest day has been and gone, and evenings are creeping out again once more. The darkness recedes, the light returns. Usually, this brings an immediate change in the birdsong about the farmyard, as our feathery little chums check their little birdie pocket watches, and think spring is a distant possibility again.
Curiously, this mid-winter I would have said some of the birdsong had already altered a fortnight since. I’m not any kind of expert, and I’ll tell you more in a day or two perhaps.
Maybe I’ve got some whose watches are running fast. Anyhoo, it does bring a little ray of light into a gloomy winter to hear them begin to sing in the seasons change.
For my own sake as much as yours, I thought I’d try and think of what else brings a bit of pleasure to my humdrum life, trudging about in the mud feeding my beasts.
Still on matters avian, the thick green moss which grows on the walls and tree trunks hereabouts must harbour all kinds of insect life, because at times, the birds dig amongst it, leaving a trail of dis
lodged bits everywhere. And irrespective of the season, the spuggies living in the cattle barns chirrup and squabble away more or less continuously. I could do without their leavings, but between the beery breath of the munching bullocks, and their chatter, bedding the cattle is deeply salubrious work.
Being in amongst the cattle day by day brings a peace that is hard to beat. You find yourself talking to favourites, as some characters show themselves. It’s not time wasted – those that think bedding cattle should be done from a machine which blows chopped straw everywhere miss the trick. That time in with the stock is pretty much beyond price. By spring turnout, a lot of the yearlings will be stupidly quiet, which makes life all kinds easier.
Another thing which brings some quiet to my soul is watching them thrive too. Having been weaned straight off the hill, it takes a week or two for them to settle, and start to dig into the trough. But now, most have got a gloss to their coat as they start to motor. Likewise, now the cows have dried off, and settled into their winter quarters, at outdoor round feeders, they’re rested and filling up with next year’s calves.
My daily routine of taking round bales out to them means, even in the teeth of the gale, I’m shoving in amongst them to cut the strings off the bales. There’s several bulls eating at these feeders… soppy great lumps that they are. Most days, I’ll stop and have a few quiet words, scratching them under their shaggy necks. We have tested it, and they each know their names. At this time of year, with little work to do, they’re biddable critters who have to be pushed aside to get to past. Given what they weigh, against what I weigh, they’re the gentlest of creatures to work with. To say they enrich my days hardly does them justice. I long ago stopped viewing cattle as a business which had to make a profit, and more a hobby which mustn’t lose too much.
But it’s beyond that, keeping beasts is a salve for a battered soul. I can’t be the only one who views them thus….in fact I know a few operations who charge guests to come and enjoy ‘cow therapy’! I’m not about to do that – my time with them through these dark winter months is something we share quietly between us.
I suppose I should give mention to the sheep as well. This last week it’s suddenly evident that some of the older ewes are ‘filling up’. It looks like the rams have done their stuff, and come April, the valley will be filled with skippity lambs once more.
Two of us slipped the Scotch ewes back onto the hill this week – they’d just about ‘picked up’ the grass in the field of inbye we tupped them on, and it was time. The dogs were bouncy and exuberant, after 5-6 weeks of not doing much work, and I could hardly keep under close control. When they’re working day by day, the hounds get in the swing of it, and respond easily. Not this time. However, the ewes wanted nothing more than to comply, knowing they were headed back to their lear. It’s a mile up to the moorgate, and they nearly trotted all the way.
So, although you’d hardly see it yet, the wheel slowly turns, and the sun will return. And, borrowing the line from some gormless festive tune on the radio… ‘Let’s hope it’s a good one, without any tiers’.
‘There’s several bulls eating at these feeders... soppy great lumps that they are’