FOOT & MOUTH – THE HUMAN SUFFERING
SCARS STILL THERE AFTER 20 YEARS
ANYBODY who knows James Morrish will tell you he possesses a voice that fills the room. Auctioneering anything from a pen of prime pigs to a five-figure tractor, he has mastered the dynamic of being both soft and strong when commanding an audience.
But dig a little deeper and you’ll find his character holds the same quality.
While many of us will know James today as a livestock auctioneer, wind the clock back to February 2001 and he could be found among those at the coalface of the foot and mouth outbreak, which plunged the agricultural industry into its worst crisis for decades.
In the three years leading up to that fateful day on February 20, when the first cases were confirmed in pigs at an abattoir in Essex, James was working for the Warwickshire-based Rural Stress Information Network (RSIN) as its South West project officer. The national “umbrella” charity, which was established in 1996 before disbanding in 2006, worked with a range of partners to provide advice and support for farmers and members of the wider rural community.
Aged 26 at the time, James remembers in precise detail how the arrival of foot and mouth was to throw his work and personal life completely out of gear.
“In February 2001, suddenly the life of the charity and my personal life changed,” he says. “On the first day of foot and mouth, we received more calls on the helpline than we had over the whole 12 months previous.
“A good stockman will be able to identify each and every one of his animals individually. And it’s no exaggeration that they probably spend more time with them than their wives. So for those farmers at the time to see their animals shot and then burned on a massive pyre was absolutely horrific.
“And for those who didn’t have foot and mouth on their farms, it was awful because they knew that their animals could be next. They still had the stock and costs to go with it, but the value of their livestock just went to nothing because there were no markets.”
By the time the last case of foot and mouth was confirmed on September 30, 2001, more than six million cattle, pigs and sheep had been slaughtered in efforts to bring the highly infectious disease under control.
James’ own family farm in North Devon was a victim of the Ministry of Agriculture, Fisheries and Food’s (MAFF) contiguous culling policy, which ordered all livestock within three kilometres (two miles) of a confirmed outbreak to be slaughtered, regardless of whether the infection had been reported there.
“It turns out the cake lorry had been to a confirmed farm, then went to a neighbour’s farm,” he says. “All of our animals, probably around 1,000-head of stock, were shot in the yard and left there for the next fortnight. We had rats the size of cats.”
He adds: “If you were on an infected farm, you had to quarantine, so I actually had to leave home to be able to continue to do my job. I stayed in The Royal Hotel in Bideford, courtesy of the Brend family, for 14 weeks.”
As the crisis deepened and with the Royal Agricultural Benevolent Institution (RABI) only able to help fund domestic bills for farmers and farm labourers, it became apparent to James and the RSIN team that a broader support network was needed for farmers and key rural workers.
“In the early days, RABI could only help farmers and farm labourers, because that’s what they were constituted to do,” says James. “We realised that there was a whole heap of other people out there that needed to be supported – livestock hauliers, market workers, blacksmiths, rosette makers, the list was endless. We needed to set up something that would be able to help all those other people, and help pay for the things that RABI couldn’t such as animal feed and bedding.”
After some discussion, the ARC-Addington Fund came to fruition in March 2001, the “ARC” standing for the Arthur Rank Centre where it was based alongside the RSIN at Stoneleigh Park.
Remaining employed by RSIN, James’ ingrained understanding of the farming community saw him seconded to the ARC-Addington Fund, where he started working closely with its then chief executive, Ian Bell, who had moved from the Ernest Cook Trust to drive the newlyformed charity forward. Known today
as the Addington Fund, it would go on to distribute grants totalling £10.3 million to more than 22,000 applicants – acting as a lifeline for farmers facing emotional, financial and physical devastation as a result of the outbreak.
James recalls: “I remember bringing the very first payment from the ARC-Addington Fund to South Devon. As we saw a lot, the people were very proud and they didn’t want to be seen to be taking charity. But there was an urgent need to get a few hundred pounds to this particular farming family. We’re not talking about £50,000, just £200 or £300. I dropped this cheque off and they picked it up, banked it and that was that.”
He continues: “About three months ago, I saw them at Exeter Livestock Market. Before then, I hadn’t seen them for 20 years. They came and tapped me on the shoulder and said, ‘Thank you for what you did’. I think so many people in the farming and rural community are that way inclined, they remember you for the good and bad.”
In the months that followed, James was a listening ear to some truly harrowing outpourings, with one in particular remaining so vividly in his memory.
“I remember it very clearly,” he says. “I was sitting in my room at The
Royal one night, it must have been about midnight, and a call came through from somebody who didn’t give their name. He said his cows had been slaughtered that day. He went on to say that he had a gun in his hand and was going to call it a day.
“I just let him talk, doing everything that the Samaritans had trained me to do. We talked about all sorts of things, his family and who would find him if he shot himself. This went on for an hour-and-a-half or so and I thought we were getting on fine, but then the phone went dead. I spoke to Brian [Warren] and Ian [Bell] about it and they both asked me if I knew the man and where he came from. The answer was no, so in the end you had to be quite hard and say, ‘OK, that’s one that got away’.”
But in a remarkable turn of events, caller and callee were to have their first face-to-face introduction two years later at the
Devon County Show, which in the aftermath of foot and mouth was held without any livestock. James recalls: “I remember this chap coming over and asking if I was James Morrish. He said that he had spoken to me on the phone one night, and that the charity I had the pleasure of working for had saved him from killing himself. He explained then that he’d had the phone in his right hand and the gun in his left hand. He missed. Pulled the trigger and blew half his ear off.
“That man became one of my confidences for four years. When I needed to speak to someone very confidentially, who better than him because he understood. He had got to the stage where he was about to end it all. I still speak to him regularly and he’s a very dear friend.”
And being witness to such emotional distress understandably had an impact on James’ own personal wellbeing. He says: “I was a relatively young man and yes, it affected me. I was taking calls all day, every day. The Samaritans put somebody in to ride with me for a few months who ended up taking the majority of the calls. Some still wanted to speak to me personally, which was absolutely fine. I didn’t realise it at the time, but he was also put there to help and protect me.
“My relationship at the time broke down. When I did eventually go back home, I’d be lying in bed asleep next to my girlfriend and at 2am the phone would ring, and she would be able to hear if it was a woman on the end of the line. You couldn’t talk to your partner about who that woman was, so I would get out of bed, go into another room and spend an hour on the phone.
“That’s quite a challenge for your partner, as well as you.”
He adds: “I saw all people doing all sorts of things to try and get money, farmers’ wives going on the game to selling the family jewels. Suddenly there was a lot more domestic violence happening, as farmers took it out on those closest to them. Thankfully not too many took their own lives, but some did.”
By 2006, James was ready for a new chapter and bid farewell to the RSIN in April of that year. But while responding to the fallout of foot and mouth in the South West brought many dark days, it’s a call to arms he wouldn’t hesitate to answer again.
“There I was, a 26-year-old man, with the connections to help quite a lot of people,” he says. “But that wasn’t necessarily me helping them, I was a cog in a much bigger wheel. But for me to be able to trigger that help was a satisfying feeling and I was very flattered to be put in that position.
“I don’t think it’s too abrasive to say that because of foot and mouth, my life changed immensely. Ian [Bell] and I speak most weeks, even now, and very occasionally we do talk about foot and mouth. Both of us fully agree that if we had to, we’d do it all again. But I hope we don’t have to.”
James concludes: “Certainly from looking at today’s coronavirus pandemic, one of the similarities with foot and mouth is the way in which people are trying to help each other, by doing some shopping or perhaps picking up the phone to speak to somebody they haven’t spoken to for a long while. Something good always comes out of every disaster.”
Whether the issue is personal or business-related, the Farming Community Network helpline is open 7am to 11pm to speak to one of its dedicated volunteers. Call 03000 111 999 or email help@fcn. org.uk
For those farmers to see their animals shot and burned on a massive pyre was horrific JAMES MORRISH