Farm Accommodation, farm bunkhouse, Farm Life, Uncategorized, Uvie Farm

Breaking out

Every drop of water drawn from the taps this summer I have hauled into place.

I fill the bowser from the tap at the barn, pull it round to the basement at the west end of the bunkhouse, hook up to the alkythene pipe inserted into a hole drilled in the water tank enclosure and let it fill the system by gravity.
So every cup of tea, every toilet flush, hair/hand wash was made possible. Every shower prolonged pleasurably – was paid for in effort.

Every pot filled, garment washed, crock cleaned – was, in a sense, my artefact.

A pain in the water butt, in truth.

When the borehole pump failed first – I pulled it out for maintenance.
When the time came to replace it in the well with electrical connections reassembled, I tested it before dropping it down the 200ft shaft.
It didn’t work –

well, it worked if I stood in the dark basement like a cave-dwelling caryatid with my finger glued to it,

but it didn’t flow at the command of the float switch as it should.

So I run the quad up to the yard several times a day to handcraft the precious resource.

It has become a duty, like feeding the cattle in winter – a chore, literally, but one with a similar gift of routine. When I drive the quad round in the morning I take the measure of the day ahead, and, at night, take stock. While waiting on the twenty minute fill, I look for eggs, watch the ducklings, chop thistles and dockans, pull ragwort.
The Nog comes with me, joins the routine, noses through the silage pastures for pheasants, hares and partridge, also hunts out any hen’s eggs available for breakfast-(his breakfast)- races the quad, eats the chicken feed.

So this improvisation, born from failure and incomprehension,
has become embedded, a part of my day, of me
like a limp.

I must address this inertia.

Each day I aim by elimination to do some one thing to arrive closer to understanding the fault
One by one I have broken the electrical connections, and remade them, wired the pump to the switch in the basement, connected the dry run probe.
I suffer a teasing hiatus after clicking the trip switch – a moment of imminence- and then the light-

always red: always the stop light.
I had filled the pump with water when testing, but today I insert the heavy cylinder into the aperture used to fill the upper tank and submerge it – just in case there is some requirement for the pump casing to be immersed.

Flick the switch,

wait a half breath for the light to come on-

– green!

And this evening the heather has broken into full flower on the south facing slopes.

Okay it's pretty - but does it hide anything I can chase?!

Okay it’s pretty – but does it hide anything I can chase?!

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Farm Life, farm visitors, Uncategorized, Uvie Farm

Night supply

The water in the taps failed at 11.30pm-
after the movie and a couple of drams.
It is Friday after all.
So the guests have no water either.
Outside the sky is clear – but dark.
The quad is out of power – I have no way to bring new water down to the tanks unless I can start it manually.
I don’t remember if it is a kick or pullstart- or where it is.
I prise loose a couple of panels in the torchbeam – it is a pull.
The bowser was left by the tanks; I ride round making as little noise as possible in case I wake sleepers.
The tanks are full- must be electrical. My temporary seal on the pump connections has failed, I guess.
I knock the trip to the pump down and look for the breaker that has tripped. Must be in the garage – but the door won’t open with the power down.
I sneak in via the bunkhouse door – flip the breaker. The pump is whirring in the basement when I return, filling the pressure vessel that supplies the buildings.
Enough to keep the water on for the time being.
I will have to pull the pump from the borehole to make the connections waterproof.
But for now –
sufficient unto the day is the effort thereof.
In short-
though I must fill the tanks tomorrow by bowser-
I can sleep the while.

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Farm Accommodation, farm bunkhouse, Farm Life, Uncategorized, Uvie Farm

milk from the mother

I am not working alone.
I am with the belay team.
Caroline, Mike and Cathy have come to stay- old friends who blend seamlessly with life on the farm.
The name derives from further work on the borehole pump. I know my repairs have restored function –

but not for long.

The isolator perches precariously above the water that fills the pump housing as a result of my poorly regulated float switch.
In short I have electrical elements in close proximity to a watery element – not a recipe for long term sustainability.
The pump needs withdrawing from the well-
again.
This time though –
I have help.
While I hook the well cover to the hitch on the quad and drive slowly up the field, the rest of the team ease the lines out of the borehole and over the timbers of the enclosure to ensure that the alkythene, power cable and probe line do not entangle with the hawser retaining the pump and motor.
When the cables are refixed – the team then works to lower the pump and its eighty metre tails back into the depths below the herbiage and soil of the farm deep into supporting bedrock.
Hence the belay relay – easing the steel canister in a controlled way into the earth to enable water for use in the roundhouse and bunkhouse.
Earlier we teamed up to strip milk from Moira’s swollen udders – neglected for 36 hours- releasing on both sides simultaneously as a result of extra hands for the work.
No pumping here, no electrical connection,
apart from the age-old grip,

draw

and release

of the hand on the teat,
channelling an ancient goodness
warm from the body of the mother.

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Animal stories, Farm Accommodation, Farm Life, farm visitors, Highland cattle, Living with Nature, Uncategorized, Uvie Farm, wildlife

against the wind

The guests have nearly emptied the tanks that I have to fill manually.
I work to diagnose the failure of the borehole pump- a blown capacitor may be evidence of a faulty motor –

or a faulty capacitor.

This is the second day I have worked at this –
costing me time.
It is the second month
I have worked to safeguard the life of Moira’s halfcalf-
costing me time and vet’s fees.
As I return to prepare the milk-
three herons fly over the farm road-
ungainly
in a stiff headwind.

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Animal stories, Farm Accommodation, farm bunkhouse, farm visitors, Highland cattle, Uncategorized

Dysfunctional – unless it works

Changeover day – new guests in: so house cleaning today – with the added complication of filling the water tanks manually since the borehole pump failed on Thursday, but first-
Moira’s calf.
A calf who doesn’t like milk.
A calf who refuses everything suitable that I offer him.
A calf who is still standing.
I now split Moira’s feed into two buckets: I know he will compete with her, copy her, and she will make no concessions.

This gives him a few more precious mouthfuls.

He takes a few feeble licks from the mineral tub, sucks from the bottle of rehydration salts that I hold in his mouth for a good twenty minutes. I can feel his bones as I sit with my leg pinning him down in the hay.

He is building no muscle, no meat.
Tell the truth, he never will-
if he lives.

He follows his mother out of the yard and down the farm road. I catch glimpses of the pair at different spots during the day, much of it in the small clearing in the birches above the house. I haven’t seen them here before. It means they are foraging more widely.

The casual oberver would see nothing amiss: mother and calf moving steadily across the pasture, heads down. A stockman would immediately feel discomfort at this behaviour, the size of the calf, the cow’s swollen udders.
It’s not right-
and yet he’s there all day –                                                                                             moving munch                                                                                                                         by tiny munch –                                                                                                                         of thin untimely grass.

As the windy afternoon fades, he and his mother return to the yard, ready to be penned for the night.
Waiting.

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Animal stories, Farm Accommodation, Highland cattle, Uncategorized, Uvie Farm

Market day – barely.

Market day today – broken sleep guarranteed. I dream of missing holiday flights – in fact missing holiday airport.
The routine needs reversing so Moira and the boy get dealt with before the other animals get fed. It takes too long, but finally they are out to the field and I can bring the boys up to the yard and select the three to take, shedding the younger ones.
Back down to pick up the trailer.
It’s not there.
It’s been stolen.
Phone the mart, the police –
aaah-
I left it on site at the Pottery ready to load for recycling.
I’m going to be late – but nothing for it.Jump in the truck, down to the Pottery, hitch up and back again.

Reverse into the yard, adjust the gates for loading the boys – hope they co-operate.

Three of them, half a ton apiece, and me.

They have always been well treated so I don’t shout or hit them – just confine them using the gates, and, with a little encouragement they find their way into the mobile tin can that is going to ship them away from the only home they have ever known.
Driving the main road south, I control my speed while calculating just how late I am going to be. They won’t be sold at the start so I have a little leeway – fifteen minutes in should be okay – half an hour even – longer?

I might even have to turn round and take them home.
It has taken more than two years to prepare them for this day
and
I’m
LATE.

Stirling mart is hidden at the back of an industrial estate: I don’t know the route well. I refer to a Google earth print-out after leaving the motorway.

It is wrong.
After the first roundabout I am lost. I return to pick up the route. I am still lost. I just drive on, hauling my trailer full of patient highland cattle through the byzantine traffic systems, mini roundabouts and leafy suburbs of a city I have no knowledge of. I tell myself to trust in what my mother termed a ‘bump of locality’- an instinctive sense of direction. I am supposed to have a good one.
I finally ease to a halt at a filling station. The lady at the till looks hopeless when I ask her the way to the auction mart-
then-
‘Which one?’
‘er- the old one?’
‘O that’s first left, over the roundabout, through the traffic lights, over the next roundabout: it’s on the right between the Renault and Nissan garages.


Angels are also those with a good local knowledge. She’s right – perfectly.
Cattle sold – back up the road – job done.

The truck breaks down fifteen miles from home.

Could have been worse.
Could have been on the way down.

 

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Animal stories, Farm Accommodation, Farm Life, Highland cattle, Living with Nature, Uncategorized

Ave Caesar

Our routine is set. The smoother the progress; the lower the expectation.

I know I can milk Moira; feed her baby – by tube. Wait for tomorrow – when he’ll be a little feebler.
My hope is for an interruption to the expected flow of events – a quantum shift, a bovine epiphany.

The calf won’t suck, doesn’t recognise the teat, doesn’t respond to milk – now I know he doesn’t respond to solids. I tried – this morning- special calf nuts, good as muesli, mixed with creamy mothers milk and plastered round his muzzle- in his mouth –
he cleans it off..
He’s nosing around his mother’s belly as I work on the first teat – tight to start, thin- until she lets it down and the flow is strong and easy.
This is stupid –
I grab him – push his head under her body open his mouth with my fingers and stuff it with the gushing teat.
He hangs as if crucified.
Back to the shed.
After forcing the milk into him- with the tube- I return to Moira to strip her other teats. He wanders out into the yard, belly filled, donders over – puts his nose to mine.
‘Okay boss – no hard feelings’
Ave Caesar

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Animal stories, Farm Accommodation, Farm Life, Highland cattle, Living with Nature, new birth, Uncategorized, Uvie Farm

Intent

It’s not that he wants to die.
I honestly believe he enjoys being alongside Moira his mum, who has milk enough for three.
His limbs are all present and functioning. His organs appear complete. His eye is clear.
So explain this:
I treat Moira like a dairy cow – allow her time to find her own way in to the pen and down the race to the handling crate because by now she knows to expect relief, followed by release: and the passage between the metal gates is a station towards a desired objective.
She is penned and waiting, he is free; with access to her full udder. His nose is dry – he was sucking the long hairs under her chin wetted from her drinking. He is empty: taking nothing in since the last time I tubed a couple of litres into him 24 hours ago.
So why –
-when I pull on the front teat to spatter fresh milk off the floor of the crate, does he prefer to nuzzle her front?
– when I set warmed milk before him, rub some round his muzzle, does he lick it off, sniff the bowl & walk past?
– when I insert the bottle’s teat in his mouth, does he suck a few times, swallow a little and then jerk free?
Today snowshowers battle with sunshine; but by evening the sun has won.
The babies run round the field infecting their mothers with spring fever so that they too throw up their rear legs and dance like drunken Tories.

All the cattle are out at pasture with their heads down, as if the very intent of grazing would urge the grass to grow.

Just one small world seems intent on returning to winter.

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Animal stories, Farm Accommodation, Farm Life, Highland cattle, Living with Nature, new birth, Uncategorized

Trousers rolled

Margot phones as I leave the shed. I don’t know it’s her, just contort to get to the phone before it rings out. Not so simply done:- half the time I don’t remember which of multiple pockets I have stored it in. Often, as in this case, I have to burrow through layers of outer clothing before even getting close to the noisy little apparatus. I locate it in time to answer her query about hosting a writing group at the farm. To hear more about this exciting prospect I must maintain the dodgy phone signal – I stand without moving in the middle of the farm road, just inside the gate to the A86.
I cannot bend down to pull up my overtrousers rolled down around my knees. I am wearing the first hat to hand – a llama herder type woven helmet with long tassels. I stand frozen in my driveway
– when the council workers pull up to turn in the bellmouth just outside the gate.
I ignore them with dignity.

Moira and her wee lad wish I would ignore them.
When I unite them after overnight separation he heads straight for the udder. It looks like he’s feeding – there are even sucking noises- but not on the teat, Some instinctual signal is not being received. The vet checked for physical deformities and found him fully functional – but perhaps one of the body’s subtle mechanisms is failing, like smell perhaps.
I believe that he will come to understand what the flappy bits under his mother’s rear end are for, and how he claims the bounty hidden there, but for the moment we follow the contrived routine.
Pen both animals, kidnap baby, try the bottle, give up, suspend the bag, insert the tube, remove when bag empty, milk mother into bottle, release both into field.

These are the facts. These mean that Moira is kept free from infection, and her calf lives- another day. It is a routine – but failure in any part means that we might lose him.
Snow falls in fat wet flakes as mother and son trek through the herd.

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Farm Accommodation, Farm Life, Living with Nature, new birth, Uncategorized, Uvie Farm

Right idea- wrong end.

Farming is about improvised stratagems proving effective as routines.
Force feeding Moira’s calf has become such.
I deal with him after breakfast: he needs the time – after the others have been seen to.
Lock his mother in the handling crate – take him through to where the loose hay bale is stored for little girls Alice and Holly, back him against the bale, and, straddling him, offer the bottle. When this fails, wrestle him to the ground and try again.
When this fails, hang the bag on the hook in the beam, fill it with warm milk, sit under it, holding the calf with his back against my chest, head extended upwards, insert the tube all the way,open the clip and fill his stomach with lifegiving milk. O – and ignore gasps gurgles, surges,spasms, bleats and death rattles until the last drop has flowed.
He gets to his feet as soon as the tube is removed- we leave the shed together to join his mother. I hold the bottle under the nearest teat and start to fill it. Once most of the milk is down, I head round to the other side of the crate to work of the parallel teat, keeping a canny eye on the baby under her belly. As I’d hoped he makes use of my absence to move close to his mother, exploring.
When I return to his side, I find him with his head lowered beneath her body.
This is real progress.
As a big calf with a low slung mother, he needs to dip his head, even drop to his knees, to make use of the teat. I can hear him slapping his head against the underside of her body – thwack – it sounds like a punch – thwack. His instincts tell him to release the milk in the udder. He is not hitting the udder.
He is under her forward leg- her armpit, bashing her chestbone.
I nudge him gently towards the rear. I am on my knees, he is standing. Our heads are together. The teat swings invitingly inches from our faces.
We have lessons to learn yet, my brother.

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