by Sally Urwin
As I walk back to the farm the sky miraculously clouds over, and I can feel a few spots of rain on my face. I rush into the house to tell Steve, and we watch the rain spots on the window, hoping and praying that we get a good soaking.
Tuesday 14th August
We’ve finally had some rain. Last night the skies opened with an almighty deluge of thunder, lightning and water. It rained solidly for most of the night. This morning the ground is steaming, and it’s feeling cooler.
Already the paddocks are beginning to look less dusty and brown, and our back lawn has started to green up.
Wednesday 15th August
Lucy and Ben are busy setting up a roadside stall to sell some of our surplus eggs and vegetables from the allotment. It’s a good way for them to rustle up extra pocket money, which no doubt they will splurge on the tombola at the next village fete.
They haul out a badly spelt blackboard (‘Eggs and Veggitabels’) and pile a wonky table with big leeks, huge potatoes and boxes of brown eggs, freshly laid by Marjorie and Ethel. They then spend a good ten minutes arguing about the prices, until I intervene to say that £10 for six eggs might be pushing the market a bit.
I keep a careful eye on them out of the kitchen window. I can see passers-by stopping in front of their stall, and after an hour of frenzied selling, a breathless Lucy rushes in to show me their profit. A whole six pounds! They were even given an extra pound each by a member of the brewery staff who felt sorry for them. A great result. Ben is already calculating how many Pokemon cards he can buy, while the sensible Lucy carefully adds the coins to her piggy bank. It’s already too heavy to pick up, and she tells me she’s saving for new drawing pencils and paints.
Thursday 16th August
Today is a big sheep day, as we’re weaning the lambs. We call it ‘spayning’ on our farm, and it usually heralds a day and night of constant bleating as we separate the ewes and their offspring.
The lambs are now fully grown and big enough to manage on their own without their mother’s milk. Our ewes need a few months off, without their grown lambs, to build condition until they meet the tup again in November.
We separate the lambs from their mothers by running the whole flock through a sheep race with two gates at one end. The ewes go into one pen and the lambs go into another. Then we herd them into two fields, one pasture at the east end of the farm, and one pasture at the west.
The ewes occasionally lift their heads to give a half-hearted baa, but seem grateful to be separated from their enormous children. Over the past few weeks I’ve noticed that the lambs lift their mothers off their back feet when they try to tuck underneath her to reach her milk. They kneel into the grass and thump upwards with their hard heads, butting into her udder. It must be painful, and the ewe usually marches across the pasture, walking over the lambs and shaking herself irritably.
Our lambs are getting nice and fat, almost ready to go to the Mart. Steve walks round the pen, checking how ready they are by feeling their plump little tails – and some are almost round, especially Fatty the ewe’s two offspring, whose little woolly tails are like fluffy tennis balls.
‘Nooooooooooo,’ says Lucy, when I mention the Mart, ‘can’t we keep them all?’ But we really can’t, as we’d have elderly sheep staggering around the farm like the living dead, and our lambs give us a good chance to make a decent profit this year.
In an ideal world, once we’ve separated the ewes and lambs, they blare and baa on for a bit, and then they get used to it, and the mothers think ‘Thank god for that’, eat lots of grass and start to put some condition on, ready to be tupped again in November by Randy Jackhammer and Thrusty Clappernuts.
However, once all the flock is separated into their two fields, and we’ve gone back to the house for a cup of tea, one lamb manages to wriggle under the gate of its field, belt up the farm drive and press itself against the field gate right next to the ewes. This gives the rest of the lambs an idea, and by this afternoon we have twenty-five lambs out of their field, ricocheting around the farmyard and trying to squeeze themselves through a two-inch gap in the fence to find their mothers. Who are all completely unconcerned and are grazing determinedly with their backsides towards their bawling children.
We try to gather the lambs and herd them down the drive back into their field. It’s impossible. As soon as we shoo a few away from the gate, they double back and go to mad lengths trying to break through the gate, even throwing themselves at the fence at head height.
Lucy goes off in a huff after Steve shouts, ‘For god’s sake stand still!’ at her too many times, and Ben sensibly refuses to get off the quad bike and watches us while munching on a packet of salt-and-vinegar crisps. Mavis is hiding under the trailer, beadily staring at the lambs, but refusing to join in after being shouted at for nipping a back leg.
Eventually in frustration we manage to push the lambs back into the sheep race, shove them into the sheep trailer and then drive the few hundred yards to their field, heave them out of the trailer and into their field and stick a big log in front of their gate so they can’t wriggle out any more.
Friday 17th August
The lambs were shouting right through the night but finally tailed off early this morning. We blearily stagger out of bed and look out the window. Most of them are at the far end of the field, munching on an early-morning bite of grass. There’s still some pathetic-looking individuals standing next to the gate, heads through the bars, forlornly staring down the drive.
It’s the same today – lots of bleating and shouting, but fortunately no escapees. Little Titchy seems one of the most unconcerned. He’s lying under the tree in the sun, contentedly chewing his cud with all four legs tucked neatly beneath him.
Saturday 18th August
It’s the village fete today. I’ve had over twenty years in volunteering at these happy events, and done everything from managing a flatulent Santa who overindulged on parsnip soup to controlling a rabid crowd of toddlers at a glitter tattoo stall. This year I’ve volunteered to manage the hook-a-duck stall.
I offered to manage the hook-a-duck stall for 2018 on the actual day of last year’s fete. I wanted to get in there first; otherwise I’d be left with some apocalyptic scenario such as running the ice cream stall or judging the flower-arranging competition.
The best thing about my stall is the fact that I don’t have to move from one spot all day. I prepare carefully with two seats (one for me and one for any friends I might spot on the day), a table for my flask of tea, a gazebo to protect me from howling winds or scorching sun and a box of chocolatey prizes. Which I try very hard not to eat.
Dad has come to help. He sits in one spot, takes the money and makes loud comments about the behaviour of everyone’s sticky and snot-encrusted children.
The village fete has a boat race, and Steve and the kids have made a sort of catamaran out of two stapled-together milk bottles, which is raced down the stream against a flotilla of other home-made boats. I turn into a madwoman, belting down the riverbank, bosoms revolving, pushing everyone out of the way while shrieking at our boat to go faster. We lose. To a last-minute entry consisting of an old fag packet with a lolly stick stuck to the top.
My kids beg for money, so I empty my purse of 10- and 20-pence pieces and pour them into their pockets. Otherwise they will spend all day standing two inches away from my ear droning ‘Muuuuum. Muuuuuuuum. Muuuuuuuuuuum’ in a flat monotone until I give them handfuls of more 20-pence pieces to spend on the tombola.
Tombolas are to children what crack cocaine is to a drug addict. Lucy and Ben spend £8.40 on tombola tickets in the first fifteen minutes before returning, proudly clutching a weathered Yardley toiletry set and a dusty bottle of pink bath salts.
The day is warm and dry. I have many tiny visitors who crowd around my plastic duck pond, and I am busily occupied handing out fishing lines and trawling for upside-down ducks. One child falls in, and lots of passing dogs help themselves to a drink.
At th
e end of the day I’m full of ice cream and warm white wine, and have a general haze of bonhomie towards the rest of our village. We troop back to the car carrying our various loot. I have bought five second-hand books and the kids are crowing over their prizes, which seem to be mostly sweets, grubby soft toys and the odd dog-eared comic.
Sunday 19th August
The sunset this evening is stunning. All the hot weather has kicked up dust into the atmosphere and the colours are spectacular, from a deep crimson shading through peach to a delicate pink that makes the clouds look rosy against the deep-blue sky.
A very smart couple is sitting on my garden wall watching the display as I use a watering can to throw water on my flowers in the garden. They’ve been at a christening party at the brewery.
‘Is it always like this?’ asks the suited man.
‘Most of the time,’ I say, wondering if he means the sunset, or the weather in general.
‘It’s just so beautiful. I’d love to live here.’
I chat for a while and recommend that they go and stand at the gate into our barley field to watch the sunset. They set off, her in strappy high heels and tight dress, and him in a smart blue suit and brown brogues. Later on, I see them stood in the entrance to the ripening barley, her head on his shoulder, as they watch the last rays of sun peek across the ash trees at the bottom of the field.
Tuesday 21st August
There’s a farm sale advertised in the Hexham Courant. We love a good sale. This one is in north Northumberland, so Steve, the kids, Dad and I all pile in the car and take the hour drive up the Coquet Valley. It’s being held at a farm right on the top of a hill, and the car parking is in a bumpy field next to the farm entrance. It’s high and exposed up here, and when I open the door the wind almost rips the handle out of my hand.
The farmer is retiring, and all his machines and the contents of his barns are being auctioned by Hexham and Northern Marts. We don’t know the family or the farm, but I can’t help feeling sad that they are moving on, especially as they seem to have been here a long time, judging by the rows and rows of old tools and machinery.
The kids are having a great time, jumping from a pile of old tyres onto the top of a flat trailer. Dad is carefully sifting through a box of old tools and making a note of the ones that he wants to buy. I’m more interested in the food van, and haul everyone off for a bacon sandwich and a cup of piping-hot tea.
The auctioneer stands out in the field and moves methodically from lot to lot, selling everything to the highest bidder. He quickly sells a long line of old tools then moves on to a couple of vintage milk churns, and then finally the carts and trailers. Dad has bought an ancient-looking workshop vice and is happily cleaning it with his handkerchief. We bid on a seed drill, but the price goes too high so we all wander off to look at a beautifully refurbished grey Fergie tractor and an enormous modern combine harvester. There’s a very big crowd, and we see a few faces we know.
It starts to blow a real gale but still the auctioneer carries on, wanting to get through all the outside lots before he can start on the cows and calves in the sheds. Everyone crowds round an old Fordson tractor and there’s a brief but loud outburst of bidding before the new owner waves his card at the auctioneer, and then trails off to pay for his purchase in the auction’s mobile office. Steve is deep in conversation with a local farmer, discussing the lamb prices and whether he should sell in the autumn or wait until the new year.
Even though we couldn’t afford to buy anything we’ve had a good day, catching up with the farming gossip and eating a bacon butty for lunch. Dad falls asleep on the way home, snoring loudly while wedged between the kids in their car seats.
Wednesday 22nd August
The wind is battering the roof of the house, wobbling the slates and booming down the chimney breast.
Last night the weather forecaster announced that the North East would feel the tail end of a big storm and it’s definitely arrived in Northumberland.
I keep inside during the worst gusts, as the trees along the drive bend alarmingly, and shoals of sticks and leaves are dashed across the farmyard. We have a huge solitary ash tree in the back field that used to sit on a long-disappeared field boundary. It has an enormous trunk, pitted and twisted with many lumps and bumps, and must be at least a few hundred years old. In the wild weather the tree branches violently twist and sway, and I pray that it isn’t felled by the storm.
The bad winds continue until after dark, and we sit listening to the sounds of twigs hitting our slates and the wind moaning around the windows and doors.
Thursday 23rd August
It was one of the worst storms we’ve had all year. In the morning the road outside our house is littered with branches and twigs. Steve goes out to do an initial reconnaissance of the damage and comes back in with his shoulders slumped.
‘There’s three trees down,’ he says, ‘one in the barley, one in the hay field and one in the front field.’
When a tree falls in a crop field it damages the valuable harvest and prevents the combine harvester from cutting that area. We’ll have to shift it before the crop ripens by sawing up the trunk and bigger branches and then collecting all the left-over wood and larger twigs. And we need to do it in the next three weeks before the oilseed rape and the barley is ripe and our harvesting swings into action.
‘Right,’ says Steve. ‘I’ll add it to the to-do list.’ At least we’ll now have enough firewood to last us for the next few years.
Friday 24th August
We’ve been chopping and carting away the downed tree in the hay field all morning.
I’ve dragged the fat pony along for a bit of exercise and company.
I don’t have a cart that she could pull, so instead I tack her up, tie a pair of seed bags together with baler twine and sling them over her saddle so that they hang down on either side. Now I can fill them full of the twigs from the trees.
She doesn’t seem to mind, and after carefully turning around to investigate each bag in case it contains sheep nuts, she settles down to munch away at the field borders while I pick up twigs.
I always think picking twigs is a medieval sort of job, as it can’t have changed in hundreds and hundreds of years. It’s not difficult. You clear the grass fields of all the big branches and larger twigs before they’re cut for hay, otherwise the downed wood is caught in the mower and your forage is full of chopped-up bits of wood.
Away from the downed tree the hay field is hip-deep in wonderful thick green grass dotted with yellow meadow vetchling, creamy-coloured meadowsweet and carpets of pink- and purple-tipped clover flowers. Earlier in the year I heard the plaintive ‘cour-leee’ of curlews and the high-pitched ‘pee-whit’ of lapwings that were nesting in the field, but now there’s just a background hum from bumblebees and the sound of the grass itself, bending and rustling in the wind.
I trundle the wheelbarrow up to the tree, fill it full of cut logs and push it back to the farmyard, hauling fat pony and her bags of twigs along behind me. She occasionally jerks her head down to reach a particularly luscious clump of grass, and I stop for a moment, straighten my back and push on to dump our loads of sticks and logs in the corner of the barn. By the time we’re finished the pony has eaten her body weight in grass and we have a respectable pile of cut ash logs, which will slowly dry out, ready for our log burner in the colder months.
Saturday 25th August
We push our way into the thick stalks of the wheat and barley fields. The crops are almost ready, the golden stalks bending under the weight of the rapidly ripening seeds. The seed heads need to have less than 25 per cent moisture to be ready for harvesting. Steve has a clever little electronic moisture meter but prefers to check by biting a seed between his back teeth, even though he’s at risk of cracking a molar. If the seed makes a crackling sound it’s dry enough to cut.
If the crop is cut while it’s too damp it has to be dried in a commercial grain dryer, which costs a lot of money.
The oilseed rape is also looking ripe, with the dark-yellow plant stalks turning a dark grey, and the little spiky pods rattling with the tiny black seeds.
The weather is set fair for the next few days, and Steve is constantly preoccupied, checking his phone for updates from John, the combine driver, and Don, the wagon driver who picks up our wheat, rape and barley harvest. It’s a delicate business. We’re only a tiddly farm in the big scheme of things, and don’t have much clout, so we walk a thin line of checking that we’re on their list of farms to visit and making sure that we don’t harass their staff.
Of course, the decent weather means that every farm is doing the same thing, and the combine drivers are working flat out, right round the clock, trying to catch the sun and get the harvest in before the weather breaks. If it does rain during harvest we will have to stop and wait until the crop dries again, to make sure it’s in optimum dry condition before cutting.
Steve isn’t eating very much, is grumpy and stressed, and keeps sniffing the wind like Mavis. And if he can’t get on with something (the ground is too wet, or the tractor needs fixing) he’s almost in actual physical pain.
Tonight I look out the window and see lights dotted around in the distance right up to the horizon – all the neighbouring farmers drilling, ploughing, cutting, baling while the weather holds.
Sunday 26th August
The combine arrives at 11 a.m. and steams into the yard. She’s huge and bright yellow, with a strip of cab in the front shaded with darkened glass. John the driver waves at the kids and rumbles off to cut the first field. Steve rushes to his tractor, swings himself into the driver’s seat and trundles off after him, pulling our long green trailer behind.