October 2009 - Posts
To catch them by the chin and ear, back them in the crate,
Kicking, jumping, bellowing, mother cow's rattling at the gate.
From mid June we started feeding corn in a creep feeder for the suckler calves, it takes quite a while for them to start to find their way in, and its quite easy for them wonder in while they're still small. During August they had started to take a regular feed each day and I had to replenish with pellets each week.
The upper rail on the entrance was now just rubbing their backs, and so keen that they duck to get at the feed. Its now October and they are bending their legs a little as well as ducking and turn round to come out the same.
Last week we let the cattle onto some mowing meadows on the peat ground, which meant the calves were three fields away from the feeder, with the grass being so fresh and lush from the aftermath, no calves came back to the feeder for almost a week.
This morning I went down to count the cattle, and as they had taken most of the grass off those peat meadows, they had come back over night to the main cow pasture where the creep feeder is situated. The calves must have all decided to catch up on the feed they has missed, and I found five big calves wedged in very comfortably, side by side as if they were in a milking parlour, there are five openings at the front, but the top rail on the entrance was acting as a rump rail, and as they could not turn round they could not get out. By the look of the paddle of muck and wee under their back feet they had been in most of the night. I did try to lead ones tail under the rump rail to see if it would duck and back out, if one was out the others could turn round and all would be well. On touch the nearest ones tail it jumped and lashed out with its back feet, so for my safety and the calves, I abandoned that idea.
Only one thing to do was to put the tines of the fore end loader under one end of the creep, and lift it well up to release them. As big as what the calves are the mothers were keen to see where their calves were, and all five latched onto their respective mothers for milk.
Half of our calves have been weaned two weeks ago, I went through the herd and made a note some time back, of the cows numbers who were not quite so fit, and a note of all the first calf heifers numbers, then came into the office and made a list of their calves.
This is weaning a month earlier than I have ever done, but the calves were all used to eating hard food from the creep. In my view this should allow the cows to regain some weight while we still have grass and maize stubbles to brows. On the other hand, the other half of the cows, still with calves, they are good and fit, and some almost in blubby fat condition. I intend to leave the calves on them for another couple of months, by which time they may have pulled the mothers down a bit. That reminds me I must raise or unbolt the top rail from the creep which is now acting as a rump rail.
Dehorning Calves every Year
Dehorning calves every year, an Angus bull must get,
Breed them so they have none, save lots of work you bet,
To catch them by the chin and ear, back them in the crate,
Kicking, jumping, bellowing, mother cow's rattling at the gate.
Calf thinks "I'll shake them off; I'll bite his thumb real hard,
Shout and bellow for me mum, she'll chase them out the yard,
They've got me head its in a clamp, a needles in me ed,
A red hot iron coming close, mid smoke, and nothings said".
Later in life they're' dangerous, horns grow long and sharp,
Job to get them in the crush, but who are we to carp,
Dehorned as youngsters it is the best, pain for half an hour,
Makes life much easier, for stock and those in power.
Countryman
The lion and the calf shall lie down together, but the calf won't get much sleep.
Woody Allen (1935 - )
Years ago, perhaps thirty years ago, when I took over another block of fields on the estate, there was one mysterious little meadow of about two acres. The land and fields surrounding it are light land overlying gravel and deeper down pure sand, but it lay in a hollow, dead flat and with a ditch all down the South side. It had always been a permanent pasture with a tendency to grow rushes and in winter very wet and it poached.
The ditch running its length was over grown and very rarely ever been cleaned out (perhaps because in my generation and mechanisation era we were reluctant to use spades) so had a tendency to over flow in winter, this is why it was so wet. The ditch had a wide catchment area which included carrying storm water from the road drains of a quarter of a mile, so when it rained hard it was a fast flowing ditch.
The council and the estate got together to remedy this ditch, as it was causing the road to flood, so they drew up a scheme to pipe it all the way through four of my fields to where it met the wet peaty ditches that were maintained by the river board.
This little meadow was transformed into quite a dry meadow and as it had been mown every summer for centuries, or so it seemed, it had very little fencing so it was decided to fill in the old ditch and the post and wire fence removed, and it was merged with the next field, an arable field.
We started ploughing across the main field and at the end of every run we ploughed down into this little old meadow. It stalled the tractor and had to go down about two gears, the tractor reared as the plough got dug into a seam of heavy clay. There was about four inches of black silt on top, for at some point in time it must have been a man made shallow pool, (perhaps a flight pool for ducks as the estate had keepers and a shoot) all the clay must have been carted there by horse and cart and levelled and spread in a foot deep layer.
All round the estate on every farm a proportion of the land was heavy land on top of red marl and in all those field are marl pits, this I was told was dug up and spread out on top of arable and pasture land in spade full's or in clay lumps to chillate (if that's the right word)
In other words it was left for the frost to break it down into a crumbly hump that could be chain harrowed and spread evenly all over the field the following spring.
In the case of this little meadow it was a thick twelve inch layer of marl that was puddle down when there was plenty of water flowing in winter and allowed to form a pool.
It took about five years before the clay got properly mixed with subsoil and the silt, and that area did not have fertilizer for quite a number of years other wise the corn would go flat
In years gone by a man would no doubt have spent half the winter digging and maintaining that ditch by hand, but as the farms became mechanised so fewer men were about farms.
Then in the late 1950's or there abouts, J C Bamford invented a digger on the back of a tractor, ( twenty miles from here) and the JCB has evolved to the enormous business that it is. Now all my ditches are maintained as necessary, without too much cost and effort by a friend of mine with his JCB
Introducing Mr Roy Halden, JCB or is it CBE
Roy he drives a JCB, it is his full time job,
Works about locally, to earn an onest bob,
On the spot the time he says, reliable as he can be,
Round the farms and building sites, always you can see.
Digging out or trenching, or foundations good and straight,
Never leaves a mess behind, no need for him a mate,
Grading out hardcore, to level a brand new drive,
Perfection's what he aims for, not the nine to five.
Always takes three buckets, for all the jobs he does,
He swaps them automatically, without even a pause,
Tease them round to be in line, click they're well fixed on,
Carries them every where he goes, so well known this mon.
His front bucket does many jobs; it has a ‘jaw' that opens,
It can grab and grip things, dozer blade beneath as options,
A pair of fork lift tines fold over, moving pallets about,
For all these various jobs he does, just give him a shout.
His machine's maintained and clean, when he's off to work,
But some jobs they're down right dirty, these he doesn't shirk,
Tackle almost any job, that he's asked to do,
Brings his bag of snappin, and a flask that holds his brew.
Best known digger man in these parts, as he goes shooting by,
A wave and a big broad smile from him, in his cab so high,
Off to his next appointment, just a regular of his,
So often he is recommended, with his JCB he's a whiz.
Countryman
Its better for civilization to be going down the drain than to be coming up it
Henry Allen
Mother always told us, to wash behind our ears,
Neck and earhole what she called it, in our early years,
The only soap that we had at home as kids was the old green square tablet of carbolic soap, it came in double length pieces with a groove across the middle to either break or cut into two. Mother had a bar of soap of her own that was scented, but she kept it hidden. As the carbolic soap was warn down with use almost too small to use and then was put in a big glass jar with a bit of water. This melted it down to a jelly, and over a period of time it built up, then on a washing day all or some if it was tipped into the dolly tub, or later into the new washing machine.
It was used on our hair as shampoo, and in the bath, if soap was needed it was carbolic, and always when we had our ‘neck and earole' wash.
I Remember the Neck and Earhole Wash
Mother always told us, to wash behind our ears,
Neck and earhole what she called it, in our early years,
This is where she always looked, for grime not yet reached,
It'll end up on the pillow, that is why she always preached.
At the sink with bar of carbolic, soap to those don't know,
Lather on your hands and flannel, sleeves rolled to the elbow,
Watched that we made good job, never did she miss,
Must admit it felt so fresh, we went to sleep in bliss.
Countryman
Father was a dab hand at cutting our hair, but it was not something we ever looked forward to, particularly if he was tired from a hard days work. We had a high stool that the youngest of us sat on at the table, this was what he used while cutting our hair.
The hair clipper were hand operated, the head looked like small sheep shears ( cutter and comb ), and to operate the blades were two handles at the back like miniature scythe handles with knobs half way up to stop his fingers sliding while working them.
Sheep clippers probably work at a few hundred shithers a minuet,these at there fastest would be about fifty or sixty, or how ever fast they could be squose and released with his fist. The other equation in this job was how fast they were pushed up the back of your neck, too fast and its pulled out some of ya hair instead of cutting, and him thinking he was getting on with the job.
He nearly always started with the youngest, the one who would not keep still, so with a free hand would be firmly gripping his chin and face while he cut up the back with the clippers. His patience was often a little frayed by the next one, and so on until the last one had to bite his lip and hold tight to the chair as the clippers raced up for the short back and side job that he did.
I must say he was very good at hair cutting, but he never did anyone else's hair, he did it with pride in his job, if it's a furrow or drilling wheat it had to be straight, if it was hedge laying or thatching his hay or corn stacks they had to be well done and tidy, and so it was with hair cutting. (Even if it was sometimes done in a hurry)
I Remember father Cutting our Hair
It would be around 1946 we went to Seighford school
At the beginning of every, new school term,
Father said with long hair, you'll not learn,
So out with his scissors and comb and clipper,
And lifted us into the old high chair, start with the nipper.
Clippers are worked, by squeezing the handle,
Must be worked at a speed, more than an amble,
He oils them as if, he were clipping the sheep,
And expects us to sit there, without a peep.
He started with clippers, on back of your neck,
And clipped up to where, the cap fitted by heck
Pushing them up faster, than he was clipping,
Pulling your hair by the root, now started blarting. ( a local word for crying)
When he had finished, around sides and ears,
Quake as the comb and scissors appear.
Combing it back, to make it stand up,
And do it again, as if to warm-up,
Gauging the length, one finger neeth comb,
Cut off all sticks through, all over your dome.
Stand back to see if, it's even all round,
Snip to the lock that he missed, falls to ground.
No time for a cloth, round the shoulder or mirror,
Next one he lifts into chair, his turn to quiver,
Only five minuets it takes, as he sweats,
As with sheep, more you do, faster he gets.
The hair cut we had, when we now look back,
Was very much the same, as his corn stack,
Thatched on the top, trimmed up the side,
Old habits' never die, he does it with pride.
Countyman
It's not white hair that engenders wisdom.
Menander (342 - 292 BC)
Sometimes he drove his car on business, a coffin to deliver,
It had a rack across the back, black cloth draped to cover,
Eric was a quiet man, one who never got into a fluster, nothing troubled him, and did not let others trouble him. He always "wore" his pipe and seldom saw him without it, and had his peak cap square on his head if anything tipped forward over his eyes.
Eric took over the farm from his father; a brother ran the local garage or Filling station as they were then called, and he also charged up batteries, the accumulators that you had to have to power the big old wireless, now called radio. Another brother was an estate agent selling property.
He always told the story of him going to his old barber in town, the barber he had gone to for years, and it turned out his barber had just acquired his first electric clippers. Eric got settled in the chair and the gown put round his shoulders, and the barber picked up the new clippers. This was okay but the barber was worse for ware for having had a little too much to drink at lunch time.
He bent Eric's head down forward, put the clippers to the back of Eric's neck, and clipped up the back of his head and right over to the front (like a Mohican cut in reverse). At this Eric jumped up out of his chair, paid the barber, and proceeded with his cap firmly pulled on ( to hide the stripe over his head) to another barber in town to sort out his hair cut. I would imagine he would be highly embarrassed trying to explain what had happened and often wondered if anyone was in the second shop when he went in.
Eric Bennion ( 1900 - 1978 or there abouts)
Eric farmed at Cooksland Hall Farm, next to Seighford Hall,
Walked his cows to pasture, through the Lea Gate as I recall,
In that field was a sports field, with iron rails fenced in,
From the hall played cricket, Eric mowed it for hay, there in,
Nothing ever flustered Eric, he never got in a spin,
His ever smiling eyes tell you, don't worry again begin,
Wore his cap square on his head, and S shaped pipe he chewed,
A waist coat with a thumb he lodged, to problems he allude.
He stands to talk feet slight apart, knees a slight of bend,
Fills his pipe and lights, puffs his smoke while talking to a friend,
Shortish man of stocky build, his boots they're loosely tied,
Trousers match the waist coat, old suit to work applied.
He had a big old car, that he drove so stately past,
His wife could not drive it, but she had a sister Allis,
She had learned to drive OK, and took them all to mass,
Eric got out the chauffeur's job, all he said was "pass".
Eric had a daughter, who went with her mother and aunts,
They all went all over the place, Elizabeth to dad she cants,
Very young just started school, told her dad what happened,
"Allis ditched the car dad", turf and soil beneath she becond.
Sometimes he drove his car on business, a coffin to deliver,
It had a rack across the back, black cloth draped to cover,
Collected from the wheelwrights shop, Jim Clark had just made,
Lined and ready for occupant, to house few days displayed.
In war time we had rationing, can't sell black market then,
Police were on the watch out keen, contraband sold by men,
Half a pig fit unlined coffin, moved it to the next village,
Past the local bobby who, saw a coffin, paid it homage.
This they had so often done, so a pig they wouldn't suspect,
Then had to go be lined and late, to diseased and pay respect,
Both had black caps, and both smoked a pipe,
Salute the law when driving past on a winter's night.
Reg Flower worked for him, the Fergy tractor drove,
Eric drove the shires, behind them he always strode,
Doing all the steady jobs, talking while they work,
Feeding after toil, then back to graze into evening's murk.
Eric bought a hunting horse, to follow the local hunt,
It grazed his pastures with the cows, with halter he affront,
Had rested all the summer long, fresh and keen was he,
Took two of them control at first, to stable they agree.
On with the bridle and the saddle, but still he played them up,
Took him to a ploughed field, where Eric mounted set to gallop,
Horses feet they sank in deep, made it heavy going,
Soon tired and calmed down now, for hunting now needs shoeing.
Eric never got round to retiring, but past the age he was,
Died in harness so to speak, had slowed down to a pause,
Farm chattels sold at his farm sale, to adjoining farms land split,
His Mrs. moved to a bungalow, with village people as befit.
Countryman
Beware of the young doctor and the old barber.
Benjamin Franklin (1706 - 1790)