Will’s World: Chwilboeth chaos and sweaty silage camaraderie

I’m writing this on the hottest day of the year (so far). It’s 31C outside, which is a temperature everyone knows Welsh people biologically cannot function in, so I’ve hastily beaten a retreat to the relative comfort of the farmhouse.

To further emphasise this, the Welsh word to describe the current weather is “chwilboeth”, which translates as “dizzyingly hot”.

I like that, and it perfectly sums up how I felt this morning when we were hanging the side sheets in the silage pit.

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For those of you currently playing “old fella 1976 bingo”, by the way, the old man mentioned that particular year several times while we were at it, and apparently, us lads “don’t know we’re born”.

The fact that someone who’s 47 is still considered a “lad” probably speaks volumes about our industry, but that’s a column for another day.

Hot words

To find the most accurate descriptions of hot conditions, you have to head over to Southern Appalachia in the US.

“Hotter than a two-dollar pistol”, “hotter than a goat in a pepper patch” and “hotter than the devil’s armpit” being some fine examples – although “hotter than a snake’s ass in a wagon rut” is my personal favourite.

Let’s hope it’s soon “raining like a cow pissing on a flat rock” to even things out.

Ideally, though, not until we’ve got the grass safely in the pit with zero breakdowns, no stress and the highest quality forage – I can but dream.

I do enjoy this time of year, partly because we make our own silage. The old Reco trailed forager has a bit of age about her now, like the rest of us, but she gets the job done, and with grass going into the pit relatively steadily, there’s plenty of time for rolling it. That’s the theory, anyway.

It’s also useful not to have to rely on contractors, especially with these bouts of extreme weather that seem to be becoming the norm.

However, ask me again when I’m lying under the forager trying to replace a link in a broken chain with grass and pollen falling into my face and my phone ringing constantly, and I might well give you a different and slightly more colourful answer.

But I think it’s mostly because there’s a team of people around. I spend the majority of my time alone on the farm, whether it’s feeding cattle or sitting in a tractor cab, and while I don’t mind my own company, I greatly enjoy the camaraderie that working together brings.

Heir conditioned

When my granddad, a lifelong farmer, was well into his 90s, I asked him whether he’d have preferred farming nowadays with our air-conditioned cabs, air seats and guidance systems.

I still think about his reply sometimes. He said: “I see you and your dad rushing about every day on your own, and I think about all the fellas I worked with and the laughs we had. No, I wouldn’t swap with you.”

We have lost something, and I’m not sure we’ll ever get it back with the ever-increasing drive for efficiency and scale dictating how we run our businesses. Different times, I suppose.

Still, I did spend time with my closest friends recently, when we met up for our annual Harper Adams reunion, families in tow.

We even managed a few hours reminiscing in Newport one afternoon, with trips to legendary establishments The Phez and Ozzy’s Wine Bar for liquid refreshments.

Where does the time go? I can hardly believe it’s been almost 26 years since we started there.

Anyway, enough ruminating – this grass won’t mow itself.