Farm Names

What I learned this week

I get brownie points if I drop a farm name into conversation. 

In the run-up to the festive season, conversations that started “What are you doing for Christmas?” used to be quite straightforward. Friends’ responses would be along the lines of, “at home for Christmas and at my parents on Boxing Day. How about you?” It’s slightly more confusing now. 

No-one in the farming community answers in such straightforward terms. No siree. They answer with riddles. 

“Oh, we’re at Balmacleuch on Christmas Day and then down at The Gowan for Boxing Day.”

I’ve no idea what that means. Are they at home? With relatives? In prison? 

I nod and smile and hope that’s appropriate (which it obviously wouldn’t be if it was prison right enough.…). It’s not that I’m not interested in people’s plans or don’t want to know who lives where, it’s just that details aren’t my strong point.

Not a real sheep apparently

To give you an example, years before Ivie and I were together, a big group of us went to a pop up restaurant. I can’t actually be sure what town I was in but I was wearing my orange dress and was so warm, I had to go to the toilets and take off a layer in between courses.

There’s also the problem of pronunciation. How it’s written and how that translates into a Wigtownshire accent are often completely different. So much so that I can’t even give you an example. 

And don’t get me started on which farm names are preceded with ‘The’ and which aren’t. It’s like trying to learn French noun genders… 

So, this week I casually dropped into conversation that I’d been speaking to a colleague about Markdhu (which may or may not be how you spell it). And I got farm points. They’re like brownie points but worth more. I will endeavour to keep doing it to keep my farm point quota high for when I ask stupid questions. 

At least I know where I’ll be on Christmas Day. I’m at The Spittal.

The Time Has Come

Farm facts I’ve learned this week
Bulls can be a bit stupid

So, after two years together it’s time for me to move in with the farmer. This is despite both of us insisting for the first 18 months of our relationship that we were Never Living with Anyone Again. 

Then we went away for a long weekend together at Easter. It was wonderful. We had uninterrupted time together. Nothing died or gave birth or needed fed outside at 7am. We walked for miles, met friends for drinks and generally enjoyed being tourists. 

I won’t go into the details (because they’re boring, not because they’re salacious) but the weekend ended with me being dropped off in a car park to get a lift home. We both felt pretty deflated and it didn’t seem a fitting end to a lovely trip away. We agreed to talk about our living arrangements at the end of the year (we like to take things slowly). 

Fast forward to September and I was offered a job out of the blue a mile from the farm. (Luckily, it’s not farm-related because I know nothing and couldn’t even bluff it.)  So, every day I make a 50-mile round trip with a lunchtime visit to the farm thrown in for good measure. The universe was making it pretty obvious that I should possibly consider moving in the not-too-distant future. Maybe. 

• It’s probably time for my feet and my slippers to be always in the same house.
• And for me to stop packing and unpacking an overnight bag three or four times a week.
• And it’s a bit daft for my life and my belongings to be 25 miles apart. 

I’m collecting boxes and bubble wrap five months after I moved into my current house but it doesn’t matter. I’m excited about moving and finding places for everything and making my home at the farm. 

I’m also looking forward to learning more about the farm. This week I learned that bulls can be a bit stupid. It’s the time of year (on this farm at least) when the bull gets to have his way with the ladies. When it starts to get colder, the cows are moved into a shed with one of the bulls who then has a captive audience. Except the bull in question keeps getting his head stuck in a feed barrier even though moving his head a few inches to the side would free it immediately. The farmer has freed it repeatedly and did not laugh when he told me the story (I misjudged that one…). The bull has now been put outside in the cold and replaced with another less stupid one who is having the time of his life. There’s a moral in there somewhere. 

1800 Hours

Two things you should know before you read this:

1. Tractors are serviced depending on the number of hours they’ve worked, not how many miles they’ve travelled. It makes sense when you think about it. 
2. Dating a farmer means redefining dates. Between April and October we often have what we call Tractor Dates. 

Last May, we were on quite a straightforward Tractor Date on the farm. Since it was at home, there had been no complicated instructions involving the number of cattle grids to cross before getting to the right farm. And no broad window of when he might be finished the field next to the road so that I could hop in and join him. 

I have a pretty short memory when invited on Tractor Dates. I say, “yes!” immediately, having already forgotten that it involves him sitting in an armchair with its own suspension and me sitting on a moulded stool while holding on to a rail above my head as we go over bumpy ground or he changes direction without warning. We shout at each other over the noise of the engine and I hold my breath while he does anything involving machinery and blades (I’d rather not know). 

So, as usual I’d said yes with enthusiasm and we set off to a small field on the other side of the main road. I think we were spreading fertiliser although I can’t be entirely sure. It was the first Tractor Date we’d had in his new tractor (after he’d had a terrifying accident in the old one) so I was looking around at the strange warning stickers. (How many farmers had put their baby on the moulded stool before the manufacturers included a helpful sticker telling them not to?!). 

If I’d known the ribbing I would get every time we went out for the following six months ever I might have kept my mouth shut for the next two minutes. I’ve never been very good at editing my mouth at the speed my brain is rambling, though. 

“That’s a bit stupid,” said I, with a slightly mocking tone. “this sticker tells you what time the next service is but not the date.”

“What do you mean?” Ivie asked, distractedly, as he checked the trailer attached to the back of the tractor.  

“Look! It tells you it’s at six o’clock but not what date,” I replied, with a slightly more mocking tone, a definite case of rolling my eyes out loud. 

“It’s 1800 hours as in the tractor’s been running for 1800 hours. Not six o’clock in the evening!” 

“Don’t tell anyone you’re related to. And don’t tell any farmers!” I warned as I jumped down from the tractor and huffed my way back to the cottage. 

The following month, Ivie’s brother had a birthday party. We’d only been together about six or seven months and I hadn’t met most of the people that would be there. I was pretty nervous as there would be members of Ivie’s family there, including various cousins and their families. I was keen to make a good impression, not get too drunk, that kind of thing. 

I steeled myself and walked down to the big house where there was already a small crowd of people who’ve known each other since before they could walk. I recognised a couple of friendly faces from a Burns Supper a few months before and wandered across via the gin. 

“Hey Blondie!” this voice shouted from across the garden, “I hear you’re pretty good with a 24-hour clock!” There was a guffaw that suggested that Ivie had told both people he was related to and farmers (which in a lot of cases is the same thing). The only thing for it was to keep wandering via the gin.