Bye, Bye Birdy

What I've been thinking about this week:

1. Bravery
2. Lack thereof

I’m not a naturally brave person. In fact, I’d say I’m a naturally feardy person. My idea of taking part in an extreme sport is playing Scrabble outside. It’s hardly adrenaline racing stuff.

Extreme Sport

This week I’ve had to put my big girl pants on a couple of times (to be fair, post-lockdown all my pants are for big girls but you catch my drift).

I’ve been lucky to have a few days off here and there over the last couple of weeks. And there’s nothing I like more than to spend them in my shed reading or writing.

View from the shed

Last Tuesday I took my laptop, the book I was reading and a cuppa to the shed and made myself comfortable. This mainly involved lighting a candle, switching on the fairy lights and settling in under a cosy blanket (all permitted under the heading of ‘I am 48’).

I’d just opened my book (Sorrow and Bliss by Meg Mason, highly recommended) when there was a fluttering from the wood burner. I ignored it and carried on reading. There was another, louder flutter.

At this point I should mention that I’m not very good with fluttery birds. I have no problem with creepy crawlies and quite happily ignore spiders around the house, letting them get on with whatever it is they do all day after they’ve made the web and had breakfast.

Living with Ivie has made me even less good with fluttery birds. I’ve become too keen to play the damsel in distress card and let him deal with them when they turn up in the stove in the house, tap-tapping on the glass asking politely to be released from captivity.

But last Tuesday Ivie was at silage at the top of the farm. Being at silage means he does not like being interrupted or any suggestion that he should do anything except continue to be at silage until he’s finished.

Another boring view? I couldn't possibly comment.

Let me give you an example. Last Wednesday I took the dog out for her mid-afternoon pee in between meetings. We strolled up to the steading where I could hear an almighty racket coming from the pen inside the shed. The sun streaming in meant I could only see the silhouette of a young bull battering the gate but that was enough to send me walking briskly back to the house and phoning Ivie.

The conversation went something like this.

Me: But what if it gets out?
Ivie: Go and shut the gates to stop them getting up the hill and then shut the ones near the house. It’ll be fine.
Me: But what if it’s already out when I go back up to shut the gate?
Ivie: Just keep out its way.
Me: I’m too scared.
Ivie: Well, I can’t come down. I’m up the top. Phone Kerr. He’s in the bottom field.
Me: But he might come and it’ll have stopped and he’ll think I’m stupid.
Ivie: Well phone Jane.
Me: OK.

Thankfully Jane was much more sympathetic, told me to shut the gates near the house and keep away from the bull which she described as a ‘lot of beast’. Crisis – and need for bravery – averted.

Back to the birds.

I gave myself a pep talk, reminding myself that I once removed a mouse from my bath that my cat had kindly gifted me just before a friend came to visit in Auchencairn, not to mention that I once moved 100 miles with no job and no plan - and that’s working out quite well so far.

So, I put up the hood of my hoodie, donned my fire gloves and opened the double doors of the shed (I’m quite glad everyone else at The Spittal was busy and couldn’t see my very attractive get-up).

PPE

I tip-toed towards the burner, opened the door then legged it outside as fast as I could. Not one but two starlings cheeped loudly, flew to the windowsill, cheeped again and flew past me, no doubt off to tell their pals about the wild adventure they’d just had.

Thank goodness that’s over (or words to that effect), I thought to myself.

And obviously I’ve just had to stop writing this to go and release another starling from my burner. Word’s obviously getting round about the middle-aged woman with the fire gloves and now they all want a look at the eejit.

A rose by any other name

 What I've been thinking about this week. 

1. Some farm animals have names.
2. I don't know what the rules are. 

I was used to the idea that pets have names and livestock doesn't. But I've realised that's not always the case. 

Some of the simmentals at the Spittal have names and their offspring appear to be given names beginning with the same letter. Livestock 'Literation, if you like. 

Here's Lily and Lupy. When Lupy was born, Lily was endless, kicking her when she went in to feed and generally not paying much attention to her beautiful new baby. 

Lily and Lupy

I felt quite sorry for Lupy and now when I go with Ivie to check cows, I keep a look out so I can say hello and give her a wee noogie on the head. She's used to human interaction as there was a fair bit when she was born to make sure she got enough milk in those first few days. 

Lupy last month
(I was equally chuffed and disturbed that I recognised her from the photo)

It's all made me wonder if we somehow have more feelings about the animals with names, like being sympathetic towards them, imagining they're pleased to see us or giving them credit for deeper thoughts than, "Am I hungry? Am I in immediate danger?".

There's even a word for it: anthropomorphise: attribute human characteristics to a god, animal or object.

(I've just been in a Google black hole that was starting to get a bit scientific before being balanced out by pictures of Disney characters).

As I say I haven't quite worked out which animals get names and which don't and why. And whether farmers are softer about the animals with names or equally unmoved by all of them. 

Mind you, no-one feels soppy about the bulls as far as I can make out. They seem to be treated a bit like farm machinery that's only worth its keep if it keeps up its end of the deal. As it were. 

Their official names are all double-barrelled and wouldn't be out of place in the Kennel Club. The bulls themselves would be out of place, right enough. That would make Crufts a very different proposition. The only one I can remember is Gretnahouse Black Bat (see here for Mairi's great photo being used in a feed ad). (He's the one I call William, but that's another story). 

So, after all this ramble, I'm none the wiser. Answers on a postcard, please. 

I just hope Lupy doesn't get upset when she finds out I've been talking about her behind her back...

What a load of bull

What I have learned:

1. Ivie is laid-back 99.9% of the time.
2. You can take a pun too far. 

Living on a farm isn't as quiet as you'd think. I regularly wake up to a strange noise - that in my half-asleep state sounds like the alarm on my phone - only to realise (again) that it's a bellowing bull. 

They're noisy creatures and it seems like they're often disgruntled. Not in that story book rampaging through a china shop way. They're much more more slow moving and tend to be focused on one or two fairly basic needs - food and a bit of cow action. 

I found out the other day that it's called 'running with cows' when a bull is let loose in a field with cows that are in season. It sounds like a euphemism an elderly aunt would use like when they ask teenagers if they're 'stepping out' with anyone. 

This bull knows his place

Anyway, the other morning I was getting ready for work. During lockdown, this has mostly entailed putting on clean(ish) clothes and brushing my hair (if I've got a Zoom call that day). I happened to look out of the bedroom window and I saw one of the bulls where he ought not to be. As I had been paying attention during my lesson on field names, I could phone Ivie and tell him where the offending bull wasn't. 

What followed was a Benny Hill-esque rampage by Ivie as he tried to persuade the bull back into the field. The bull was having none of it, keeping focussed on the cow that had so coquetishly caught his attention. Or something like that. 

Ivie's so laid-back most of the time but unco-operative animals in the wrong place really raise his blood pressure and I could see his face getting redder and redder. I kept an eye on him, partly to check that he didn't keel over but mainly because it was bloody hilarious. 

Eventually, the bull reluctantly returned to the house field and Ivie rapidly returned to what he'd been doing before the delightful animal went for a detour. 

It made me think of the town of Bulls in New Zealand. I passed through it a couple of times when I lived in Wellington many moons ago. I like a good pun but the residents of Bulls have taken it to a whole new level. As you drive through, you start to notice a theme to all the shop names. The antique shop? Collect-a-bull. The library? Read-a-bull. I do have a soft spot for the police station, mind you - Const-a-bull. 

Pity the angus didn't take note. He's not exactly in-escapa-a-bull. 

Photo from not-australia.co.nz

A Time and a Place

Things you should know:

1. I'm learning
2. You've got to have a strong stomach for this lark

Yesterday, Ivie had to calf a cow. For those unfamiliar with cows, they're usually pretty good at getting on with it themselves but sometimes they need a bit of extra help. This one was a heifer (which means it was its first calf*), and sometimes they need quite a lot of... let's call it intervention. 

Mind you, I'm getting the hang of asking the right questions at the appropriate time:

• is the calf up on its feet?
• is the cow letting it sook?
• did they have to milk the cow and bottle feed the calf? 

Yesterday was a new one on me, though. Without going into too much detail - partly because I can't remember all the ins and outs (as it were) and partly cos it's a bit brutal - this birth involved a lot of jiggery pokery and something called a calving jack to get the wee blighter out. 

Protective Mama

Ivie, on the other hand, did remember all the details and thought the lunch table was a good time and place to recount them all. I wasn't so sure, especially as it was followed by a chat about a dung spreading machine that Ivie and his brother were going to look at that afternoon. 

If someone had told me three years ago that these would be topics of conversation with my significant other I don't think I'd have believed them. Other recent topics include:

• why some farms wrap their bales 4 times and others 6 
• sperm testing of bulls
• the merits of owning vs hiring farm machinery

Bales wrapped 4 times

Sometimes I like lunchtimes when we just talk about what's for tea.

* I haven't quite worked out how the word 'heifer' has entered normal day language to describe someone who's overweight. Suggestions welcome.

Patting Pat

Things you should know:
1. Ivie is terrible at taking compliments
2. Pat is a bull

I know these two things seem unrelated but bear with me.

There are lots of things I like and admire about Ivie but he won't hear a word of it. Any attempts at giving him a compliment are met with, "Steady!" or "Be wise" and other such phrases.

On one of my first visits to the farm, Ivie asked if I'd like to go with him on the quad bike to check the cows (that's 'coos' for anyone from Wigtownshire). This involved me sitting side saddle and trying not to slide off as we went round corners or across steep slopes (an excellent alternative to sit-ups for strengthening my core).

There we were at the top of the farm when he said, "I'm going to take you to meet Pat and Henry". It took me a moment to realise that Pat and Henry must be animals and then it dawned on me. "Are they bulls?" I asked quietly, really hoping for the opposite of the answer I knew was coming.

The thing is, I'm a big feardy. My brain knows that the story book version of bulls stamping the ground and running towards anything red isn't reality. They're big and heavy and only really motivated to move when there's food or a bit of action with a cow on the menu. But my brain also tells me that I'm supposed to be scared of bulls. Let's just say, I'm a work in progress.

Eilidh is not a big feardy

So we made a pact. I'd pat Pat when Ivie took a compliment. A Pat Pact if you like.

Henry

All this is a preamble to what happened this week. Ivie mentioned over lunch that a man was coming to trim one of the bull's hooves. Not Pat. I think it was called Geezer or Geiser or something. Some of them have what I'd consider old man names (like Pat and Henry) and others have odd names like Horton and Batman. Although I had a dream about Batman where he was called William so that's what I call him now. That was my Dad's Sunday name so I won't be pursuing any Freudian analysis on that one...

I digress. So, after lunch this shiny pick-up arrived with what looked like a mobile disco on a trailer (I'm in my late 40s, permitting me to use the phrase 'mobile disco'). I didn't go and spectate because I'm a big feardy I was working but Ivie took a video of The Hoof GP*, explaining to him about my blog. This guy has thousands of followers on social media from all over the world, mainly in cities. I think people are fascinated by things that are outside their everyday life and this is outside most people's everyday life.

The contraption on the back of the trailer is like a cross between an electic chair and those stirrups doctor's offices in movies have. It shackles and tips the animal so that it can be worked on safely, making it swift and painless for everyone concerned.

Ivie came back into the house to show me the clip and tell me all about it.

"Thanks, that was really thoughtful."
"Ah, away with you."

I think I'm safe from the Pat Pact for a while yet.

The Hoof GP in action

PS
Here's my favourite Pat joke:
What do you call Postman Pat when he's retired?
Pat.

*The Hoof GP
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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.