Now that we’re in mid-May, I am finally on my last few stragglers left to calve. We’re in the thick of breeding season, which kicked off two weeks ago. The poor bull, Len, is very upset watching as the cows in heat pass him by. He hates being teased and gives me nothing but dismissive looks these days.
“Put me in, coach,” I can hear him silently plead, but he needs to wait – the AI (artificial insemination; not artificial intelligence as the young wans these days immediately think) must come first.
I picked a nice variety of AI bulls this year, although yet again I am disappointed with the lack of creativity when it comes to the bulls’ names – it’s mainly just place names and the names of soccer stars. I really wish they’d up their game – although given my own bull is named Len, I probably shouldn’t say anything. Here’s a few to consider for next year, though – just in case: ‘The InSeminator’; ‘Done Deal’; ‘MooLan’; ‘Justin Beefer’ or perhaps ‘Trump Rump’. I could go on, but let’s stop there.
The weather recently has been great. We got all the fertiliser out for silage a few weeks back and the grass is just bursting out of the ground.
Growth was held back a bit in March, but now it’s going crazy. The fields are full of life. I saw two foxes, several pheasants and a variety of birdlife around the farm in recent weeks. The only downside to this is the constant racket in the morning.
I mean, these tweeting birds all sound lovely, but why do they have to start so early? It’s like they’re having some early-morning bird rave in the trees just outside my bedroom window. It always starts with some random crow. He must be the DJ laying down the opening track.
Despite the early morning racket, there is one bird I look forward to hearing each year, and that is our elusive cuckoo. It’s distinctive call echoes across the fields, and we always know when the cuckoos have arrived even though we’ve yet to see an actual bird.
Sure, they have a bad reputation when it comes to childcare (they drop their eggs into other bird’s nests and having them raise their young), but sure there were times with my own flock where I’ve wished I’d done the same (I wouldn’t have gotten away with it though; mine look and act too much like me).
I’m lucky where I am. We have forest to the north and south of us, and at the very end of our fields to the east is an unused bog. It’s been sitting there, untouched, for as long as I can remember.
It’s interesting to hear people talk about biodiversity collapse. To me, the real collapse is this slow loss of knowledge of our land and history.
Apparently they took turf from it at one time, but I never saw it happen. I always feared going across it, but as a child I dreamed I could be a great explorer, like Tom Crean, be brave, take my chances and not worry about any of its hidden bog holes. I think the fear of bog holes is why this bog is now so full of life – no one dared go near it.
I have the same fear of our ring fort. I wouldn’t dare touch any tree or shrub that forms its unique circular shape. It’s not that I’m superstitious, I think it’s more respecting a homestead that was there thousands of years ago. Every time I enter the fort, I imagine a community of families and animals living here. There’s fruit trees nearby, a water source and loads of wildlife. It should be left alone.
I wish the kids would get it. I can’t seem to get them out of the house to explore the fields. It’s frustrating, because these are the very things that tie us to this land. Every time I hear the cuckoo, I think of my grandmother. She would always be waiting to hear its call each year. She wasn’t able to get down the fields in her later years, so in early summer, she would always ask me: “Did you hear it?” I was always so excited to tell her. I still remember how happy it made her.
It’s interesting to hear people talk about biodiversity collapse. To me, the real collapse is this slow loss of knowledge of our land and history. Sure if the kids don’t care about the land, how could they ever care about biodiversity? It goes hand in hand.
Read more
Desperate Farmhusband: is it just me or are we all feeling a bit more cheerful?
Desperate Farmwife: how do we raise strong, resilient young men?
Now that we’re in mid-May, I am finally on my last few stragglers left to calve. We’re in the thick of breeding season, which kicked off two weeks ago. The poor bull, Len, is very upset watching as the cows in heat pass him by. He hates being teased and gives me nothing but dismissive looks these days.
“Put me in, coach,” I can hear him silently plead, but he needs to wait – the AI (artificial insemination; not artificial intelligence as the young wans these days immediately think) must come first.
I picked a nice variety of AI bulls this year, although yet again I am disappointed with the lack of creativity when it comes to the bulls’ names – it’s mainly just place names and the names of soccer stars. I really wish they’d up their game – although given my own bull is named Len, I probably shouldn’t say anything. Here’s a few to consider for next year, though – just in case: ‘The InSeminator’; ‘Done Deal’; ‘MooLan’; ‘Justin Beefer’ or perhaps ‘Trump Rump’. I could go on, but let’s stop there.
The weather recently has been great. We got all the fertiliser out for silage a few weeks back and the grass is just bursting out of the ground.
Growth was held back a bit in March, but now it’s going crazy. The fields are full of life. I saw two foxes, several pheasants and a variety of birdlife around the farm in recent weeks. The only downside to this is the constant racket in the morning.
I mean, these tweeting birds all sound lovely, but why do they have to start so early? It’s like they’re having some early-morning bird rave in the trees just outside my bedroom window. It always starts with some random crow. He must be the DJ laying down the opening track.
Despite the early morning racket, there is one bird I look forward to hearing each year, and that is our elusive cuckoo. It’s distinctive call echoes across the fields, and we always know when the cuckoos have arrived even though we’ve yet to see an actual bird.
Sure, they have a bad reputation when it comes to childcare (they drop their eggs into other bird’s nests and having them raise their young), but sure there were times with my own flock where I’ve wished I’d done the same (I wouldn’t have gotten away with it though; mine look and act too much like me).
I’m lucky where I am. We have forest to the north and south of us, and at the very end of our fields to the east is an unused bog. It’s been sitting there, untouched, for as long as I can remember.
It’s interesting to hear people talk about biodiversity collapse. To me, the real collapse is this slow loss of knowledge of our land and history.
Apparently they took turf from it at one time, but I never saw it happen. I always feared going across it, but as a child I dreamed I could be a great explorer, like Tom Crean, be brave, take my chances and not worry about any of its hidden bog holes. I think the fear of bog holes is why this bog is now so full of life – no one dared go near it.
I have the same fear of our ring fort. I wouldn’t dare touch any tree or shrub that forms its unique circular shape. It’s not that I’m superstitious, I think it’s more respecting a homestead that was there thousands of years ago. Every time I enter the fort, I imagine a community of families and animals living here. There’s fruit trees nearby, a water source and loads of wildlife. It should be left alone.
I wish the kids would get it. I can’t seem to get them out of the house to explore the fields. It’s frustrating, because these are the very things that tie us to this land. Every time I hear the cuckoo, I think of my grandmother. She would always be waiting to hear its call each year. She wasn’t able to get down the fields in her later years, so in early summer, she would always ask me: “Did you hear it?” I was always so excited to tell her. I still remember how happy it made her.
It’s interesting to hear people talk about biodiversity collapse. To me, the real collapse is this slow loss of knowledge of our land and history. Sure if the kids don’t care about the land, how could they ever care about biodiversity? It goes hand in hand.
Read more
Desperate Farmhusband: is it just me or are we all feeling a bit more cheerful?
Desperate Farmwife: how do we raise strong, resilient young men?
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