The incongruity of farming
24/03/07 16:19
I had my first milking apprenticeship on Friday :-)
I was hanging around waiting for the colostrum (milk of a cow which has recently calved, rich and creamy and high in all things good, carbohydrates and so on) to take to the calves, when Malcolm handed me a bottle of orange-brown and gloopy liquid (the iodine-like stuff). I'd been standing in the doorway, mesmerised again by the whir of machinery, the chalked notes on the backs of the metal doors and by the sheer size of a cow's head close up.
Malcolm asked me to dip the teats of the milked cows in the (not actually) iodine bottle. Doug told me before that this was to seal them from bugs and so on. I was to put my hand on the side of the cow, so that she would know that I was there, and then put the bottle up to the teat. It was all very exciting: to be so near to, and intimate with such a huge animal. I thought that letting the cow know I was there was rather sweet and courteous (it reminded me of having to knock on the door of the hen-house before entering; similarly mildly amusing), especially as it was matted with mud and likely to spew out some form of bodily fluid onto me.
There is a striking incongruity to farming, in the inexplicable mixture of intimacy and distance, life and death. At milking, the farmer's love and respect for his cows is obvious. Malcolm knows each one individually: its history, character, ailments. He talks about them fondly: "she's a sweet old soul". Yet, simultaneously, there's a roughness as he shouts her out the door, gives her a whack on the rump. And he won't hesitate to send her away when her time comes. She's an economic thing; the farm is a business.
What is going on here? Is it, at the end of the day, really, fundamentally, (just?) about the money?
The energy put into looking after the sheep during lambing time is as if Malcolm and Ruth are raising their own children again; Ruth is often up helping and safe-guarding ewes until beyond 2 am (last night it was 4 am before she went to bed, despite having to get up the next morning to make breakfast for her B&B guests); Malcolm shares the burden with an early 5 am start for milking. My God it's a tough life.
Why do they do it? What is going on?
There's a lot of love involved. But also a matter-of-factness. It's so strange! I don't understand. Endangered lambs are brought into the farmhouse to warm up infront of the Aga and we coo over them, "poor wee soul". And then it dies and we don't really care. Another is brought in as we're eating our cooked breakfast (including a tasty slice of haggis, made from odd bits of lamb and oatmeal etc). We look up, for a moment, then carry on eating.
I was hanging around waiting for the colostrum (milk of a cow which has recently calved, rich and creamy and high in all things good, carbohydrates and so on) to take to the calves, when Malcolm handed me a bottle of orange-brown and gloopy liquid (the iodine-like stuff). I'd been standing in the doorway, mesmerised again by the whir of machinery, the chalked notes on the backs of the metal doors and by the sheer size of a cow's head close up.
Malcolm asked me to dip the teats of the milked cows in the (not actually) iodine bottle. Doug told me before that this was to seal them from bugs and so on. I was to put my hand on the side of the cow, so that she would know that I was there, and then put the bottle up to the teat. It was all very exciting: to be so near to, and intimate with such a huge animal. I thought that letting the cow know I was there was rather sweet and courteous (it reminded me of having to knock on the door of the hen-house before entering; similarly mildly amusing), especially as it was matted with mud and likely to spew out some form of bodily fluid onto me.
There is a striking incongruity to farming, in the inexplicable mixture of intimacy and distance, life and death. At milking, the farmer's love and respect for his cows is obvious. Malcolm knows each one individually: its history, character, ailments. He talks about them fondly: "she's a sweet old soul". Yet, simultaneously, there's a roughness as he shouts her out the door, gives her a whack on the rump. And he won't hesitate to send her away when her time comes. She's an economic thing; the farm is a business.
What is going on here? Is it, at the end of the day, really, fundamentally, (just?) about the money?
The energy put into looking after the sheep during lambing time is as if Malcolm and Ruth are raising their own children again; Ruth is often up helping and safe-guarding ewes until beyond 2 am (last night it was 4 am before she went to bed, despite having to get up the next morning to make breakfast for her B&B guests); Malcolm shares the burden with an early 5 am start for milking. My God it's a tough life.
Why do they do it? What is going on?
There's a lot of love involved. But also a matter-of-factness. It's so strange! I don't understand. Endangered lambs are brought into the farmhouse to warm up infront of the Aga and we coo over them, "poor wee soul". And then it dies and we don't really care. Another is brought in as we're eating our cooked breakfast (including a tasty slice of haggis, made from odd bits of lamb and oatmeal etc). We look up, for a moment, then carry on eating.