Wednesday was a wash-out day for me, as I elected to
catch some viral infection and spent most of the day shivering and
sleeping. No events in the labour ward
made this a very quiet day, so I shall reflect on further events yesterday.
While I was mucking out the sheep pen, Mrs Farmer was
digging for potatoes in the garden. If
you have ever dug for potatoes, you will know that this is always a hard
task. One has to use a fork to turn over
the earth, hoping not to jab any spuds (those you do must be washed and used
quite quickly), then you have to turn it through looking for potatoes hidden in
the soil; they can be surprisingly hard to find. But it is harder than ever on the farm, as some
animals have got in and tried to dig some up already. Some will be lying on the top of the ground,
half-eaten. Others were there at the
weekend when an unexpected frost came, and so they are burnt pale on the top
side, and mushy. Still others have
become the haunt of various worms, maggots, and other small animal life.
This all serves to remind of a basic truth. Everything on the farm is concerned about
eating, growing, and reproducing. And
this is not just the humans. All animal
and plant life is concerned with taking over as much of the environment as
possible and getting as much nutrition as possible. This means that flour and muesli left too
long in the pantry gets infested with meal worms (although, interestingly
enough, they eschewed the gluten-free variety).
The porch is full of plants that reach and entwine, bud, drop roots and
grafts, and see every available patch of sunlight. Webs of spiders twist around and fill all
corners, great fat arachnids lurking in their depths to catch hapless
creatures. All variety of finches, tits,
robins and sparrows, decked in their bright uniforms, feast on the seeds and
saturated fat put out for them. The bird
table is covered with fencing to ward off the greedy squirrel, who is
frequently shooed away by an angry Mrs Farmer.
Plates of gizzards and offcuts are put out for the local farm cat, but
not put out so quickly that the seagulls can swoop down and devour them. Rabbits are ubiquitous. The garden is fenced against them, the trees
in the new plantation are sheathed against them, the Young Sir goes out with a
gun to frighten them and bring back rabbits to be skinned and drawn, that we
might enjoy them in stew or soup or roasted.
Jackdaws prowl along the rooftops, glinting down and looking for an opportunity
to plunge down and steal. If the feed
shed is left open unsupervised, they will invade, and, finding the feed bin (an
old chest freezer) closed, they still know that those big brown manila sacks
contain oats, and can be pecked open to release a tasty feast. Rats would thrive on the farm if it were not
for the pest control man. Traps and
poison are laid, and a large freshly dead rat was found during my visit. Out in the garden, mice and moles rule the
day. The rabbits are generally held at
bay by rabbit-proof fencing. However,
this does not keep the deer out and dearly would the sheep love to get in there
and destroy all manner of goodies. It is
not quite living on the edge of the jungle, but one does get the impression
that everything would just be overwhelmed and consumed if not moving around, or
weeded out carefully. I am reminded of
the slightly depressing wildlife programmes where animals are born, mate,
reproduce and die in one continual meaningless cycle under the patronising
tones of St David of Attenborough.
Everything competes in a delicate balance, which the dastardly humans
seek to destroy and trample underfoot.
Such, my friends, is Life on the Farm.
I shall spend my last few minutes on the blog destroying
the effect of my creative writing, and robbing your imagination of the
atmosphere I conjured up for you by showing you how I caught the glimpses of
nature necessary to bring you this entertainment.
Oh ok, I will leave you alone.
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