Tag Archives: Calves

Lambs And Calves. Again.

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I was going to be so strong.  Honest, I was.  I was going to resist, you see.  Resist posting yet more photos of cutesy calves and lovely lambs.  After all I’ve posted lots of photos of both before.  But when Margaret (the neighbouring farmer) told me that she was expecting (so to speak), it gnawed at my mind and made my shutter finger itch.  And when I heard that the new arrivals were plopping out left, right and centre, I couldn’t stop myself from grabbing my camera and rushing up to the farm.  Here’s what I saw.  Resolve be damned.

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I’m a sucker for a calf adept at licking its own nostril.

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Really adept and with such gusto.

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There’s  a whole clutch of young calves; about half of the thirty pregnant cows have given birth.

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Normally, Margaret only has about twenty in calf but she obviously thinks she has spare time on her hands.  Thankfully, unlike last year, there have been no …

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… still births, no deaths, no difficult, protracted deliveries.  Indeed she hasn’t even had to lend a hand – yet.

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The newest arrival was born to Buttercup (we’ll call her) less than twelve hours ago; a sturdy, if still groggy, bull calf.

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Despite Buttercup’s distrustful, watchful gaze, Margaret had to disinfect the calf’s umbilical scar.   Buttercup had already mooed angrily when the farmyard cat had sauntered a little too close – so Margaret warily asked that I stay close-by in case protective mooing became angry barging.  Though, I’m unclear how my screaming and impotent, panicky flapping would have helped.

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That disinfectant stings and the calf was up on his feet and away but Buttercup didn’t seem so very concerned after all …

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… and Buttercup Jr. was soon back where he belonged …

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… wreathed in Mum’s warm breath.  (Incidentally, I was constantly licked and nibbled by one particular cow whilst taking these shots.  Imagine that: constantly licked and nibbled).*

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Next door, in pens smelling of warm, sweet hay, Margaret’s Christmas lambs are arriving (the main lambing season won’t start for another few weeks).  Margaret had planned the first births for the day after Boxing Day.  But the ewes hadn’t read the plan – they started on Christmas morning.

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This is the fourth or fifth year that I’ve visited the farm during lambing but it’s not a sight I ever tire of.

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This is the youngest – about five hours old.

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And here is the smallest lamb that Margaret has ever seen.  I’ll let her tell you about it:

“I’ve been doing this job for the last 23 years, so I’m still really a novice – well, it feels that way sometimes!  The mini lamb is a ewe lamb which probably means she is here for life!  I think she will always be too small to go to the ram – so she will just be a pet!  Still, what is the point of it all if you can’t occasionally be a bit sentimental.  I am not alone in this.  If you dig deep, you will find a lot of farmers are the same.”

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The little she-lamb is far smaller than its twin (all of Margaret’s ewes have had twins so far).

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The mother wasn’t keen on the cut of my jib.

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But was perfectly happy for Margaret to pick up the tiny one and pass her to a friend.  (Hi Rita).

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So no -  lambing (and calving) is not a sight I shall ever tire of.  And it would seem Margaret won’t either.

So I suspect I’ll be posting more photos of lambs and calves.  Again.

* I now intend to hang about the cow sheds regularly.

"Stood a Lowly Cattle Shed"

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Once a week I drive up onto the ridge above the Priory to visit Margaret.
In her large, warm kitchen we have a natter, exchanging gossip about the Priory and the village, and a cup of tea.  Afterwards, I might have a nosey about the farmyard.  Go and see her chickens and guinea fowl or, at this time of year, go into her cattle shed and visit her cows.

Margaret's farm through the trees and up on the hill above the Priory.

A heifer which she bought a few months ago at market, recently gave birth.  Or at least she tried to; the calf, which tragically was still-born, got stuck.  Poor  Margaret had to tie a rope about the corpse and pull it out – all by herself.  I was a little annoyed at her for not phoning me to come and help.  I could have jumped on the quad bike and been up at the farm in minutes.  Though truthfully I was a little relieved as well.  As much as I always wanted to be James Herriott, the thought of pulling a dead calf from it’s Mum did turn me a little green about the gills.

The replacement calf

Margaret rushed over to a dairy farmer friend and bought a baby calf off him to replace the still-born.  Smearing the new arrival with the cow’s placenta (sorry, you’re not eating, I hope) she managed to fool the mother into believing this replacement was actually her own baby.

Hoorah – don’t you love a happy outcome?  This is the new arrival with her new mum.

There are several other baby calves in the sheds at the moment including this one, which we’ve decided has as much teddy bear blood in it as cow.

And this white one which was born a day before this photo was taken.

Here she is again a few days later.

The cattle shed, freshly cleaned out and heaped high with fresh straw, is a warm, sweet smelling place to be.

Though the thought of Margaret physically forking in the amount of hay and silage that she does every day is humbling.

Trojan (not his real name).

Opposite the cows and calves are the big boys.  As well as raising beef cattle, Margaret leases out bulls to other farmers.  They go out into surrounding farms to do what bulls do best; make babies.

Mr Grumpy with Proud Crosby behind (their real names).

Sadly, one of Margaret’s favourites, Elgin, recently had to be sold off as beef.  Though she had had him for several years and was very fond of him, he had developed a kink in his bullhood.  Unable to hit his target and consequently unable to do his duty he, very sadly, had to go.  Let that be a lesson to you, boys.

Mr Grumpy

The bulls are massive.  Truly massive, with heads the size of armchairs.  When I first met them, Margaret hurriedly warned me not to stroked their enormous heads through the bars.  Not because they’re aggressive but because if they suddenly raise or shake their heads they can easily snap an arm against the railings.

Mr Grumpy

All the cattle will remain in the sheds now until the ground is firm and the grass starts growing again.  It’s a huge amount of work for Margaret as they obviously need to be fed, watered and cleaned out.  That many cows, bulls and calves produce a vast amount of manure.  But, hey!  A vast amount of manure is a good thing.  There are an awful lot of Priory roses.

New Life and Poppy’s Triumph

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A while ago, Margaret (the farmer whose land surrounds most of the Priory) bought a cow in calf, and the other day, long, long after all her other calves were born we had a new arrival.

He’s a very handsome chap and I can’t but marvel at how clean he is.  He looks like he’s been scrubbed in a bath of buttermilk. Margaret denies that she bathes her calves on a daily basis but I remain suspicious.
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I went up to her farm today for a chat.  For the last few days there has been barely suppressed excitement in the farmhouse kitchen.  Poppy, Margaret’s youngest dog, has been heavily pregnant with her first litter of, according to the vet, three puppies.  She’s a beautiful and lovely tempered dog and we were all sure she would make a fantastic mother.
The night before  last, from 10pm till 2am, Margaret attended as Poppy (her real name) gave birth.  She was two days early and labour was a long protracted affair with the last puppy being breached.
She is a Sprocker spaniel (a springer/cocker cross) and one of the nicest dogs I know.  She and her mother, Bunny, always bark loudly (and at length) when I go up to the farm.  Then, when I’ve opened the gate, they run up to me, launch themselves at my feet, roll over onto their backs and invite me to rub their tummies.  A bit like this:
A chip of the old block

Poppy surprised us all with delivering not three puppies but four.

Having paid stud fees, Margaret had planned to sell all the puppies.  However, she is now so excited and joyful at the new additions to her family that she’s talking of keeping them.  All  of them.  Can’t say I blame her.

Mother and puppies (and Margaret) are all doing well.

Margaret’s Cows

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The other day, I was enjoying a mug of Earl Grey in the greenhouse, doing a spot of watering and listening to some tip-top pop tunes on my headphones.  Singing away to myself I didn’t hear that I had company.   It was only some movement, caught out of the corner of my eye,  that made me look outside.
Margaret’s cows had come down to enjoy the long, lush grass growing beneath her ancient fruit trees.  It’s not a large herd but bigger than normal with all the calves that were born in the spring.  They are cute, no question.  Still, I won’t think of that when Margaret is selling boxes of her fantastic, twenty-eight-day-hung beef.  Seriously good beef.
I won’t think of how pretty the calves are to look at and how overly curious they are.

How they like to come up and see who and what I am.  Like her sheep, Margaret’s cows couldn’t want for a better life, better care or better surroundings.

It’s jolly nice to have a visit when you’ve been alone all day.  But when your visitor leans over the fence and helps herself to Priory property, well!  Munching, uninvited, hazel and hawthorn without so much as a, “I’m a little peckish, would you mind if I just had a little bite of ….?”.
How rude?  But then what would you expect?  Notice the curious spiked nose ring she’s wearing?  Do you know what it’s for?  I didn’t.  It’s to stop her stealing milk from another cow, that’s what for.  She’s a milk filcher.  A robber, a stealer, a pilferer.  She’ll brazenly tuck under another cow and help herself to milk.  But if she goes for a crafty suckle, whilst wearing the spiked ‘Ring of Shame’, she’ll stab the victim in the udder and, understandably, get a good hard kick.  That’ll teach her.  Serve her right too.  But which is worse?  A hard, justified kick or the wearing of the ‘Ring of Shame’.  I think the latter.  Imagine the disgrace.  The ignominy.  To be the only Thief of the Herd.  Reviled, berated, gossiped about and

……. oh.  Oh, not you too?  Well, really.  We all know what you’ve been doing Madam, don’t we?  A milk mugger!  How could you?  Tut tut.