I have long believed that farming is one of the most
selfless jobs out there. You work your whole life on the farm, it is your life.
Working tirelessly to feed the nation, to keep Britain fit and strong, well
that is what I was taught in history class. Although this is true, this is not
why I get up in the morning, of course, it is to cater all my time to the farm,
milk the girls and get all the jobs done. But there’s always a point in the
day, where I stop, usually at the top of a hill, admiring the valley where our
farm is located, my mind always wanders to the same thought “wow”. A sense of
pride and admiration comes over that you are farming this land and look how
amazing it looks, yet I never feel alone in those moments, I am sharing that
same view with farmers who stood before me, doing the same job I am doing now.
I know they would be admiring the same peaks of the Munros,
as it is impossible not to at certain fields. The hills, land and even trees
will outlive us, but we share these memories with the men and women who farmed
before us through this land. And by farming I am carrying on their legacy, even
if I do not know them, we are connected. Now I understand this all may sound
strange, maybe even a bit hippy, but this was always something I personally
felt however, it became something I relied on in March 2020.
The news was spouting about some virus that London was
experiencing, a distance threat. The first lockdown began, it seemed a drastic
step, but death was spreading. Healthy adults were packed into hospitals from
this mysterious disease. And we ignorantly thought it was a problem facing the
cramped-up townies. Meanwhile, at our ranch, we were getting along just fine,
our life barely changed when the lockdown was introduced. Every morning I was still
working in the parlour every morning with my great uncle, grandfather of 88 and
father- assuming we would be waiting it out.
Townies were complaining of boredom and treating the first
lockdown as a holiday. Many were rediscovering or even discovering the
countryside with walks to get them away from their four walls. In comparison, I
felt lucky. Then my grandfather needed some medical assistance a hospital visit
later and he had covid.
The following days would consist of them bringing him back
to the farm and called back out again for getting worse. Those days were so
unpredictable and of course, emotional. He died in a hospital bed with only his
wife by his side. A healthy farmer who was in the parlour just days ago with a
spirit so pure and energetic it was infectious. He wasn’t just a grandparent.
He wasn’t just someone I saw at Christmas and Birthdays. He was my business
partner, advisor, and friend. His sudden death rocked us all.
The farm seemed emptier without his presence. The parlour
was eerily quiet. We saw this man every day of our lives, we were intertwined,
all four of us are. After his death, we would hear his whistle in the parlour,
a cruel trick our minds played with us. The man you worked and lived alongside
your whole life with and trusted for advice and guidance is gone. A generation
of farming is wiped out and you hold him only in your memory. What stories did
I miss? Those questions I forgot to ask? The fountain of knowledge had run dry
and the farm is left with one spirit less.
He ran the farm since he was a bairn, he built our sheds and
expanded the farm to strengths. He laid the shed floors that carry our herd.
Does he know none of it was in vain? Does he know we will carry on as we are
gifted with what he started? When death strikes so quickly it is hard not to
think about what he thought of how we are farming.
Farm deaths are another level of grief; it changes your
everyday life so drastically. I believe the reason farmers handle it better
than most is due to such a healthy attitude towards life and death, since
working on a farm, saying we understand the circle of life is an
understatement. I think that’s why death in farming seems more intense, you
don’t escape it, you are living the reality of what happened every day, it’s not
a monthly catch-up phone call you now don’t make.
Although it was a difficult time for the family, each
experiencing grief, we had plenty of laughs with family and friends reminiscing
and discussing my grandfather’s life, as they say, “there is more fun at a
Scottish funeral than there is at an English wedding.”
Is there anything to gain from death? I saw my father and
great uncle in a different light, as we all struggled and milked in silence (a
first-ever). I saw my father as a son who lost his dad and it terrified me. I
believe it makes you truly appreciate your family. The time you have. This
farming isn’t just about the cows (kind of), it is about the land, the history
of it and how he, my grandfather has now joined that history.
To the farmers before me, your work is appreciated to this
day, I admire the trees you planted in our fields, and I live in the house you
expertly constructed from stone. We are part of the history of farmers. The
people before us cherished this land and we are trusted with these fields to
continue their work, not just for my grandfather’s pride, but all of them, I
appreciate the work they did to bring me where I am. I will work hard for us.
I farm for the love
of cows and care for the countryside but with each day of quality work I carry
on the work of those before me and for that I am proud. What we do is not
dated, despite the societal trends just now. We are part of the countryside;
our heritage is stronger than a fad in the town.
We feed a nation. We farm Scotland. And by God, do we do it
well.
