Category: Farming

On Waders

Posted on by glengorm2020

Walk out to An Sean Dun on a pleasant evening, and you will hear one of nature’s most evocative songs: that of the Eurasian Curlew.

At first they whistle uncertainly among themselves, shuffling about over weedy rocks on the shore. The dark lines of their bills curve down like ribs. The brown chevrons on their plumage tremble with expectation.

Then, one breaks free. It releases an upwelling of bubbling notes that cascade out in an ecstasy of purpose. Others take flight. Together, their golden voices rain down with wild and alien beauty as they rise up and over the ridge.

If you continue out towards Loch Tor, Northern Lapwings flicker and stall between rocky promontories. Their rounded wings almost swat the bog asphodel as males jink through their display flight.

Just as Curlews stir a sense of wilderness, Lapwings seem playful and high-spirited to us. In reality they are deeply territorial; driving away rivals and intruders with persistent chasing. Their voice almost defies description – falling somewhere between 80’s synth-pop and a whale on recreational drugs.

Sadly, both Curlew and Lapwing are declining in Britain as their wet grassland habitat disappears.

Stephanie Cope

Glengorm Wildlife Steward

A Eurasian Curlew flies low over the sands at Calgary Bay, Mull

Curlew

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Love is a Cattlefield

Posted on by glengorm2020

On Glengorm, the annual cycle of the farm is once again in motion. March brought the arrival of our first Highland calves, and, the first few precious days of good weather.

Highland cows like to give birth in private. When their time is near, they leave the main group and set off in search of a more secluded spot. In many cases, this spot is so secluded that it takes the farmers half a day of misery to find them.

Most calves are born on the hill without assistance. They are quite capable of withstanding the weather and do not normally need to be brought indoors. Unusually for cattle, Highlanders rely on their trademark hair for insulation – not deposits of fatty tissue under the skin. As such, their young are born with thick insulating coats that give them the ever-popular teddy bear look.

Once the calf is born, the dams assiduously stash them in a safe place.

This behaviour is similar to that of deer and antelope – where youngsters are “parked” between periods of suckling, to keep them safe from predators. It is also similar to the behaviour of my Grandmother; who selects places so “safe” that they are unlikely to be re-discovered at a later date.

By law, our cattle have to be ear tagged within seven days after birth. For this, and more obvious husbandry reasons, it is very important that new calves are located.

However. Highland cows are sneaky. They generate Oscar-winning performances, with the sole intention of sending Alex and Angus on a wild goose chase over the hill. Standing wistfully on a rocky promontory, the new mother throws clandestine glances at nothing. With every appearance of concern and anxiety, she seems hardly able to prevent herself staring – in the complete opposite direction to her calf. It is deception by misdirection.

Highlanders also excel at turning not much into something tasty; so they are a great choice for unimproved grazing land, and an extensive hill-farming style. The beef itself is lean and flavoursome, with lower cholesterol and higher iron and protein levels than other breeds.

Time from Calving to Carving [as one of our Facebook followers so succinctly put it] is approximately two to three years for a pedigree animal. There are faster maturing breeds out there – notably the Shorthorn; but good things come to those who wait.

On Glengorm, life for a Highlander is wild. They are left to their own devices and only occasionally have to be brought in. They are also very curious – apparently unable to resist the lure of unusual noises, animals or structures. The siren-song of a chainsaw will have them flocking to the forest from half a mile away.

Because the devil makes work for idle hooves, repeated assaults have been made on the integrity of my wildlife hide. It is surrounded by an asteroid belt of inquisitive footprints, tufts of orange hair and snotty nose marks. The turf has been neatly nibbled from the edges, and it is only a matter of time before I discover a triumphant cow within… 

Those of you who have visited Glengorm may have come across “Bobby Dazzler”. This is our enormous white Shorthorn bull, who spends most of his time pottering about in Bluebell Valley. His job – as representative of a renowned commercial beef breed – is to reduce the time it takes for our own beef stock to mature. His hair is short and coarse, but he carries a formidable mass of muscle and fat under his skin. He weighs approximately one tonne, but still manages something like a scamper when he hears the snacker pulling up! Like men the world over: he really does love his food.

The Dazzler’s predecessor bore a slightly more suggestive title: he was called “Explosion”…

The Highland stock bulls are smaller in stature than the Shorthorn, but long and powerful in the back.

The son of “Eoin Mhor” recently won supreme champion at the 123rd Oban Highland Bull Show. Add this to Tom Nelson’s recent appointment as President of The Highland Cattle Society, plus Angus MacColl’s judging date at the Royal Highland Show… and Glengorm is all set for a cow-tastic year!

 

Clearly, there is a limit to the number of young bulls we can hold. Unless they are one of the fortunate few, males are castrated and then grown on for beef. The Chosen Ones enjoy a life of privilege and pampering in the shed, before going to new homes and new romantic encounters elsewhere.

Cross-bred calves tend to be larger at birth and grow faster than pure Highlanders. They can be ready for the table a full year sooner – extremely useful if you are a beef producer. They have a similar luxuriant coat [when not covered in mud and sticky burrs] but tend to have longer legs and some degree of white mottling around the belly. On Glengorm, the majority of our beef cattle are de-horned at a young age. This helps to make their “final journey” safer and less stressful for both the cattle and their handlers.

Though it seems like a strange thing to be thankful for, Mull is fortunate in the fact that we have our own slaughterhouse. When the time comes, our animals have a short 30-minute journey to their final destination, where they are dealt with quickly, professionally and humanely.

Glengorm is also grateful to our client base here on the island; all of our produce is sold on Mull, and is not transported over to the mainland. Without the support of both local residents and island visitors, we would not be able to farm in such a low-impact manner.

You may have already seen our new “Eat Local, Eat Glengorm” rosette logo. If not, look out for it on your next purchase of delicious locally produced Beef, Lamb or Venison. Our meat is cooked and sold in both the Glengorm Coffee Shop and Tobermory Bakery, in addition to being present on the menus of many local businesses.

No food miles, but hopefully, a lot of food smiles!

[Ps. for those of you who were not a child of the 80’s like myself, the blog title is my “Homage” to Pat Benatar’s Love is a Battlefield. Unfortunately, my shocking puns are lost on Alex; a man entirely devoted to the Peatbog Faeries and Mariah Carey – groan.]

Stephanie Cope

Glengorm Wildlife Steward, Cow Fan & Music Aficionado

One of Glengorm’s lovely Highland calves! Highland Calf

Graffiti Sheep

Posted on by glengorm2020

On Tuesday the 25th of February, at 9am GMT, the parallel universes of Farming and Ineptitude collided.

I don’t usually help out with our livestock – for good reason – so when opportunity knocked I was most pleased.

The Glengorm farm is a man-zone of tractors, male posturing and humorous banter. It is a place where man-points are scored by being the muddiest, lifting the heaviest, or maintaining a grip on the wildest.

[*The only notable exception is at lambing time, when it swiftly fills with little girls.]

Recently, Angus worked two full weeks without realising that his leg was broken – this display of resilience was much admired. Many man-points were scored.

But on the 25th of February, The Scanner was due. In farming, this is equivalent to being visited by a wizard.

The Scanner comes over annually from New Zealand, on a two-month migratory passage that sweeps through the sheep farms of Scotland. He is an important carrier of sheep-related intelligence and an enthusiastic participant in humorous banter; but his primary purpose is to count unborn lambs.

In the days leading up to the arrival of The Scanner [who, by the way, is called Daniel and is a thoroughly nice man] all the female sheep are gathered from the hill and brought to the small fields surrounding the farm and fank.

Watching Daniel don a shoulder-length pink glove and a certain amount of  gel, I thought the Glengorm Girls might be in for an uncomfortable couple of hours. However, mercifully, he is also equipped with a small hand-held ultrasound device which is placed on their bellies – externally (!)

The sheep come into the fank in groups. Once the first group was in, I was shown how to mark each ewe [on Mull, this is pronounced to rhyme with “cow” ] according to the number of lambs she has within her. My demo took place on a fence post, and was done with spray in a jolly shade of purple.

Nodding to The Scanner with manly bonhomme, I stationed myself next to “The Shedder”. The Shedder is a small standing area – sort of like a cattle crush – in which individual sheep can be contained whilst scanning or anything else of that nature takes place.

As each ewe is separated from the group, it enters a narrow passage. This passage is called “The Race” [on Glengorm, at least]. Standing ready at The Shedder, I didn’t fully appreciate why.

Blackface sheep have a reputation for being wild. Contrary to popular belief, both ewes and tups [the term for a male sheep] have an impressive set of horns. Watching the first expectant mother line itself up to the race, I began to understand that she would reach terminal velocity long before she reached me. Her nostrils flared, and with a nervous skittering of the feet, she hurtled down the narrow passage and took a spectacular leap. She almost cleared the crossbar into the shedder, but not before the scanner had grabbed her by the fleece and nonchalantly stuffed her back.

Each sheep was scanned in a matter of seconds – quite literally, about two or three. Once the number of lambs was identified, I had to mark the sheep prior to its release. This sounds straightforward; in practice, sheep are reluctant art partners.

What should have been a neat coloured spot squiggled and trailed – depending on the trajectory and mph of the sheep. Gentler cross breeds were fine. The Blackface left sporting childish Mr Scribbles, celebrity autographs or “crouching-tiger-hidden-dragon” [in the slightly mortifying words of the scanner].

Blackface sheep have a number of set approaches to the scanning process.

There are “The Jumpers”: these individuals steel themselves for maximum height and impact, bunching their little hooves underneath them, before launching up and in the general direction of the barrier. At times, two or three ewes would be piled like Junglebook elephants, as those behind gamely clambered over the forerunners.

There are “The Crawlers”: these individuals hesitate, then hunker down and try to shimmy past in stealth mode. Probably the least effective method as far as the sheep are concerned; somehow, we always managed to spot them…

Then, there are “The Runners”: these guys don’t mess about. They thunder down the race trailing farmers, fellow sheep and equipment behind them, making boldly for the exit… running like the wind… only to be shut into the shedder with a resounding clunk. A couple of brave souls almost made it, but Dan’s skills with the gate are every bit as good as his scanning.

Daydreaming , between shouts of “TWIN!” I contemplated the revolutionary effect Daniel could have on maternity units nationwide. This man could save the NHS millions at a stroke [though admittedly, patient satisfaction might take a hit]. His ability to decipher the vague black and white doodles on the ultrasound screen was uncanny – but then, having scanned over 4 million sheep in a 20-something year career, he does know what he’s doing.

What all sheep do seem to have in common is the delivery of a neat little “Screw You” skip, just as they make it back into the yard.

Presumably, the thought of surviving to graze another day makes them feel light on their feet – even when carrying triplets.

So, you might be wondering why we go to the trouble of scanning and marking our sheep at all. The answer is food.

The ewes are separated into our lambing parks based on the number of offspring they carry. For those with more than one youngster, additional feeding is required to keep them in good shape.

Sheep without lambs [so “yeld” sheep, to use the correct term] are given one year of good grace, after which their farming career is over should they fail to conceive again. These sheep were given an ominous red mark on the shoulder, and packed off back onto the hill.

The marks not only help with the separating process, but also help the farmers to sort out stray or missing lambs once they arrive. If a ewe has only one at foot, but bears a “TWIN!” mark, then they know to start looking. Speaking from experience last year, lambs just love to get lost.

Add to this the unbridled joy that some ewes get from stealing eachothers offspring, and you see that lambing is a thoroughly infuriating and time consuming business. Thus, further marking systems are required:

Once born, each pair of twins is given a number. This helps to ensure that everyone is where they need to be [and that the farmers’ blood pressure remains relatively stable].

Happily, the count of unborn lambs this year is the best on record for Glengorm. This was something of a surprise, considering the poor weather we’ve had all winter. According to the farmers’ vague explanations, bad weather can affect “the mood” somewhat.

For our flock of 800 ewes the final result was over 140% [ie. 1,120 unborn lambs between them].

Sadly, not all of these youngsters will survive… but it’s a very promising start!

 

Stephanie Cope

Glengorm Wildlife Steward

[and sheep-marker extraordinaire]

We’re watching ewe…

Watching Ewe

Get to the Point

Posted on by glengorm2020

The beautiful weather of the last three weeks has finally broken.

Although the herby smell of warm, dry grass was delicious the smell of smoke rising from the resultant wildfires was much less so.

The distillery in Tobermory had to pause production because of the drought (a tragedy!) and Mull was officially – if briefly – the driest place in the country.

Rather than being the bright and verdant pasture for which Glengorm was named, the fields remain stunted and dull. This has been a bit of a worry for calving and lambing; things have been slow to start on the farm this year. However, if you visit us for a walk, you’ll see that the trickle is starting to swell to a flood. Little lambs are tottering after the ewes on over-sized feet, and within a week or two, I’m sure we’ll start to see gangs of them racing around and playing King of the Castle. This seems to be a universally enjoyed game for all lambs, in which they compete for a position on the highest piece of ground they can find (within shouting distance of mum, that is!)

The Skylarks and Meadow pipits are in full display mode; watch out for their lovely courtship flights as you walk through our fields. The Wheatears are back from their migration, and males can be seen singing boldly from prominent tussocks or boulders. The Hen harriers have been a bit quiet of late, so I can only assume that they are busy preparing to breed. Males have been seen “Skydancing” elsewhere on the island, so I’m keen to find out what our birds are up to. I did catch a very brief glimpse of a female yesterday, but she was off over the heather before I could see what she was doing.

In other news, Alex and I have re-homed a beautiful dog (if you were on the ferry last Sunday, you might have seen him!) “Big-George” as he is fondly known, seems to be settling in well. He’s a large black and white Pointer – perfect for keeping me company on those long upland walks. He was both well-loved and well looked after at his previous home, so we feel very privileged to have him.

Now, George is a bit of a foodie, so if you see him pottering around outside the Coffee Shop… you’d better watch your sarnies. There was a mildly embarrassing incident involving a wheelchair and a tuna sandwich in Oban, from which I have only just recovered. He also thinks my small parrot is a treat, and sits expectantly whenever Quito perches on my hand. Despite Quito’s desire to remain un-eaten, and George’s ambitions to the contrary, it really does feel like he’s completed our household.

I had secret hopes that George might engage in a bit of Pointing from time to time – we have lots of game species on Glengorm, and keeping track of them can be tricky. As it stands, the only thing George has pointed out so far was a particularly fetid deer carcass. Delighted with his find, he then embarked on a series of enthusiastic rolls. As far as George was concerned, I could keep my Grouse and Woodcock. He also eats deer-poo like Smarties, so if he offers you a kiss…

You might have heard about the Sperm Whale sighted in Oban Bay at Easter. This young male spent nearly nine days circling the harbour area – right where the ferries dock. He was estimated to be between 11-14 years of age, and roughly 11m in length. A group of these whales had been photographed off the coast of Sky shortly before his arrival, which was unusual enough in itself.

The Sperm Whale is the largest toothed animal on earth, and also the deepest-diving mammal species. They are usually found in waters reaching depths of several thousand meters. Here, they journey into yawning ocean trenches to feed on Giant squid and Octopus. They have the largest brain of any creature, living or extinct, and produce some of the loudest vocalizations known to science.

For this 20 tonne individual, Oban Bay – maximum depth 40m – must have been quite an experience. Save a few battered calamari rings from the local chippie, Oban isn’t famed for its abundant supply of Giant squid. People were both amazed and concerned.

For me, the whale might as well have arrived from outer space. Never in my wildest dreams had I hoped for a chance to see such an enigmatic creature. After two days of restlessly checking Twitter, I coughed up my seven-quid and galloped onto the ferry.

I kept imagining it – perhaps resting on the bottom. Feeling the warm fuel-oiled waters swilling around it. Hearing the apocalyptic thunder of CalMacs overhead. A frightened, alien presence in the bay.

I waited with other hopefuls on the pier. After about 30 minutes, a hump of greyish-black gently broke the surface, followed by a long stretch of crinkled skin. The look of it was odd: pinched but firm. It didn’t give the impression of being loose, but rather betrayed the powerful flexing muscles hidden underneath. This, of course, was the Sperm Whale’s distinctive flank. The dorsal fin was small and hardly more prominent than the breathing apparatus. The whale moved slowly, blowing out plumes of spent breath and water droplets as it circled the north section of the bay. 

I must admit, a sense of absolute dread filled me when I saw it. The curiosity and awe that had drawn me there was replaced with a kind of guilty sadness.  The photographs always seem to be the same: the whale lies stricken and canted on the shore. It is generally raining. Tiny people in jackets stand before it, desperate to help a creature they cannot understand but somehow feel connected to. As I made my way back to the ferry hours later I didn’t hold out much hope.

Nevertheless: the Oban Whale proved to be made of sterner stuff, and confounded the fairly gloomy expectations for its fate. After spending 9-days in the bay (and engaging in altercations with several boats), he left.

No drama, no big rescue operation – it literally just swam off. I couldn’t have been more pleased.

Stephanie Cope

Glengorm Wildlife Steward