The beef cattle have been adversely affected by this summer’s drought, and with the benefit of hindsight, I probably should have managed them in a totally different manner.

They were bought as strong stores and wintered on ad-lib silage and just 1kg of meal. The plan was to graze them for most of the summer on lush grass, then sit back and wait for the money to roll in as a wagon of fat Charolais bullocks sent the weigh scales haywire in whatever factory was paying a small fortune for real quality.

It is a little embarrassing to think that I even allowed myself the luxury of such a dream.

In contrast, I sold four of them a fortnight ago before they were fully ready, and another few will have to go in the days ahead. The first ones averaged 410kg carcase weight, but these next cattle will be lighter than hoped, and are only moving on to ease the pressure on grassland for the remaining animals.

It will be a double whammy, since falling prices coupled to lighter weights can only translate into disappointment on a grand scale. Hopefully, taking a hit on three or four steers will be compensated by a stronger performance from whoever is left in the field.

Feeding

Meal feeding began in early July, directly because of the dry weather. Initially (in May) grass looked perfect, but then threatened to get ahead of all stock by early June, before a spell of glorious weather arrived.

However, since then, the farming mood has gradually shifted from holiday-type euphoria to weather-induced anxiety.

For the first few weeks of the hot spell, we convinced ourselves that even if grass was becoming a bit stemmy, sure the cattle had never looked so content.

And even though the slight tightening in the piles of dung should have been a warning sign, we listened to our hearts over our heads and carried on pretending we were in Australia.

There was another unfortunate consequence of the dry weather, with a major jailbreak. Leaving 17 big cattle in a field for that extra week (waiting for grass to grow) does put added pressure on fences, and of course other work commitments mean that posts and wire are not always checked as often as they should be.

These bullocks stretched over the top strand of barbed wire (yes, it was not as pristine as it might have been) to reach some succulent ivy and managed to tramp their way onto the foreshore.

From here, it appears they made their way around a sea fence and spent the evening in a field of barley.

Not content with this change of scenery, they began to enjoy this freedom and wandered through another shoreline barrier (it must have been low tide) before travelling to the neighbouring farm, where a sea wall proved no obstacle. I suspect they liked the feel of the seaweed and silt along the edge of Strangford Lough, although it may be that they simply began to roam and just kept going.

By the time I discovered they were missing from their original field and had vacated my barley also, the first mild fluttering of panic had set in as it became apparent they were indeed a lot further away.

I phoned a couple of friends, and three of us walked in different directions across a large arable farm next to my rented land.

No footprints

This was no easy task: it was a blisteringly hot morning, and there were almost no footprints to follow due to the hard nature of the ground. Eventually we found them, and by this stage the owner of the land had appeared, as well as one of his workers.

In addition, another neighbour brought his quad bike, and the six of us managed to walk them by road (that was the nearest route) back to where they were meant to be.

However, that simple statement makes it all sound far more straightforward than it really was.

Seventeen Charolais bullocks that only ever see one person at a time (mostly me), and have never seen a road, never mind six strangers surrounding them, are not a handy proposition. A couple of the ringleaders threatened to jump the hedge on several occasions, and it was only due to everyone being quiet and calm that things didn’t get badly out of control.

My thanks and appreciation towards everyone concerned are heartfelt, yet there is one point that is worth mentioning. When cattle break out, there is ultimately one person that is wholly responsible, and all the pressure falls on his or her shoulders. And in this instance, the dry-mouthed, sweating, panicking, swearing owner was me.

In complete contrast, the other five fellas seemed to be thoroughly enjoying themselves.

I am sure of this because I have helped to rodeo cattle that belonged to someone else on plenty of occasions, and if you have no responsibility for whatever happens with a bunch of roaming animals, then the whole occasion can actually be a bit of good fun. On this occasion, however, I have never had less fun in my life.