Like many farms, grass was nearly shooting out of control here before the recent heatwave hit.

With growth down to a minimum in the last fortnight it’s quite frustrating to see so much of the pasture headed out into seed.

Cleaning it up with the topper would at least make the place look like someone is trying to farm it yet doing so before any significant forecast rain would be fruitless.

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For now I’m sure local wildlife appreciates the additional cover to move through the fields and offer some shelter from the blazing sun.

Even so, with summers like these becoming more common our wet land is a blessing (though it doesn’t make up for the six-month winters we endure most years) and the last stragglers of meadows on the farm yielded around 10 bales per acre. Mediocre quality, but with our minimum forage stored away for winter, we can breathe a sigh of relief.

Any more that we take from a second cut will fill the feed coffers, which is never a bad thing.

Looking at dust rising behind the tractor, my father recounted his first memory of a round baler in that same field. It was 1985, with the summer a far cry from this one due to constant rain.

Pulled by a 178 multipower two-wheel drive, most of the baling took place downhill, for obvious reasons. Within moments of the outfit arriving, word had spread that the round baler had turned up at McCabes, and before long, a group of curious spectators appeared to witness the new age of farming. Despite the deep wheel ruts being left behind, it was agreed by most that it was the way forward, though two mature bachelors were more guarded in their praise. “A lazy man’s way of making silage” was their conclusion, yet both availed of the service later that day.

Pet pheasant

Of all things to pick up this year, we’ve acquired a pet pheasant, who we’ve named Phred. Numerous times a day he struts up to the house looking for seed, before disappearing back down the fields.

There were a few worrisome hours when he disappeared after the surrounding meadows were cut but he turned out to be sunbathing in the rose garden, not a bit put out by all the activity going on in the field next to him. Our lands are preserved but he has a large territory to roam on so we’ll have to coax him into the cattle shed or outfit him in a little fluorescent jacket come November, as he’s now such a part of the farm it’d be a pity to see him shot, especially as he’s more likely to walk up to a hunter than run away.

Lastly, my father was served a timely reminder that one can never be too careful with machinery, and sometimes the ones we use frequently can be the most dangerous as over-familiarity can blur the common bad habits we’ve picked up over the years.

From the house I heard the strange engine rev

Like any other day he hopped up on the quad to head across the fields, but on swinging the handle bars and reversing out of the shed, his cuff caught on the throttle, sending him at speed into the concrete wall.

From the house I heard the strange engine rev and as my father is not known for his speedy manoeuvres I looked outside in curiosity to see the underside of the quad facing me and no driver in sight.

I don’t think I’ve sprinted so fast in years, and it was only afterwards I realised I’d done so in my bare feet. Thankfully he was uninjured other than a few bruises, but understandably received quite a fright along with giving me a rather thorough cardiac check up. It’s safe to say he’ll be using factor 50 for sun protection instead of long-sleeved shirts for the foreseeable.