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Farmers need bulls to create the next crop of calves. We use artificial insemination (AI) for the first service on the heifers and then they run with the bulls.
The cows get two services before the bulls are let out. With the majority of animals calving in the first six weeks, we know that our heifers for replacement will definitely be AI-bred.
Maximising bull power is important. We also use a rotation system where the bulls are switched in and out so as to ensure they are energetic and fresh. We want the cows to go in calf, so that means making sure the bulls are in top condition.
To protect the operators on the farm, we keep a new crop of bulls every year. They work the first year with the heifers and the second year with the cows. Then they are sent to the factory, so they have less of a chance of getting cross. The bulls were out-wintered on deferred grazing on leased ground in Kilcorney.
Last week, they had to be brought home for a TB test, and the grass was also finished. Tim wanted to know if I was available on Saturday morning. Initially I said no. I hate anything got to do with bulls, so my first reaction is to try to get out of working with them.
During the night I knew I’d change my mind. If the men came home and said they’d a terrible job bringing in the bulls, I’d feel so guilty. Often it’s just having that extra person to stand in the gap. If there are plenty of people around, they invariably behave – but if they see an easy out, they want to have fun.
Tim was pleased when I said I would go to Kilcorney after all.
ALL ABOARD
We piled into the jeep, knowing that we could either have an easy morning – or a rodeo around the fields. Speedy the sheepdog leapt in the back with gusto.
The goal was to have the bulls in the corral before the truck arrived to collect them. Diarmuid and I were detailed to remain in the small field that contained the corral. There were two other gaps diagonally opposite to each other. We were at the lower gap.
Very quickly Colm arrived with three bulls, and our job was to keep them in the field. I explained to Diarmuid how dangerous bulls are and how, when the others arrived, we’d dive behind the fence.
“Mam, don’t worry,” he said, “I’ll protect you!” I gave up and thought: ‘Why should I be giving him my fear!’ Still, I wanted him to be cautious.
So we leaned on the gate and admired the view. There had been a horrendous amount of rain the previous night. The ground was struggling to contain the water. All hollows and footprints were full of water.
Still the sun glistened through the bare-branched trees and blinded us. I fussed that I might not see the bulls coming. Two robins played around our heads, hopping from tree to tree, delighted with the activity.
The three bulls already in the corral eyeballed us without menace. I spoke to them as if they were still calves. Then I shut up, remembering that bulls don’t like female voices.
There was a shout from Colm in the next field:
Mom, call the bulls.
I did and they came towards me. Diarmuid and I opened the gate and got quickly out of the way as the bulls approached.
We were short one reluctant bull. Tim was trying to extricate him from somewhere. Then a phone call came from Colm for me to change location and to reposition a wire, as the bull was coming from a different direction.
STUCK IN THE MUD
That’s when my heart skipped a beat. Suddenly the responsibility for the success or failure of the operation rested with me. I left Diarmuid at our post.
I dashed off – but in waterlogged ground you can’t dash off very quickly. I slowed my pace, keeping to the ditch for safety. Not knowing the ground too well, I stumbled straight into a soft patch. You guessed it: the wellies sunk well down – and I was stuck! I panicked:
I won’t make the gap before the bull!
He’d probably turn around and it would be much harder to gather him the next time. There’s one real chance with cattle, until they realise what’s going down.
The men would not be happy and they’d feign patience, but I’d know that I’d failed. There was no option but to pull out of the wellie. I lost my balance and had to sink the foot into the squelchy gluey ground. I was a right mess. Then up the ditch I went and scrambled down the other side, I made the gap and got my job done.
Once the animals were corralled I showed my sodden foot and wellie to the men. I asked: “Is there the price of a new pair of wellies in the budget?”
Tim and Colm answered in unison: “No!”
Once home, I washed my wellie and turned it upside down to dry.
There are two messages from this story. Family farming is a wonderful experience, where you can call on others to help out when necessary. As I get older I know that I won’t be there forever, and so I take every opportunity to farm with my husband and sons.
My wellie story points to controlling costs. The small things add up. Oftentimes we can make do or improvise. I didn’t need new wellies, but I could have just as easily binned them and picked up a new pair at the co-op shop. It would be categorised as unnecessary expenditure. CL
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