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The end of 2022 has ushered in a new year in more ways than one. The final crop of point-of-lay pullets left in late December, and I have made the decision to pull the plug on that part of the business.
I told anyone who cared to listen (nobody, then) that I was going to make changes when I hit 60, although I wasn’t sure what part of the farm was going to be targeted.
The upside of running a one-man band is efficiency across the whole farming spectrum. Paid wages are zero, and if you are prepared to fill your working days with productive labour, then I reckon you should be piloting a watertight ship.
Up until a few years ago I managed to balance sheep, cattle, poultry, and contract work reasonably well, and with that came a decent financial remuneration for this lifestyle.
Gradually, however, I became aware that time off was becoming a bit of an issue, but it was easier to keep hammering away, seven days a week. I couldn’t see how I had a choice anyway – I had a bit of a list of things to throw money at, and the spectre of two weans at university fuelled the fires of financial requirement too.
Independent
About a year or so ago it dawned on me that both youngsters were financially independent, I had acquired a small area of land that lay into me, the new sheep house was completed, and a few shiny toys were beginning to appear in the yard.
I don’t know if it was the advancing years, or the wish list being mostly ticked, but suddenly the most urgent requirement was more time off from the farm.
I realise that plenty of farmers want to keep working as hard as possible for as long as they are able, but I am not among them. As one of my farming friends pointed out, some of us have something that others will never have – enough. Perhaps that reflects a real lack of ambition on my part, but so be it. There is more than just a financial angle to true wealth.
Original plan
My original plan was to drop the conacre when I hit 60 and continue with the home farm as well as pullet rearing. It seemed logical, but when the time came, something just didn’t feel right. And the more I thought about it, the more it became obvious that working solely around my own premises could easily turn into a very isolating and lonely existence. The rented farm is over five miles from home, and I look forward to travelling down there every day.
Then someone told me to write down a long list of positives and negatives (it’s harder than you might think to be completely honest with yourself on this one) concerning what I really wanted, and this pointed in one direction.
The tying nature of the poultry had become a real problem, and 40 years of stripping out, washing, disinfecting, and building up again had lost most of its sparkle. In truth, when I was told about new dates for chicks coming back in again, the only emotion I felt was a vague feeling of dread. It was time for change.
Adjust
I wish I could say that I’ve been skipping across the yard like a young thing with my newfound freedom, but that’s not how it works.
Cast-iron certainty and bullet-proof self-confidence aren’t really my thing, so I suppose it will take a while to adjust to the massive changes around here.
I must admit that, already, it is great to walk past empty houses and know there is absolutely no pressure to get them cleaned out.
As for what fate awaits these 55-year-old houses, the plan is for one of them to be a maternity ward at lambing time, while another will quickly fill with Derek’s useful junk.
That leaves two more, and if anyone can think of a positive use for them, don’t hesitate to get in touch.
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