It’s approaching 9pm and we are returning to the meadows for the last trip of the day “leading” hay bales into the barn. I sit on the back of the trailer as it bumps along, marvelling at the number of beetles on the hot metal flatbed. They crawl out of the bales as they are loaded from the field on to the trailer, and there is now a mixture of hay seeds and beetles covering the rusty floor. Once we get back into the meadow, I push them all off the back of the trailer, and they fall on to the freshly mown meadow and scurry off. Both beetles and seeds are better off here than left in the barn.
There has been no shortage of biting insects this year. My forearms are scratched from the bales, and my shoulders and back are covered in bites. I don’t know why we have such healthy numbers of insects when overall the populations are falling. Perhaps it’s because we use so few chemicals, and have a river and so many trees in the valley. Once the load of hay is brought in, I’m tempted to jump into the River Lune to ease the itching – until I check how often sewage is released into it further upstream. That puts paid to any ideas of night swimming.
It is marvellous to me how quickly the seasons on the farm come around, now I’m in my 50s. School terms used to take an eternity, but now we seem to emerge from a never-ending wet winter and go straight into lambing – then we’re suddenly waiting for dry days for haymaking, then clearing the meadows so that the cows can come home for calving.
One last load before bedtime. My son climbs down from driving the tractor, ready to throw the bales on, and I get into the cab. I put the tractor in a low gear and drive at walking pace between the remaining bales while he throws them on to the trailer and stacks them. The big round bales we made in the neighbouring fields will have to stay outside, though: just for a few days to cool down – we don’t want a fire in the barn.
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