It’s been five years since we arrived in the South West, a day I’ll never forget. Our tractor and other bits of farming kit travelled by low-loader, and having forewarned the driver to avoid the most obvious route and the subsequent danger of grounding on a steep and curving hill, we suffered his sneers until he sullenly blocked the road, unable to move forward or back, holding up the whole community for the best part of six hours. We couldn’t have announced our presence any more brashly if we’d asked the town crier to bellow it in every village square for miles around.
But there was no road rage or irritation. Instead, farmers stopped and looked at the tractor, debating its merits. The school bus and the postman went the long way round, our neighbour-to-be following behind, and we all left the man in the low-loader to get on with it as we went to sort out sheep, poultry and more. By late afternoon, now unstuck, the driver was beyond sneering and refused to manoeuvre down the perfectly navigable lane to the farm, and blocked the road again as he unloaded everything into a top field. Our neighbour-to-be was stuck once more, but with a grin and a shrug asked if he could drive through our fields to get home. That first night, as we lay in bed in our new home, we thought how differently our arrival could have been greeted and were hugely reassured that we had made the right move.
Two years later, haymaking in a small window of hot weather between dismal forecasts, huge tractors appeared from all points of the compass. Unasked but most welcome, help had arrived to get our bales into the barn before rain kicked in; we did it with minutes to spare. Then there was the day one of the rams bashed his way through sturdy rails, bursting with testosterone and sexual frustration. He hadn’t accounted for the burly arms that seconds before had been steering a quad bike down the road grasping him before he could do a runner and holding him fast whilst we made quick repairs to the fence. And when a group of neighbours had spent hours vaccinating sheep, I had the gall to ask if they would help catch the uncatchable llama so I could give him his Bluetongue vaccination. Weary but accommodating, we grabbed a long rope and slowly pinned him into a shelter, everyone enjoying the novelty.
We know we can rely on our neighbours to take care of the animals if we both have to be away; we swap bits of equipment, labour and advice; we get a phone call to remind us of the next farmers group meeting; we find, in hunting season, enough pheasant, duck, pigeon and woodcock hanging in the workshop to keep our bellies and freezer full. We have made fantastic friends who have welcomed us into their homes, and now ask us for favours that we are delighted to give. Neighbourliness is alive and kicking and so is the sharing of home-baked cake (chocolate, if you’re asking).
Published in The Landsman April/May 10 Issue 19
