Summer on the farm
'Tis raging noon; and, vertical, the sun darts on the head direct his forceful rays
The deck is hot. I repeat. The deck is hot. I’ve just wandered past the thermometer, given it a cursory glance, and noticed that the temperature is sitting at a little over 40 degrees Celsius on the deck. In the paddock, it’s hovering at just over 30, but at this time of day if you go out there you’ll die. But staying on the deck in the heat is a no go.
Summer is here.
Walking the paddocks, the dust kicks up from the gateways and floats in the heavy warm air. The grass retreats as K rotates the stock from paddock to paddock to keep them fed. We are not quite at supplementary feeding out, but it will be time to start if rain doesn’t come soon.
Soon it will be time to buy some hay, stack it precariously on a trailer, and leave a grassy trail down the highway as we head home, city folk cursing us as their grills fill with fresh grass.
There is a sniff of drought in the air. Most other farmers haven’t started feeding out yet. But you can see trucks hauling hay bales around the area, getting ready, just in case. Neighbours have only just finished bailing their paddocks, storing dozens and dozens of big round bales in long rows.
I’m dragging around our meagre irrigation sprinklers. The bore pump here won’t drive more than two at once, each only covering about 500 square meters. But it’s enough. It kick starts growth in the paddocks, and it’s very soothing to watch the irrigators tick ticking around at the end of the day over a beer. At night, lying in bed, the soft tick ticking nods you off to sleep.
When the rain comes, it is a moment of celebration. While K is in Masterton one day, a thunderstorm cracks open over the town, and she stands in the street, drinking in the downpour, a smile on her face, the townies looking at her as if she is mad.
She messages me, I’m on the farm, “Did you get it down there? It just pissed down in Masterton.”
The sky spat at the farm a bit, but the thunderstorm missed; I can hear it rumbling in the distance and on the radar see it making a run for the east coast; it’s missed us.
“No,” I message back, “it’s missed by a few miles.”
“Fuck.” K messages back with an angry emoji.
The first half an hour of talk on local’s night is who got rain, where, and how much. The thunderstorm is discussed in great detail and its effects on the farms. The weather forecast for the coming week is divined. The weather forecasting ability of a group of farmers and contractors after a few jugs of beer is far beyond that of Ken Ring and the Metservice.
The debate goes back and forth, and a consensus on when rain, wind, or heat is coming for the next week is declared. Predictions are eerily accurate. Our block gets its weather forecast because it has a bit of a micro-climate, given it is tucked in behind some significant hills.
The Glamping Project is progressing; the final outbuildings have arrived. The truck driver must negotiate several tight gateways and remove half a tree before using a crane to lift the kitset building into the remote paddock.
Of course, the project is running on “Wairarapa Time”, and the contractor that was meant to have prepared the site so a builder friend and we can put the building up is nowhere to be found, most likely still hay bailing and planting. This is not great because the timber can only be left for so long before it starts to warp.
K talks to another contractor at the pub, outlining what she needs and preparing to use him as a backup. He doesn’t roll the ground, which needs to be done, but he knows of a contractor fifteen minutes from us who can. Everyone here is connected to everyone else.
It’s interesting how people connect depending on their culture and location. When you meet someone new in the larger cities, the first ice-breaker question is, “What do you do?” Your worth is judged by your job and, later, the suburb you live in.
When I lived in Gisborne, the first question was, “Who are you?” A seemingly challenging question was asked to draw out how you connected to the community and the land.
In the Wairarapa, the first question that is often asked is “Where are you?” Your location defines you, and connections are quickly made as people determine who your neighbours are.
“Wairarapa Time” is similar to island time. Generally, when you engage contractors or tradies, despite giving you a time they are going to arrive, that time is open to interpretation, weather, and other priorities. People come when the time is right, or not, as the case may be.
The horse re-breaking continued in earnest this week. K spent a day working with Mahi and Strider with some significant progress. Mahi, who wouldn’t go near a saddle a few weeks ago, works with K allowing her to get one on his back. Strider, ever the mare, allows the same, after some faux dancing, and they take a walk down to Nutty Farm.
For Fizz, the third horse, this is unacceptable. Usually, a plodding beast that is not much interested in working, he shows his full racehorse pedigree. He thunders around the paddock at full gallop, dust and sweat flying, having a major tantrum as he was not allowed to go on the walk with the other two. Whinnies and full power snorts echo around the area before he finally calms down. The sheep are unamused by these antics and glare balefully at Fizz from the safe corner of the paddock.
Karene brings back the two and then rides Strider out again by herself. Strider is full of energy, responding well and not freaking out as before, and she’d make a fantastic barrel racer. She’s short, powerful, blindingly quick in turn, and agile to go with it. She also owes us a gate, as you will recall, after objecting to being stabled and smashing through it. No one will hold her down, but she has been building an affinity with K; they all are, which is impressive to see.
With the heat comes the ripening plums (you can see the tree to the right of the garage in the picture). Zac, K’s man, is tasked with picking fruit. Dozens of kilos are collected, allowed to ripen, and then frozen for winter and when I have time to make plum sauce.
K hired Zac on the recommendation of a friend. He’s in his final years at college and a bloody good worker. Not afraid to get his hands dirty, he’s been taking on the long list of jobs that build up over time. He’s a hard worker, doesn’t slack off, and learns fast.
Firewood, scrub cutting, thistle destruction, orchard worker, weeding, and a host of other jobs are made short work of, and I suspect he’ll be on the tractor before long, though, he will probably have to fight K for that job.
For us and the valley, time rolls on, and we do a daily rain dance hoping that the gods are listening.
Until next time, stay safe.
From brightening fields of ether fair-disclos'd,
Child of the sun, refulgent Summer comes,
In pride of youth, and felt through nature's depth:
He comes, attended by the sultry Hours
And ever-fanning Breezes, on his way;
While, from his ardent look, the turning Spring
Averts her blushful face; and earth and skies,
All-smiling, to his hot dominion leaves.