Farming fame
Roy Hattersley
The Charolais changed their habits at about the time we all moved our clocks and watches forward by an hour. The two hardiest calves in the herd —accompanied by their mothers — moved out of the byre and took up temporary residence in the middle croft, the corner of a field which (because of its higher than usual dry stone walls) will protect them from the cold winds of April. It will not be long before they are ready to withstand the full rigours of a Peak District spring. Six calves are waiting for the right moment to make their public debut and another four are about to make their entry into the world. Ten years ago one solitary Charolais grazed with the pedigree Holstein–Friesian dairy herd. Next year the village will be graced by 50.
I suppose that the first Charolais was barely more than a hobby — though the young farmer who bought it will not thank me for saying so. His family has farmed in these parts for four generations and his father battles, with admirable success, against the growing competition from imported milk and plays a bigger part in the life of the community than it is reasonable to expect from a man who gets up so early in the morning. He told me, a couple of years ago, that his son ‘eats, drinks and sleeps Charolais’ — an interesting metaphor in the circumstances and one which contains a moral. Enthusiasm has brought success. Last year, at a ploughing match in distant Lincolnshire, I happened to mention the name of the village in which I spend the best part of my life. I was immediately asked, in tones of awe and wonder, if I knew the owner of the Charolais. Farming fame rarely spreads across three counties.
Much as I admire his assiduity, I doubt if he would have been spoken of with such reverence if he had devoted his energy and talent to less spectacular cattle. Even those of us who know nothing of blood and breeding can recognise an extraordinary combination of strength and elegance when we see it. When Persephone, Queen of Crete, mated with a white bull to produce the Minotaur, I have no doubt that the object of her perverse affection was Charolais.
Their owner in this village treats his stock with a practical affection which, I suspect, has little time for fantasy or fable. He told me, with a mixture of professional detachment and personal regret, that a couple of recent arrivals, being less than perfect specimens, would not be in the village for long. ‘Weak back legs ... disappointing configuration ... unsatisfactory locomotion’. I knew that if I were to see them, looking over the wall of their field, name tags dangling like earrings, I would not recognise these deficiencies. And I was glad.
A couple of years ago, our Charolais as I boastfully call them — competed in local shows and won rosettes. Indeed, in Bakewell, we came second in class and breed and, for half a day, I justified my use of the personal pronoun. I acted as a supernumerary (unpaid and I suspect unwanted) herdsman. My job was to help push the mighty beast into position, which enabled its proud owner to continue the extensive toilette that had begun the day before. Washing and brushing were completed by the arrangement of its coat into what ladies’ hairdressers used to call ‘tight curls’. The winner was followed round the show-ring by a man who wiped its bottom as necessary.
This year, the best Charolais in the village — the champion among what look to me like a whole herd of champions — will go to national shows in Carlisle in May and Lincoln in the summer. And, if we are very lucky, the chosen animal will be prepared for the unusual experience of noisy crowds and jostling people by being walked through the village. That happened two years ago, though I fear that we totally failed to replicate either the sounds or the tension of the show-ring. But seeing the great white beast being led down Main Street was one of the great experiences of the year and made even the most detached resident feel committed to its success.
I feel such a vicarious involvement with his success that I break the Arcadian rule of never mentioning real names. It is the Bleaklow Herd of which I write and its owner is Tom Cox. Believe me, if you are interested in farming and pedigree cattle, you will hear more of him as the breeding years roll by.
© Roy Hattersley 2007
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