Silage

All weekend, the fields buzz and hum with the sound of tractors.   We reach the solstice with warm, dry weather and a settled forecast and so the farmers cut their meadows to make the silage and haylage that sustain their cattle and sheep throughout the winter. 

Mowing time arrives with pollen, dust and a percussion of sound.  Starting before breakfast, the constant thrum of tractors keeps me company all day and long after dinner.  First the tractors sweep the fields with their bladed mowers so that the grass falls behind them in wide swathes.  In just minutes, a field is transformed from rippling meadow-sea to ribbed corduroy. 

At Bowston Hall, Ian and Kieren start mowing on Friday so that they can have the silage pit full by nightfall on Sunday.  They mow until early evening on Saturday, starting at the furthest edge of their land and working back towards the farmhouse.  On Sunday morning, the buzz and swish of the mowers is replaced by the whir and rumble of the tractor pulling the tedder with its spinning tines that scale the fallen grass so that it dries evenly.   Then the tractor pulling the rake growls into action.  With revolving teeth, the rake tidies the loose grass into neat rows ready for the baler to whisk down each swathe, aerating the grass before collection.  Then comes the last phase of mowing, which always feels the fastest and the noisiest.  Now the forage harvester lifts the crop with the racing blades of its pick-up reel and rough-chops it at a pace that hurls the grass up a spout before it is fired into trailer with a gusty spit-spit-spit.  In the garden, my throat is sore from the pollen heavy air while beyond our fence the tractors clunk and squeak, sunlight glinting on their windows.

At this stage of mowing, the tractor manoeuvres take on a Top Gun intensity.  The team doesn’t sport Ray Ban Aviators and tight-fitting flight suits but the race is on to fill the silage pit before dark so the timing, angle and precision of their huge-wheeled, cumbersome fighter jets are critical.  The trailers collecting the heavy showers of grass must hold a steady line beneath the long arm of the forager harvester.  This means that their drivers have to maintain speed and accuracy because wasted grass means spilt money and hungry livestock.  As the forager chugs up and down the long braids of cut grass, a trailer rolls alongside but slightly behind it so that the two tractors move in unison like a fighter pilot and his wingman.  As one trailer reaches brimming point, the driver of the forager slows and gives a thumbs up, signalling that the trailer can peel off to the silage pit as a second trailer grinds into the position of the first.  This trailer relay goes on row after row, field after field, the tractors taking slopes and corners like dusty earth-bound jets flying super-low over the land’s contours. 

As I potter in the garden, pegging out laundry, weeding rogue nasturtium seedlings and watering the tomatoes, I catch glimpses of the mowing team.  Six tractors are working this mowing session: Ian, Kieren and Alan with three contractors.  I see that the man in the blue singlet on the rake has a little black dog in the cab with him.   If I squint, I see the reach of Alan’s long arm holding the tractor’s wheel steady as he waits to take over from Kieren who drops through the gears to haul his trailer up the steep hill.  Ian, wearing cut-off denim shorts, looks calmer and less sweaty than he probably feels. 

Once the tractors reach the silage pit, they tip their grass loads so that the buckraker can consolidate the crop.  Using a heavy tractor that growls up and down the heap at ever steeper angles, the buckrake operator squashes trapped air out of the grass in order to prevent the crop spoiling.  Diesel fumes choke the silage clamp as the buckraker strains his vehicle to summit the heap.  One trailer tips its load in the yard while another returns to the field and the third shadows the long arm of the forester.  Like fighter pilots in formation, no one wants to be the one to break the skilful efficiency of this pattern.  

And then, at a signal from Ian that looks like he is drinking a pint, the tractors come to a halt – one by one - in the paddock next to the farmhouse.  The rolling rhythm of silage making can be broken for food: burgers and sausages at lunchtime; Lancashire hotpot and ginger cake for dinner.  And the routine is simple: shoes off, the men come into the house, wash their hands, eat, drink a brew and return to work, all in about half an hour.  And the timing of the meals alters depending on the pace of work.  Lunch, due to be at 12pm, is served at 1pm.  Dinner, scheduled for 6pm, hits the plates at 7pm: steaming hot lamb under slices of potato with grated carrot and red cabbage on the side, as requested.

When Ian announced that that he had booked his contractors for the coming weekend, I offered my help so that Vicky wouldn’t have to prepare food on her own while looking after Elle.  In fact, I don’t manage much food preparation.  Instead, Elle and I read some stories, search for bugs under the corrugated iron panels up the lane, scatter hawthorn confetti, complete the Disney princess jigsaws several times, and watch the tractors rumble and grind their way in and out of the yard.   We also have a little chat about why it isn’t a good idea to throw handfuls of tiny stones at Grandad’s sports car, even if it does make a lovely noise.  

Just before dark on Sunday night, the crop is in.The tractor drivers refuel their vehicles and two of the contractors’ trailers are hitched together so that they can be towed on to the next job tomorrow.As the other men chat in the second field, the buckraker rolls some more, flattening the heap as much as possible.The silage pit isn’t quite full: it has been a late season with frosts into May so the grass is slow-growing and the crop lighter than Ian had hoped.Alan – determinedly positive – announces that the crop is “rocket-fuel” quality; Ian, on the other hand, announces that the cows will have to stay out until December because he’s short of at least 30 acres of good grass. At this, it is time to sigh, smile and head home: the bats are flying in the gloaming and there’s nowt more that can be done today.