S MAGAZINE ★ 25 AUGUST 2019 75
Mindy Hammond
Every week in S Magazine
pole and mangled itself. A minor fluster, which
was soon rectified, but it was made worse by the
baler catching fire. Poor Martin must have been
perspiring by now. Ours is the tiniest crop
compared to the thousands of acres he harvests
each year, and although we all expect hiccups,
the problems were coming close to biblical
proportions. With his top bloke away at a funeral
and an erratic phone signal in his meeting room
miles away, we were all feeling twitchy.
A thousand small bales had been made from
our bottom field and a few enormous round
bales before the baler gave up the ghost. At
least the small bales were done and my horse
feed for the next 12 months was secure, but
the remaining hay was still in rows along the
ground as the rain clouds crept towards us.
Martin returned home from his meeting, and
jumped aboard his tractor. At 9pm I watched
the headlights zooming up and down our fields:
Martin was baling for all he was worth (and
missing the Love Island final). Amazingly,
the rain missed us and next morning we
woke to fields dotted with enormous
bales and two huge trailers laden
with small bales waiting to be
towed off to Martin’s barn.
Then catastrophe struck. The
lads who toiled on their tractors
weren’t licensed to tow the
trailers and as the first huge
spots of rain fell my heart
sank. Charlie, our lovely
ex-farmer/gardener was pulling
his hair out, but there was
nothing to be done.
Eventually, Martin managed
to get it all under cover. A few
bales have been lost but,
hopefully, the majority will be fine
and at the end of the day, there’s
little point getting in a tizz over a
load of grass. Nobody died, the fields
had a haircut and even if some of the
hay isn’t quite right for horses, it’ll be
beautiful stuff for cattle, and Martin
remains an unflappable farming hero.
Before you think it, no, I am not shopping for
cows as a result. Haymaking I can deal with,
milkmaiding is another story...operations, with the odd trip to the chiropodist
thrown in for fun.)
Finally, with the grass turning yellow, we
had three and a half days of guaranteed heat
to get the hay cut. The tractors arrived early on
day one and the cutting began. A couple of
hours later, the fields were shorn; the hay lay
peacefully on the ground, “making...” in the
sunshine and all was well.
Day two is “turning” day when the tractor
drivers revisit to flip it over, ensuring the hay at
the bottom is as dry as the top. Then the rake
comes and rows it into a long, neat pile ready
for baling. Day three was baling day and we
knew we were working against the clock. Heavy
rain was forecast for the evening, by which
time the bales needed to be under cover.
Martin was in a very important all-day meeting
but had sent the lads to get on
with the job.
Disaster struck when
the rake hit a telegraphSUSAN HELLARD C/O ARENAOur columnist tries to make hay while the sun shines, but there are dark clouds on
the horizon – some of them pouring from the back of the baler! Illustration: Susan Hellard
W
ell, despite the rain deciding to
visit us too regularly early in the
summer, in the end the sun
managed to squeeze its head
through the clouds and the
British population headed for the beaches
or began passing out in their gardens after
overexerting themselves inflating paddling
pools. Meanwhile, we country folk turned our
attention to the most important time in the
summer calendar... haymaking.
As the saying goes, you should only make
hay when the sun shines. However, hay bales,
like Rome, aren’t built in a day, and without
four or five dry sunny days in a row, they aren’t
likely to be made at all.
I am obsessed with the weather at any time
of year, but when the grass has grown to thigh
height and last year’s hay stocks are getting
low, all I pray for is a run of sun.
Martin, our local farming friend, was on
standby with his team of tractor
drivers. He was watching
three weather sites, I was
monitoring another two and
our daily conversations
(apart from catching up on
Love Island) were about
the location of rain
clouds. We also became
avid TV viewers; the BBC
weatherman would roll
his eyes and warn us rain
was imminent but the nice
lady on ITV would share her
delight over the blistering
temperatures about to fry
the country. Who to believe?
We cross-referenced every
report several times a day and
finally agreed we were better
off asking the elderly whether
their arthritis was playing up.
(At which point we came up
with a great idea – Saga
Island – the OAP version of
Love Island. Instead of
shenanigans in the bedroom,
there would be conversations
over knitting yarn and hip ●S