ILLUSTRATIONS BY BEN CHALLENOR
I was told, however, that
the pesky beetle could be
defeated if I planted the crop
earlier than usual. Or later.
The only thing I couldn’t do
is plant it at the correct time,
which, for someone who is
pathologically punctual, is
quite difficult. And it hasn’t
even worked. Because in the
one rape field I can see from
my kitchen window, it looks as
if Jackson Pollock’s been round.
Infuriatingly, right next
to the field in question, my
neighbouring farmer’s rape
crop is a strong and smooth
yellow blanket. And way off
in the distance there are
other fields that are doing
well too. This is giving me
serious, lip-curling farm
envy. It’s not just that they’re
doing better than me, which
is bad enough. It’s that they
can see, very clearly, I’m
doing so much worse. All
they have to do, if they want
a laugh every morning, is
open the curtains.
I can’t think of any other job
that’s like this. Plumbing is
hidden. So are surgery and
accountancy. But farming’s
out there in full view. And
what my wonky field says is:
“Hey, I’m useless at this.”Everyone is going to assume
I drilled (seeded) that field and
forgot to push an important
button in my tractor or loaded
the hopper all wrong. But I
didn’t. Kaleb did.
So I consulted him and he
had an answer straight away.
He says it has all been eaten by
pigeons, but while there have
been many more of the aerial
rats knocking about this year
than is usual, it doesn’t take
long to work out that his
argument is flawed. Because
why would they only target
my crop and not the crop in
the very next field?
“Ah, that’s your fault,” said
Kaleb. “Because you insisted on
having wildflower runs in the
field, which are like airports for
the pigeons.” Kaleb doesn’t like
my work to increase insect life.
He thinks it’s a waste of money.
Cheerful Charlie, the land
agent, doesn’t agree, however,
that my eco-friendly beetle
runs are the issue. He says that
my neighbour used a differenttype of oilseed rape and that
plainly the pigeons preferred
mine. So now my neighbour
can gloat about that as well.
I only learnt last year that
there are different types of rape.
(That’s not going to look good if
a tabloid takes it out of context).
This is because I met a man
who asked me to try his variety.
It was one he’d developed and,
he said, he therefore owned it.
I was puzzled by this because
how can you own a type of
plant? It’d be like me saying
that I own daffodils.
Anyway, we’ve bought the
wrong sort of rape and soon,
no doubt, they’ll divert planes
coming out of Heathrow so that
passengers can have a good
laugh at Jeremy Clarkson’s
continued failure.
And that’s before we get to
my grass fields, which I need
for the cows and which have no
grass in them. This baffles me
because when I stand in a field
that’s entirely green I always
assume it’s grass. But somehow
it isn’t. It looks like grass untilyou get down on your hands
and knees and break out a
magnifying glass, and then you
discover that it’s mostly just
weeds that have the nutritional
value of cardboard.
I suggested that maybe we
should use a bit of fertiliser to
encourage the grass to get
cracking but that caused
everyone to laugh at me again
because a) fertiliser will also
encourage the weeds and b) it
currently costs more per gram
than cocaine.
I genuinely thought when
I started farming that to grow
crops you put seeds in the
ground and then sat back as
weather caused them to grow.
But it’s not like that in reality
because weather usually causes
them to die. And on top of
that you’ve got price squeezes,
scientific breakthroughs,
environmental pressure, new
legislation, new technology,
wars, pandemics and a
government, in this country
at least, that seems to haveno understanding at all of
what’s required.
Meanwhile, you’re expected
to know how deep the seeds
should be planted, when you
should spray them with
fertiliser and what other
plants to grow underneath
them to help the soil.
And while you’re dealing
with all this science, you have
to bleed the brakes on the
tractor with one hand while
shooting at a huge herd of
pigeons with the other.
And if by some miracle
you do manage to produce
something at harvest time,
you’re lambasted by the
water authorities for polluting
their streams, criticised by
environmentalists, abused by
supermarkets, hated by the
nation’s rambling enthusiasts
and given absolutely no help
by the government, which has
it in its head that farmland is
nothing more than a handy
spot for disaffected city youths
to come out to at night for a
doobie and a Jodrell nIt’s not just that they’re doing better
than me ... it’s that they can see, very
clearly, I’m doing so much worse
The Sunday Times Magazine • 39