A poet who grew up near cattle country compares notes on herds, hall of fame heroes and the rare animals that refuse to be fashionable
Monday, A Poet Among the Cattle
People do not expect a Lagos poet in London to be interested in cattle, and I enjoy surprising them. My family has links to the north of Nigeria, where herding is a way of life that goes back centuries, and I grew up hearing about animals with the same respect that some people have for football teams. A good herd was a family’s pride and a family’s bank.
In London, the nearest I come to a herd is the crowd at King’s Cross at half past five. I have studied both, and the cattle behave better.
Tuesday, Reading About Breeds
I spent a happy evening with the heritage breed pages. The hairy pig with the curly coat has a handsome home at mangalitsa.org. The speckled hen has one at speckledsussex.org. The wider register of old breeds, which some farmers work hard to protect, is at rarebreeds.win.
The idea behind heritage breeds is that animals developed over generations for particular places and tasks carry useful qualities, from hardiness to flavour, and that losing a breed means losing a piece of living history. Others argue that farms must be efficient to survive, and that the market decides. I think both sides have a point, and I think the pig, if consulted, would prefer to be left alone.
Wednesday, Heroes of the Herd
Another site I like is the cattle hall of fame at cattlemenhalloffame.org, which celebrates people who built the business. The young leaders of farm youth groups, with their blue jackets and serious faces, appear at ffapresident.com. For a wide library of farming topics, agriculture.click.
I admire the seriousness of those young leaders. At nineteen I was writing poems about a boy who did not text back. They were writing about soil and budgets. The world would perhaps be better if more of us had to give a speech about drainage.
Thursday, The Great Black and White Debate
The cows with strong opinions about fashion are the black beef breed and the black and white dairy cow. Both have fans, and the fans write at length. See angusbeef.fyi, angusbeef.men and holstein.click. I do not claim to know which is better. I claim only that either of them would look splendid in a poem, and that the Holstein would insist on a full stanza.
Friday, A Farm Joke at the Bus Stop
The London Prat had a good one about the dairy trade, Freshways Milk Price Cut: Cows Question Economics. The joke is gentle, but the underlying problem is real: farmers often face prices that do not cover costs, and shoppers face bills that keep rising. Dairy farmers, retailers and consumers all explain the gap differently, and I would not presume to settle it in a diary.
Saturday, The Poem About the Pig
By Saturday I had finished a short poem about a pig who waits at a fence for a gate that never opens. It is about patience, and also about immigration, and also about a pig. A poem can be about three things without apology. The best ones are.
I read it aloud to my kettle, which received it politely. Then I washed the cups and went to bed. London was dark and wet and humming, and I was content to be an animal of the city, which is an old breed too.
Sunday, A Cattle Memory
I remember one morning from childhood, when I visited relatives in the north and watched a herd move along a dusty road at sunrise. The boy leading them could not have been older than twelve, and he guided hundreds of animals with a stick and a whistle. I thought it was the most dignified job in the world, and I still do.
Herding life is changing, with pressures on land and water, and with serious disputes between farmers and herders in several regions. Different people explain those disputes differently, pointing to climate, to politics, to population or to old grievances, and an honest observer admits that the causes are tangled. I do not offer a solution in a diary. I offer only the memory of a boy and a whistle, and the wish that every child with such a job could also have a school and a safe road.
Monday, Pigs in Poetry
Poets have written about every animal except, curiously, the pig. I intend to correct this. The pig is intelligent, sociable and unfairly insulted. Her name is used as an insult, and she has done nothing wrong except to be sensible about food. My poem gives her the dignity she deserves, and it also gives her a hat.
Tuesday, The Hen Report
The speckled hen deserves a paragraph of her own. She is calm, curious and productive, and she lays eggs with a regularity that puts most office workers to shame. Backyard keepers praise her temperament, and breed enthusiasts praise her long history. I have never kept a hen in London, partly because of the lease and partly because I suspect the foxes would object, but I enjoy knowing that somewhere a speckled bird is going about her business with perfect composure.
Where to read next
The rest of the shelf lives at prat.uk, bohiney.com and farm.fm. For a second opinion on the week, The Daily Squib keeps its own counsel and its own hours.
SOURCE: https://bohiney.com/