Wark Farm

I discovered recently that the origin of the word bucolic is cowherd, when traced back to the Greek. And so through pastoral (the grazing of animals), via reference to the countryside in more general terms, to the use I most associate it with, being a romanticised, serene view of the countryside. Knowing its origins puts a much needed dash of earthiness for me into an otherwise rather disingenuous look at my world. There's far too much drama in this life for the lazy ease conjured up by the word; the undulating scene, the peacefully grazing animals - oh and the problem lambing needing immediate assistance. And over here the cows that have just broken through their fence and are wandering down the main road inconveniencing the passing traffic that's driving a little fast. And that, that's a calf, terminally injured by being stood on by another cow. And these, the chicks fully developed in their shells but not quite able to hatch. Having swept down the valley sides we roller coaster up the other side again to watch the gambolling club of lambs making use of every hump and bump in the field in an effort to get airborne with the cuckoo adding the soundtrack. Higher up the swallows hunt the insects over the cowslips in the meadow. And there's nothing like the rush that comes with assisting at the birth of a lamb or calf, the thrill of discovering that the vital spark is present and in encouraging, in all the visceral, bloody rawness, the first breaths. Counterbalanced by the utter despair when the breath won't come. Beautiful, yes. Heartbreaking, certainly. Joyful, often. Crushing, sadly. Serene … no,never.