A glass of ginger wine, a hearth full of flaming elm logs and all is peace. I can relax. This evening there is no need to rouse myself at 11 o’clock, cram on woolly hat and duffle coat, and set out through the bitter night air to check on the herd. The last of the late calving cows has now given birth, so the annual crop of calves is complete.
This is the season when the upland farmer’s main ‘harvest’ arrives. A time of constant vigilance; counting the cows every few hours to ensure that none lie helplessly in labour – out of sight in some ditch or hollow. It can be a time of heartbreak when a calf arrives in the early hours of the morning with no one there to give that vital pull at just the right moment. All that promise of new life lies cold and stiff on the cow-shed floor as we stumble from bed, roused by the pathetic lowing of the grieving dam.
Nature in general makes a competent midwife. As long as the cow is fit, not too fat and not in calf to some enormous Charolais sire, then most Hereford’s manage to calve very well by themselves and prefer it that way. Technology may have taken over many of the chores of animal husbandry, but it’s as well not to over-look the powerful influences of instinctive behaviour in the herd – especially the maternal instinct. A suckler herd is a very well defined and cohesive unit whose strength benefits all the individual members. A pecking order is established and adhered to rigidly, the ‘boss’ cow gets first pick of the fodder and first draught from the water tank.
The extraordinary power of this herd instinct, even in placid contented beasts who’ve been under man’s protection for generations, was shown to me vividly recently. We were bringing the cows down to the barns as light faded on a frosty afternoon. At the far side of the meadow I spotted Naomi, a young three-year-old cow – she was calving. A cow can be safely in labour for hours but once the calf starts to show, she needs to come quickly – if a calf gets stuck at the hips, it’s as good as dead.
From a hundred yards away I could see a calf stuck ‘half way out’ so I began to run towards them with the old Labrador at my heels. But, at this sudden intrusion of human and dog, Naomi lifted her head and sent a bellow into the evening air such as I’ve never heard before. It was some ancient primeval call to the herd. A call for Help. And the Herd responded. Every one of the mature matronly cows nearby lifted her head, flared her nostrils and charged. Within seconds Naomi was surrounded by a bellowing, stampeding, circle of twenty cows pacing a devilish war dance around her. One of the biggest cows charged the poor dog, catching him with the tip of a horn before he turned tail and ran. For the first time in my life I was stopped short by the fury of a herd of Hereford cows. I was seeing some instinctive behaviour pattern which must have originated when wolves or packs of wild dogs still roamed the country. Cows who I have touched and talked to every day of their lives were shaking their horns and pawing the turf before me. And somewhere, in the midst of the mob, was a cow with a calf stuck at the hips. I could only stand back and watch despairingly as the herd protected her. Then some signal, too subtle for me to pick up, was heard loud and clear by the animals. In an instant they were stilled. Naomi’s calls had changed to the soft lowing murmurs of motherhood. The cows drifted away and continued grazing as though nothing unusual had occurred. In the chill half light I saw a damp straggly leggy little waif struggling to his feet as a proud Mum licked his face and tummy.