You can ring my bell

L ast week was one of those that I describe as one of my big weeks. This means a lot of travelling and late nights. Family, dogs and cats know it is best to keep well away for 24 hours after I get back.

Last week's big week took me to Stranraer and London. If you look on the map, Stranraer is not that handy for London. The first time I went to Stranraer was to speak at a farmers' discussion group. A farmer phoned me and invited me to go there.

"Whereabouts is that?"

"Just outside Carlisle."

His description brought a new meaning to the phrase "just outside". Just outside this time meant that by the time I pulled up outside the pub where the meeting was held, I could see the lights of the Stranraer ferry port.

It is, in fact, nearly 100 miles "just outside" Carlisle, a long, long way.

Sometimes readers of this column, who I am told are just short of double figures now, tell me they are not sure where I live, but nonetheless they feel they know the area quite well.

Last night, my daughter took me to see a performance of On the Black Hill.

It's a story of twin brothers on a farm in the Welsh borders; it's got a Radnorshire feel to it with bits of Monmouthshire and Herefordshire thrown in.

You should see it if you get a chance, or at least read the book. I know the performance is at what we call the Community College, which is really a secondary school repackaged and relabelled. They do lots of evening classes there; one was for fencing, and a farmer turned up with hammer and staples and barbed wire, when everyone else had a sort of sword.

I just took it for granted the play would be performed in the school hall, but we drove past the hall, past the swimming pool, and round the corner was a big new building that includes an auditorium.

"How long has this been here?"

"Two years," she tells me.

We don't know this area as well as we thought we did.

Meanwhile, when we harvested our straw this year, I thought we were very fortunate to have it all dry and never to suffer any rainfall after it was combined. But the wet weather did take its toll and the straw itself is more grey than golden. It's also fluffy. We have this machine that you put a big bale of straw on, that chops the straw and blows it to where you want it.

We use it twice a day to put clean straw into sheds and normally the straw comes out in such a powerful stream that it will send cows scuttling for cover.

When I drive around the corner to give the calf pens a short burst of clean straw, it will send a nest of cats scattering in all directions. This year's straw comes out very gently and sometimes it's difficult to blow it as far as is needed, more like trying to throw feathers. The cows now stand there and get covered in it.

It's Sunday morning and an AI man I haven't seen before turns up. There are three cows to inseminate this morning and our cows are so quiet, you can walk about in the cubicle shed and inseminate them in the stalls.

The last cow is my favourite Brown Swiss. The inseminator busies himself about his business and then says: "I can hear a bell ringing somewhere?"

"I can't hear it."

I can, and know where it comes from. He's listening intently now, he shakes his head a couple of times as if to clear it and make a fresh start, "I can still hear it," he says.

So I put him out of his misery and tell him he can hear a bell and it is hanging on the other end of the cow.

He stretches his neck to have a look, but it isn't that handy for him – his movements are somewhat restricted because he has one arm well up inside the cow.

He can have a good look now because he's finished and the bell rings gently in time with the cow chewing her cud.

"I've never seen a cow with a bell on before."

"Do you mean to say you've never inseminated a cow wearing a bell?"

"No."

"Well, what comfort do I have that you've inseminated her successfully if you've never done one before?"

He's quite crestfallen by now, he goes to wash his wellies and gown, and when he's finished, my dog Mert gives his gown a bit of a nip.

Mert usually lines up the regular AI man for a bit of a nip, this is a different AI man, but it's the same van, so that seems fair enough. As the dog and I watch him get into his van, I can see him looking at us under his cap. I can tell he thinks we are mad; I like to think we are.

A digression if you like, but writing not long after Children in Need week, I can't get the plight of the little boy who died in London of horrific injuries out of my mind. If ever a child was in need, he was, and society let him down – fatally.

When given the opportunity, I try to raise money for the NSPCC, and will continue to do so. I set myself a target every year.

I've always been opposed to capital punishment, but cases like this test your resolve. And I don't think I'd be too vigilant on protecting those guilty when they end up in prison. Children are the seed-corn of our society, so precious, and so deserving of a decent start in life.