notesfrommyvalley

[notesfrommyvalley]

A Dartmoor tale, retold.

Vixiana. Her story.

‘She’s a witch’ they said.

Of course she was, teeth missing, hunched in hunger, too tall, too furious, too single, too female, not female enough. Her hair unbrushed. Clothes ragged. Visibly poor.

She had taken refuge below the tor, in a cave that the ewes had sheltered in, so she smelt of sheep piss as well. A twisted furze stick for walking and such weak protection.

She scared them with her words, her wild ways, her potential, her lack of care.

No woman like her had ever got away without those words being whispered.

Witch.

She didn’t stand a chance, and that was before you factored in the land.

They wanted the land. They always do. Land to rule over, to use for their own ends, profit or pleasure or just to have won it. As they sat in the pub, grandfather, father and the golden boy, they discussed it. How she stood in their way, had done for years, she should have left back when grandad took what he wanted (and her looks to boot), yet here she still was, crazy and alone but still on that land. You couldn’t get past her, and, like all blusterfull men, they were all afraid of her, of her words and the damage they could wreak.

It itched at them, night after night, pint after pint, and like all those who can’t take a no, especially from a woman, especially from a mad old woman, a poor woman, a witch, so they pushed it to a bitter end.

She had thought of running, but where do you go to when all you have is a scrap and a scrape, and the justified fury that consumed her held her still.

Her isolation meant the rumours grew unchecked. Dark tales of malice told to scare the daughters who also craved the quiet, the sons who wanted nothing but the west winds voice.

The village was full of talk, the kitchen table whispers spread, something had to be done they said, a dangerous witch, a unstable woman, the swirl of stories filled the dark hours, until a the golden boy, a young man who could tell a good tale, to whom the word ‘no’ meant nothing but a challenge, a proper charmer of a man, went to her rocks and ran her to ground.

One push and she wasn’t a problem anymore.

His word against her deathly silence.

Her land his.

Her broken mouthed face pushed into the mud, shutting her up, while her land was used, abused, overworked and then made a plaything.

And she was forgotten.

Mostly.

But her ghost, her spirit, her howling into the wild winter winds still held sway, memory of what was done to her, and why, kept the tale alive, embellished into a horror story, with her the villain of the peace and he the golden hero.

In time, to the astonishment of all, she got her revenge. The land became quiet again except when the wild west wind carried her cries of ‘No’ and ‘Go’ across the valley, a ghosts peace fell on that place, shut from the constant needs of folk, left instead to the calls of the last undisturbed tor nesting raven.

The summer lark.

The cuckoos call.

Finally she had the peace she needed.

#dartmoor #wassheawitch #Vixentor #vixiana #retold tales #story #horror #folklore

[notesfrommyvalley]

For the Birds

I remember back in the 80s they used to have these companies who you could pay a small fee and they'd "plant a tree in your name" somewhere. We ended up with a bunch of fast-growing monocrop groves of trees that just made deforestation worse. That is, if they planted a tree at all, several of them just bought existing forests and claimed they were holding the property for safety's sake or whatever. 20 years later, when nobody was looking, they sold for a massive profit to housing developers. But hey, at least you planted a tree!

The 'environmentalism' companies that are springing up lately, like Wren, are the new wrapper for the same candy. It's all just digital indulgences. It's paying people to alleviate your guilt with a pretense of a carbon offset because taking shorter showers didn't work. Don't fall for it just because your favorite Content Creator™ gets paid to read their ad copy. Wanna know how I can be sure?

One of their programs is saturating agricultural land with artificial crushed rock as a carbon sink. Not only is that not a thing anybody's asking for, but it already exists. It's called artificial fertilizer and the runoff from it is killing the Gulf of Mexico:

"Speeding up the earth's natural weathering cycle" being presented as a GOOD thing. Right, because coastal erosion isn't also 'speeding up earth's natural weathering cycle'. Some PR firm made a bundle coming up with this gibberish. Don't fall for it. If they're not lobbying Congress for emission standards and organizing against new oil pipelines, it's just another Silicon Valley tech 'entrepreneur' with a glossy website and a crypto-farm in the basement.

[notesfrommyvalley]

The Weight of Words

What shall I call it, this work of ours? This morning world filling with birdsong, as insects rise into the golden light over the backs of the moving cows.

Which weighted word fits this lightness, this hope? I know of none that haven’t fallen into the oil slicked green wash, the preserving conserving bottle, or been trampled to death in a reeking cage.

Maybe some lie in the religious texts of our time? Holy incantations that may yet save us, reverently spoken reimagined myths, held holy by the preachers of the day, rewild, regen, restore

But hallelujahs do not fit in this normal working morning, as the gate swings shut and the cows head down into new riches. There is work to do as well as wonder at.

So what do I call this everyday Hope, this divine, alter-less, ordinary day? Where there is earth and air and muck, and no divide between me and the dancing sun. If magic is here it is one of mud and blood, a elemental prayer.

The list of weighted words do not fit, there is no glitter here.

Nor gilt.

[notesfrommyvalley]

There is a lot of talk suddenly around this place of a old half forgotten spirit.

Old Crockern.

The spirit of Dartmoor. A man made of stone. A old god, or myth or magic.

He’s been invoked, called up by a heap of people on a protest March and I don’t think they have any idea who or what he is, because surely he is not someone you would ever ask for help.

A half remembered a story of old crockern taking down a rich fool, that’s all it took, a easy story that fits the cause, making this lands spirit into a puppet, a plaything. Turning an old god into a handy toy.

Be careful who you evoke though, especially if he is not kind. He may well rip out the rich fools pockets but he will also set his hounds loose on the travellers on the moor.

He’s hard as granite, rough as granite, has hands that know a stone cold punch.

If you saw him drinking in a pub you’d steer well clear and be wise to.

He is a hunter, he has hunting hounds, whist hounds, hell hounds, that he sets on lone travellers. Running them mad across the dark wet moor.

He is not the clear blue sky, the star filled night or the skylarks song, he’s baying dogs, the sleet and storm, and laughing while he gives you the choice to run or die.

It’s said he ran his horse to death while hunting, then kept on riding while it wore away to bones.

His home is the seat of old power, why would he care if you need permission to sleep on his land? Why would he care if someone stops you?

He’s tin and wool and granite, he’s trade and hard living and he’d judge us all wanting.

By calling him you show how little you know, how little you understand this place.

He’s not for you to call on a whim.

He’s not a made up story to be twisted to your cause,

He’s a bastard and he’s Dartmoor

and he’s not going to be on your side.

They’ll be thinking pixies are sweet and gentle next…

[notesfrommyvalley]

How we graze our woods…

Now considering we try to find a good balance between food for us and nature thriving, you would think we would keep our livestock out of our woods for a ‘easy win’ for biodiversity.

We don’t. Mainly because both the woods and the cows seem to do better when they get to meet each other.

We are careful though.

So on the farm we have four different type of wood grazing going on here.

1. Summer grazed

2. Winter grazed

3. Moorland edge set stocked regeneration

4. Ungrazed ‘new’ woods

We have wet woods and field edge woods that get summer grazed. This is where the cows (the sheep come into this later) graze a field at a time, in a two days graze, over 30 days rest pattern, we don’t have a high intensity mob graze system, we aim to leave a lot behind, including sapling’s and scrub, taking the cows out of the wood/field before they can possibly eat everything. We find the woods are bliss for cows in the summer heat, and that they browse the trees but regrowth and new trees survive, especially where the bramble has a foothold. (The cattle browse on the bramble to, but generally later in the year when the saplings are less lush and tasty.)

The winter grazed wood is a larger wood, historically coppiced and with very thin soil due to old open tin mines and rubble heaps. A small bunch of cattle get let into here and left all winter. They get fed hay and have the fun of it all for months. They love it. The wood gets less browse as the leaves have dropped, and most of the understory is in winter mode. There is a lack of understory throughout this wood except where we have started to coppice it again. The lack of light seems to be the main inhibitor to growth in the summer.

The moorland edge woods are natural regen. We have photos of the moor clear of trees, but a reduction (not clearance) of sheep has allowed a gradual creep up the hill of the birch and oak wood. The sheep graze in it, especially in hard weather, and as it’s so airy the lichen thrives. We will just let it get on with its expansion up to the point of the mass of archeology (which we have to keep a bit clearer, so burn every 6 yrs or so), keeping the sheep numbers steady (100 Hebridean sheep mouths inc lambs mixed with cattle and ponies over 200acres including open moor and gorse scrub)

The ‘new’ ungrazed wood has been shut off from grazing for years. It was planted larch in the 70s (drought didn’t help it establish…) and now it’s a lot of Hazel and poor dying young ash. The understory is very poor, too dark, but it’s fairly full of fungi so interesting in its way. I feel it needs a burst of pigs and that as the ash dies the understory will improve. (I can’t find a photo right now… sorry)

We also have corners of ‘never grazed wood’ odd bits where the rocks keep the cattle or sheep or coppice men out, I will do a comparison in the summer to show the understory.

None of this is perfect, but it adds up to a huge amount of very varied biodiversity and a fair number of happy cattle and sheep. We have natural regrowth of trees of all kinds, from beech to oak to masses of Hazel. We have ragged edges to our fields, not clear line where the woods stop and the pasture starts. Wood pasture as well. It’s a mess, but it’s also a farm and it grows so much food for us and all the other creatures that live here…

#farming #dartmoor #trees #regenerativeagriculture

[notesfrommyvalley]

He could hear the sea, a slow pounding on the shingle out in the dark under the scudding clouds. The wind, although filtered through the trees around the house, was bumping the window, a low insistent rattle that showed the folded cardboard had worked lose again.

He sighed, closed his book and stood up, stretching as he did. The fire was low, so two logs were pulled from the basket and carefully added to the heat before he walked to the window and bent to find the folded cardboard. The dogs were watching him from their bed, the oldest stood, copied his stretch and padded closer to the fire.

There was no moon, no stars outside tonight, just rain, wind and waves under the low clouds, but the room felt comfortable, cosy with its closed door, warm rugs, old well polished furniture and sagging sofa.

The old dog though, she was not settled, and now the other two also stirred, ears up and attentive, looking towards the closed door and the rest of the house.

Then all three dogs stood, as one, and their hackles rose. There was no noise from the house, nobody at the door or driving past and yet they stood and watched.

The old dog was the first to move, she stepped quietly up to the others, stood a touch in front. Then tail down, hackles up, she froze.

He took a step forward then also stopped as all the dogs watched something he could not see walk through the door, all eyes intent on something invisible that moved from the door to the bookcase, across to the fire and back to the door. Three heads turning in unison, three sets of eyes fixed on something, three low growls filling the room.

Then as if released by command they suddenly relaxed again, broke out of their frozen stance and shook themselves. Two going to the door and one over to the bookcase, sniffing, busy, tails back up, hackles down.

They returned one by one to their bed, curling up against each other, settling down as he stood, cold, the folded cardboard forgotten in his hand, wondering what he just witnessed.

#ghost stories #stormy night #dogs and ghosts

[notesfrommyvalley]

Here, let me tell you a story, it’s quite true you know, but it happened a long time ago.

It’s a story of tiny cunning and how to win, maybe even a story of how to win by cheating, but who are we to judge.

There was a time when the birds had got out of hand, infighting and family squabbles had nearly become war, and so the owls proposed a idea.

‘We should have a king’ they said. A wise bird to rule us all and settle all these disagreements.

The other birds could quite easily see where this was going, and as the owls have sharp beaks and talon’s they are not always to be trusted. Wise they may be, but not kind. Still, it was agreed, it was a good basic idea. A king to settle things, to keep order. But who?

Because the chickens and the ostriches seemed not ideal leaders a plan was hatched to have a flying competition, the bird that flew highest would rule. Not fair maybe to the smallest birds, maybe, or then again, maybe not.

So the day of the competition was set, a fine flying day, clear blue sky, good warm thermals and at a call from the cockerel (given the job of herald to make up for having no chance at all) the birds set off. A great flurry and clatter, the air pushed this way and that as all the birds took to the air at once. Up and up they went, pushing through the air further and further until wings ached and lungs burnt and one by one they stopped trying and floated down.

As the day went on the larger and the faster birds still flew, the swifts may well have won but they got bored and flew suddenly off, streaking away in pure joy of flight. The owls tried hard, but couldn’t match the peregrines, the hawks and the eagles.

Up and up they went, one by one even the largest birds tired, until only a few eagles were left, gliding up on a thermal where possible, flapping with effort, exhausted but competitive, one after another tiring and gliding away to watch. Finally the last eagle, a huge golden one was left, alone above all of the other birds. He was exhausted, barely able to hold his wings straight but also triumphant. ‘I’m king’ he screamed into the air! But even as his voice rang out he felt a rustle on his back between his wings, out from his feathers a tiny wren popped. With a few fast flaps he was out of reach, small, brown and laughing.

‘Thanks for the lift kingmaker bird’ the wren called down ‘but it’s me that’s king of all the birds’

Obviously there was outrage and legal challenges, but the rules were straightforward and the wren hadn’t broken any. He had, and all eventually agreed, flown higher than every other bird, even if he had only really flown about 10ft from the back of the eagle. He was also loud and well able to keep order, his voice rings out to this day scolding the other birds for misbehaving.

You can tell this is a true story, because sometimes, if you are lucky, you will see the wren in his king robes and crown.

People who don’t know the story call him a Goldcrest then, but now you know who he is you must remember to bow.

#short story #folktale #bird #wren #king of the birds #Goldcrest

[notesfrommyvalley]

I have been away from here for years, sorry.

And in that time I have some thoughts about my farm.

A kind of mission statement and swirl of thoughts about what’s going on in the uk with food and farming and nature.

1. My farm is a farm, with 1500 yrs worth of food production history behind it. Food is vital to its future, especially as I can grow good food that aids the environment. Personally I would love for my food to be sold to the poorest, closest people, but ‘capitalism’… food production is a massive underlining bedrock for all farmers so calling people landmangers rather than farmers feels a bit weird and plays into the ‘clearances’ feeling brewing in the hill farming population. Orchards rather than just native trees… at least until food banks don’t exist and food imports are lower maybe?

2. Woods can be grazed and regenerate as long as the grazing is managed. Winter grazing damages less (you get more saplings surviving) but summer grazing is excellent for the cattle’s health and well being and as long as it’s short duration rather than set stocked they can’t eat everything and some saplings survive (you’d get more if tree guards were free and easily accessible).

3. Dartmoor has already spent 100yrs re wooding it’s edges and valleys. A little bit of old map and old photo work shows a huge area now under tree cover that was not long back open moor. This is due to grazing methods being abandoned and stock numbers being lower than historically. The landscape has already changed and if you want more, faster then showing that trees have more grazing under them than bracken, and less ticks may help.

4. Every farmer over 55 you talk to will have been paid to take out a hedge and drain boggy land, and so being paid to undo that hard work will seem crazy, but expected. Many are also in a debt spiral or don’t own any land so precariously placed and have to live by the whim of the land owner (and those owners idealistic guardian led dreams….) Makes them twitchy. They see good land disappearing under badly planted trees and it actually makes them (and me) feel sick. That said they also work in the weather and know that it’s changed. They are worried about the future too.

5. Tidy farming is deeply embedded into farming due to food safely. Clean looking farm = safe food production, and tidy looking farm meant you were doing ok financially because you could afford the manpower to do the work. Modern machinery just rolled that mindset out over the whole farm. A wild scruffy nature filled farm is seen as a unprofitable mess that’s probably run by a lazy farmer.

And 6. My farm… I aim for as many different habitats as possible over our land, pasture, woods, scrub, wet meadows, short pasture, long pasture, ponds, laid hedges and big old trees, I want it all. This land is mine but it is also a hell of a lot of other creatures live here too. I have to make it good for us all.

And I want to be able to pay my council tax…

And feed people.

And not to be a ‘Galapagos island’ for nature in the future, but instead connected in a mosaic landscape across The country…

Not asking much huh?

#farming #dartmoor #naturefriendly

[notesfrommyvalley]

The history of our farm. Part 1.

I thought I’d tell the story of the farm, starting way back and then focusing on when we turn up! 

We start with Neolithic/early Bronze Age. A burial kist up on the moor. A standing stone in the orchard. There are reeve walls and hut circles. Was it summer grazing? Or year round living or a bit of both over the thousands of years? Grimspound thrived over the hill, we are on the route to the sea for the tin mined near there. A busy place. 

We believe the camping barn building was the house during the ‘shaping of the fields’ post Roman time. (6th century) 

A longhouse, barns and yard. Cows inside one end of the house and people sharing the other end. A old and traditional way of living close to your animals, keeping them safe, handy for milking, along with adding extra warmth to the building on cold nights.

The doomsday book gets all muddled up with Houndtor deserted medieval village but as that was most likely occupied during 1250-1400 on a older site it is fairly safe to say we were part of it. The land mentioned was large though, so probably encompassed it all. (4 ploughlands = over 400 acres farmed, so that’s the valley and moor! And over 30 people, all tenants of Reginald and Tavistock Abby.) I wonder if the ‘modern’ medieval three field system up on the moor looked down at this farm and though it old fashioned! 

The field in front of the farm is called green meadow, and in earlier references it is just called ‘green’ so it may be that it was a village green in the Middle Ages. 

Houndtor village was abandoned (plague? Climate change? Rent increase to clear the area so tin mining could take over?) but the farm and other single farm settlements near, kept on going. 

In the 16th century a new fancy house was built, (wool money and tin) and on the tithe maps of the 1840s the field walls are all still there and the field names are the same.

Improvements were added, a leat for water, a new barn built or old one knocked down, a bit of land added or sold, farmed by tenants for most of its history it seems. The Moretimores, Frenchs, the Nosworthys.... local names still. They grew cattle and sheep, ponies and pigs. Corn or oats then Potatoes. Cut hay. Battled the bracken and rocks and fixed the walls and hedges. Coppiced the wood and mined tin sometimes. 

So old. Old farmland. Old buildings. Ever changing but the same! 

(Map from Devon council tithe map.)