Feb 28, 2005
In the days before colour TV there was a fairly limited range of amusements for dairy farmers. Tied to the two milking times each day for most of the year, they were lucky if they could participate in any community activities on a regular basis, except for a month or two in winter. Not surprising then that the pheasant shooting season had a pretty well universal following, and was a common topic of conversation at such evening gatherings as farmers were able to attend. Throughout Northland at least, everyone had a story of success or near success at bringing home a bag on some recent shoot, and of hen pheasants, which of course are not legitimate targets, that had nearly met an untimely end when they had inadvertently strayed across the field of fire.
I am not a hunter myself, but I can appreciate how strong must be the temptation to let fly when a startled hen pheasant launches itself into the air from a patch of scrub, with a raucous cry as if it had suddenly become aware that its tail was on fire, or that it had found itself the object of some grossly improper suggestion.
My friend Paul had been a farm advisory officer for MAF in Northland for a number of years, and because he had an engaging manner, he was asked to address the annual Dairy Industry Conference in Palmerston North on the subject of dairying in Northland. He said he was often where he got his seemingly endless store of information on farming matters, and he explained that an alert advisory officer had to be on his metal at all times, making enquiries and astute observations at all times, and even drawing inferences from simple observations which would have passed a less astute person by, or would have meant very little to them if they had noticed them at all.
By way of example he said, “I was driving along a country road in Northland recently, when I met a Maori farmer driving a little mob of Jersey heifers. I stopped to let them pass and counted them as they came by. There were twenty five of them. I thought well that will be five culls and twenty replacements for the older cows in his existing herd. He probably has a herd of eighty cows at home. It would be reasonable to assume that he might have produced 20 000 lbs of butterfat last season, if he is a competent farmer.
By then the cows had passed by and I thought to cross check my conclusion by addressing the farmer himself. “Good day!” I said. “Nice heifers. What sort of a season have you had?”
“Oh, not bad.” he replied. “Pretty good I suppose, really. I got twenty.” Then, after a pause. “Most of them cocks!”