Communities, whether they are villages, farms or even flocks of sheep, work best when they work together.
Late last Sunday night a 6ft 6in tall policeman carrying a machine gun came to the farmhouse door. I had responded to a cry for help from our neighbour concerning some “wild shooting” out on the marsh by calling 999. Between calling the police and the extraordinarily rapid arrival of their armed response team, however, I had received more information. The “wild shooting” was in fact a (vaguely) legitimate outing by the son of another neighbour, who was, albeit rather haphazardly, attempting to thin out his fox population. Armed with this better intel, I tried to undo my call for assistance, but the police could not be deterred and duly arrived to compound my embarrassment. Worse, I feared what trouble I might have caused to the young lad innocently out shooting vermin, for this policeman was somewhat severe. Understanding my anxiety for the boy, the giant with the machine gun said he would find the gun licensing officer and organise an “advisory” visit.
The following morning I discussed my faux pas with a farming friend, adding that my preferred way of dealing with it would be to have a little chat, face to face, as soon as I could get round. My friend’s response was that “it takes a village to raise a child”, an observation that immediately set us on the tack of community life and the right size of that community. Not quite where I had foreseen the conversation going, but a set of thoughts that has set my mind abuzz.
Fifty years ago farmers employed many workers, and rural villages were strong communities. Living and working in the same place, especially if born there too, is strong glue. Roles were more easily etched and opportunities for communication greater. Authority was earned, and more comfortably respected in face-to-face living. My elders tell me this; my own experience confirms the view. We no longer employ any full-time workers on our farm, but a community exists nonetheless. Self-employed shepherds, machinery contractors, mechanics, vets, building tradespeople and many others keep our business running, and it is the same for neighbouring farms. Add to this the tenants who use our buildings and local residents who use our landscape, and the farm is easily definable as a social and community hub. It provides a network through which values can pass and information can flow. On the Monday after the shooting shenanigans, I visited the young lad’s grandfather, then visited the boy’s home. As the saying goes, it takes a village to raise the child.
The farm is easily definable as a social and community hub. It provides a network through which values can pass and information can flow
Animals, too, form communities. The management of our sheep, which number in excess of 2000 at this time of year, is strongly predicated on small “mob” sizes kept in fixed groups. This allows the animals to find one another easily, essential when little lambs rely on mother’s milk, and for hierarchies and even friendships to develop. This reduces stress, improves growth rates and facilitates management, so is central to better sheep profitability. To keep the mobs separate and preserve their integrity, a good network of stockproof hedges, woods and ditches is necessary. Thus good shepherding can beget good countryside, virtuous circles spiralling from a firm belief in biological and human community.
Despite the dream like quality of this rumination I was very pleased at the support of the police, one of the five “p”s that define a village. The others, historically, being a Parson, a Publican, a Post office and lastly a Petrol station, (as garage doesn’t begin with p). While gathering a mob of reluctant ewes and lambs recently I reflected upon the key elements of community organisation within the flock, there being no anarchy in arcadia. I watched my collie (Beefy, after a great “all rounder”) bully a sheep. Not exactly a policeman, but a creature who has an instinct for order. Sometimes.
