Jane is very good about it and has put on many smokos and lunches over the years.
Last week I had some valued ram clients wanting to come for a visit.
Midwinter is not the best time to show off one’s wares but the farm has recovered well from the drought, the stock are looking good and the scanning results have been decent given what the ewe flock went through so I was more than happy to host them.
I flicked around in the dawn and moved some cattle breaks because they might have got grumpy by the time I got to them after our visitors left. I took the opportunity to quickly zip through the ewe mobs we were visiting as a dead cast ewe from overnight or a mass escape was not going to be a great advertisement but all was well and under control as the dawn began to lighten.
They arrived down at the bottom farm where my commercial ewes live at 8.30am and as there were four of them and there was a steady, cold rain it wasn’t going to be a cruise around on motorbikes so everyone clambered into my ute.
We stopped in the big mob of early twinners and had a chat about the scanning, genetics and my winter and lambing management.
Then we drove up a small hill for a view of the secret valley that just a few of us are privileged to share. Just over the hill is the Hatuma limeworks. A large fault line runs right through our farm and has created the landscape of uplifted, craggy, limestone hills around us. The fault line travels right under the tracks of the railway line that loops around on the other side of the valley as trains go from Napier to Wellington.
But as we headed up the hill the ute, though in four-wheel-drive, lost traction and started a slow slide towards the fence.
Let’s leave my startled passengers for now looking out the rain-soaked windows at the approaching fence and consider how we came to this moment.
The last 12 months has been remarkably dry. Last winter my heavy soils were so dry it was easy farming but, of course, we ran into a dry spring, summer and autumn meaning we were vulnerable to a drought.
I got used to driving the ute around the farm anytime I wanted.
Indeed, I had a visitor a couple of days earlier and we took the same route without any trouble.
The first five months of this year had just 120mm of rain but June came in with the same amount and yet the land just kept soaking it up.
The night before my guests arrived had some heavy showers and, finally, I guess the land got to field capacity that morning, though not for long because by the next day it was reasonably dry again.
Back to the clients I was eager to impress. The ute slid into a post which gave a resounding crack as it broke and stopped our slide but not loud enough though to cover my expletive.
“Shall we get out?” one asked obviously eager to do just that.
“No, I’m just going to back down this bit of a hill to the flat ground,” I said in what I hoped was a reassuring tone and did just that.
We drove up to the home block and headed out to view the studs.
Next thing we were once again in a gentle sideways slide I could do nothing about and, sure enough, hit and broke another post and nestled alongside the fence. There was no backing out of this one and so my passengers clambered out the driver’s side doors.
In nearly 40 years I’ve never hit a fence and here I’d done it twice in 30 minutes with credible witnesses to boot.
My instinct was to fall to the ground, curl into a foetal position and moan in a Basil Fawlty manner but, instead, I pulled myself together and announced the tour was over and we were to walk briskly back to the house in the driving rain for coffee.
My clients, who are all high-level governance types, continued as they had all morning to bombard me with questions and requests for further information on my genetic breeding programme.
Jane was surprised to see us again so soon and I told her that it had been a debacle.
Our surprisingly chipper guests left a while later and Jane and I went up with the tractor and dragged the poor old ute off the fence.
Other than two broken posts, a small dent on the wheel rim, a short scratch and a total loss of credibility I thought the morning had gone rather well.
