Farming

Despoiling Suffolk Sir: There can be few better summaries of government attitude to Britain’s countryside than James Vitali’s: ‘Something to vandalise or extract from, but not to value’ (Diary, 5 September). Here on East Suffolk’s Heritage Coast, the arrival of Sizewell C – along with the imminence of net zero’s offshore land connections – are transforming an area of outstanding natural beauty into a degraded landscape of stripped-out woodland, destroying thousands of trees and literally miles of hedgerows. The effect on wildlife is incalculable. Despite the area also being designated of Strategic Scientific Interest, there is no defence.

Lately, for reasons that are far too baroque to go into, my wife and I have been looking at farm tenancy agreements from 1983. In a way they are deeply dull (all those drains and clauses about fence maintenance) but they are also fascinating in that they reveal how farming has changed. If you were after a few fields for your sheep or cattle, back when Culture Club’s ‘Karma Chameleon’ was riding high at no. 1, you had to really fork out. Ten pounds an acre, for pretty marginal land, was the going rate, and rent rises year on year were the order of the day. Fast forward 40 years and a lot of grazing is worth almost nothing.

I’m sufficiently nostalgic for the British supermarkets I left behind in 2023 that on visits to the UK I run a small-scale import business between London and Lisbon. I restock: Tesco Dijon mustard (top-drawer and a bargain), rice bran oil (unavailable in Portugal) and (do not tell Portuguese customs) blocks of extra-sharp British cheddar along with bags of slender fine green beans, tails all lined up marvellously on the same side. Thus I was put out by the new Chancellor’s warning earlier this month that the government will be ‘watching closely for any suggestions that customers are being taken for a ride’ in supermarkets. John Healey’s keeping an eye out for ‘price-gouging’, assuring the public that ‘our regulators have the powers to clamp down on it’.

When Juliet said of Romeo that ‘a rose by any other name would smell as sweet’, she spoke a common truth. We identify and love flowers by and for their scent. But you will struggle to find many scented flowers for sale in Britain. This is largely because in the 1950s, the UK’s home-grown flower business was flattened by the Dutch government. Huge investment in its domestic flower industry saw the first air-freighted blooms arrive in this country, followed by the ‘Flying Dutchman’ lorries in the 1980s. Today the average Briton spends £28 a year on flowers, up from £8 in 1984, yet 86 per cent of these are imported, most via the Netherlands from Ecuador, Kenya and Ethiopia.

It has been calving time in Devon and I arrive from London ready to work hard. The day starts at 6.30 a.m., when we check the field to see if any cows have calved. We check the ‘springer’ herd every two hours until 10 p.m. and intervene if a cow is in difficulty. Newborn calves are fed colostrum and taken down to the shed with their mothers. The farm I am working on keeps its cows outside all year round – not for this herd that little patch of blue some call the sky. But what the cattle gain in freedom, the farm labourers lose in comfort. The last time I was here for calving, in the spring of 2018, the weather was biblical: it was still snowing in April. Thankfully, the weather has held, but I’m not sure the same can be said of my body.

Can there be any thinking person who has passed a lorry filled with live animals peering out through the slats on their way to slaughter, without a momentary shudder? How many of us would take an opportunity to inspect what happens there? Be honest: you recoil from the thought. ‘Slaughterhouse’. So unpleasant we frenchify it as ‘abattoir’. Hunting leaves me cold yet has an honesty about it: you see and choose your prey, and kill it yourself: morally a million miles from the systematic industrial slaughter of creatures we never look in the eye, couldn’t bear to see killed, and so turn away, pay others to do the killing, and deny our own agency. There are things we’d rather not think about. Take note of them. They’re the first signs of rejection.

Crude estimates Why is crude oil measured in barrels?  — From medieval times onwards, all sorts of commodities were measured in barrels for convenience, from wine to eels to whale oil. However, standardisation only arrived in fits and starts. Since Richard III’s time, a barrel of wine was defined as 42 ‘wine gallons’, but this wasn’t the same as 42 gallons of water. When the US oil industry started in the mid 19th century, traders adopted the same measure as was used for selling wine. However, in 1824, Britain had standardised a gallon as 20 per cent larger than a wine gallon, the latter of which was renamed a ‘US gallon’. Hence a barrel of oil is only 35 imperial gallons.

On a grey autumn morning, the apples in the National Fruit Collection look vivid. They pile up in pyramids of carmine, salmon and golden-orange around dwarf trees, which have been bred to human proportions. Their branches are well within reach but picking fruit is forbidden. These trees are part of the world’s largest fruit gene bank. Neil Franklin, an agronomist and a trustee of the National Fruit Collection in Kent, describes it as ‘the Victoria and Albert Museum of the fruit industry’. The collection holds several types of fruit, but the apple is queen of them all: of the 4,000 or so fruit varieties here, more than 2,200 are apples. They’re used mainly for research into breeding and resistance to pests and diseases.