Let me take you aboard my combine harvester for a moment. Eighteen tonnes of high-tech machinery hums a deep bass line as it rumbles through the field, cutting our crops and separating grain from straw. As well as leaving a cloud of dust in its wake, the combine also produces a distinct smell: a mixture of straw, hot metal and hydraulic oil, with notes of rubber from the belts that drive the mechanisms.
And yet despite the din outside, when you climb inside the cab, thanks to its tight seal and independent suspension, it’s peaceful. Sitting in there is a pleasure. You are around three metres above the ground and there are windows to the front and the side, giving you a grandstand view. You can see the crop being cut and gathered beneath the cab, before it is channelled to the threshing mechanism behind.
With all the dust and movement, the operator’s job is to notice small details—the change in vibration signifying a failed bearing or the faint smell of a belt wearing out—plus, to constantly monitor the alterations in the flow of the crop or the quality of the grain. Any change requires one of dozens of adjustments to be made.
In late August, when I was working on our very last field of barley, I spotted something. At the end of a row of crop, I saw what looked like a group of clean, white pearls. Climbing down the seven steep steps to the ground after safely quieting the harvester, I collected seven eggs from a disturbed pheasant nest; the mother had stayed with her eggs until the very last moment, desperate to protect them, only flying off when our wheels had nearly crushed her.
The nest was spoilt, and chicks hatching at this time of year usually stand little chance of growing to withstand the winter. So I put the eggs in my lunchbox, protected by a sheet of kitchen roll. They were cold and probably unviable, but I thought I’d put them in the incubator when I got home.
Purring away in the farmhouse kitchen, the incubator maintains a steady 38°C, and each day I’d top up the water to mimic the humidity of a mother’s feathered breast. I had bought the incubator a few years ago on an impulse, to keep on hand just in case a situation like this one ever arose. On Sunday 8th September I was amazed when three chicks hatched, then later two more arrived, before one final sibling appeared the following day. They must have been surprised to wake up in a farmhouse, being eyed suspiciously by our dog.
I now have the added responsibility of parenting these balls of fluff, rearing and weaning them off manmade and supplied food until they can be released, likely around Christmas time.
I shared a photo on social media after the first three had hatched—hoping to spread the joy of my Sunday surprise. While many shared my excitement, one follower thought it the right time to opine that “knowing they’re a non-native invasive species directly impacting the native wildlife in the UK, I’m actually quite shocked a farmer is prepared to help out Pheasants [sic] in this situation. I certainly wouldn’t go out of my way to harm them but I’m not sure I’d help them either.”
Perhaps that’s the difference for this farmer. I would go out of my way to help. That’s what makes the countryside work. I’d help any neighbour and I certainly would help an unhatched chick.
A small detail noticed from high up in the combine can change a life, or seven. Those tiny fluffy chicks were innocent and my actions disturbed them during the harvest. It’s clear to me that it was my duty to help.
I replied to my critic that I didn’t think saving the chicks would make a big difference to the native wildlife on my farm, but it certainly has made a difference to that poor mother pheasant.
