Chilled fingers and a warmed heart

WINTER has arrived, and livestock are already well into their hay-feeding routine. Despite some late autumn rain, it’s simply too cold now in the Alpine region for any real growth. The paddocks are bare, and although I’m feeding them daily, it’s not as much as I would be feeding out in a ‘good’ year. They are on rations, as the drought meant we didn’t grow nearly enough hay to see us through — at least not comfortably. Every bale now carries a bit of calculation, a quiet weighing up of what’s left in the shed and how long we can stretch it. The feed-out has become a careful balance of what the animals need and what the land can't currently give. I watch them closely, for signs they’re holding condition. And each morning they’re waiting at the gate, eyes fixed on me with that slow, steady gaze. I have been supplementing their feed, as many farmers do, with day old bread from the bakeries. It’s not unusual to get creative in seasons like this. Some farmers are using second-grade vegetables, spent brewers’ grain, or leftover fruit from the markets - anything that’s safe, filling, and keeps weight on. I also keep mineral licks and salt blocks out year-round, but they become especially important now when the animals are on tighter rations. These little things help keep their systems ticking over, when the bulk feed just isn’t as rich. It’s not ideal, but we make do — like generations before us have done in lean seasons. Winter feeding, in a drought year, becomes less about abundance and more about keeping everyone going, one frosty morning at a time. My daily routine starts in the paddock with six pregnant cows and the bull, Ernie. Dot is my Jersey house cow, the only one with horns, and absolutely the boss of the breakfast club. She’s pushy, persistent, and smart enough to know that if she gets in first, she might just get seconds too. I’ve learned it’s best to feed her first — a strategic distraction — before I can get hay to the others in peace. They are about four months along now, and far from being slow or dignified, especially when hay hits the ground. It’s more of a brisk, bouncy stampede, with the odd sideways shove thrown in. Despite my best attempts at order, it’s always a bit of a scramble until everyone has their share. The bull, is much more polite. He hangs back, steady and watchful, letting the girls jostle and carry on. Next, I feed the youngsters. I’m keeping them well away from the bull until the end of the year, thank you very much. Like the adults, they jostle for place, full of impatient energy. But once the feed is down, they settle quickly into that familiar, silent rhythm — heads low, tails flicking, mouths working steadily. After that, it’s time for the sheep. They’re in the same paddock, but they keep to their own end — and are quite happy with the arrangement. There’s always a bit of baa-ing at first, but once the hay hits the ground, the world goes quiet. It’s a kind of peace you only get on a winter morning, surrounded by animals with full bellies and nowhere they need to be. There’s no machinery here — no tractor or (working) quad bike to make things quicker. The small square bales are loaded by hand and I haul them around on a sled, one by one. It’s time-consuming, yes. But it’s also the way I’ve done it for years, and likely how I’ll keep doing it. I am nothing if not stubborn. The cows, once fed, will often lie down right where the hay was, eyes half-closed and content. The sheep do the same, curling into little loaf-shaped bundles, chewing their cud with quiet satisfaction. In the afternoon, the cows will often get up to see if the sheep left anything behind. The sheep, in turn, go off to check the heifers’ end. It’s a little dance of hopeful scavenging. They all find the same thing, of course, nothing but a few hoofprints — but it doesn't stop them from checking, just in case. Then, off they wander again, picking their way across the paddock, satisfied for now. There’s nothing glamorous about winter feeding — no machinery roaring, no high-speed convenience. Just slow, steady work, a sled and a pitchfork, and a bit of stubbornness to keep it all ticking over. But there’s meaning in it too, in knowing the animals are fed and content, and in walking back to the house with chilled fingers and a warm heart .

Chilled fingers and a warmed heart

Vale Brian Dixon: Demon great, reformer, and tireless public servant

Book highlights police role

A gem of a store, Angela Cunningham Jewellery brings bespoke design to Mansfield

Is there more to life than this?

New arrivals at Northeast Health Wangaratta

Rufous Whistler – arrival of a summer songbird

Bombers go back-to-back in A grade

“No stone unturned” – Police committed to the long-haul in manhunt

Start your engines, Wilby Drags are back

Most popular stories