A Country Mouse

These beautiful autumn days have been perfect for clearing out the vegetable gardens, ready for resting and planting. The cats have been catching lots of mice, many of which are, I am sure, living in the compost heaps. However, I have disturbed several while weeding. While out in the garden this afternoon, I was thinking about this and that, and remembered Beatrix Potter's books, my favourites as a small child, and still loved as an old woman. I got to thinking about The Tale of Johnny Town-Mouse, which is oddly named, as it is really the story of Timmy Willie, a country mouse.

I spent the first fifteen and a half years of my life living on a farm, and continued to think of myself as a country bumpkin after we left, even while living in cities - New Plymouth, Hamilton and London - with just a year when we rented a house on a farm, while still working in Hamilton. When we moved to the country again, almost 21 years ago, I realised that in fact, I had become a 'city slicker', as we used to call my cousins from Wellington, who visited us in the school holidays when we were kids.

Today I realised that although we live on a 'lifestyle' block, and depend on income from outside of our property, I have once again come to identify as a country woman - or as I put on annoying forms, a yeoman farmer. And I am content with that. It's not a perfect life. When the farmer next door puts his cattle in the paddock next to us, the flies become diabolical. On the other hand, the manure makes for wonderful mushrooms at this time of the year, and he is kind enough to turn the electric fence off for us to climb over and fill buckets full. Across the road a dairy farmer sometimes holds us up as his cows cross the road, and their manure splashes onto our car when we drive on. But when we offer him apples, he responds by filling our mailbox with avocados.

When we moved here, Mac's job was 'area engineer' and he warned me that I must not argue with or complain about the neighbours: he had experience of being called upon to follow up complaints to council about neighbours - including 'reverse sensitivity' cases where 'townies' complained of the smells of manure and silage, and even, in one case, of animals mating in the paddock next door. Mac did not want us to be 'those' neighbours!

I 'farm' our land with scythe and mulch and other vaguely permaculture methods; their farms are more intensely managed. I would love to live surrounded by organic, regenerative farms, but I recognise that although there are more such places now than 21 years ago when we moved back to the country, such changes take time. It is not for me to criticise people whose only income comes from their absurdly mortgages farms. High stocking is how it's been done, and that requires high levels of feed, which in turn requires fertilizer because the land has been treated that way for years. Without fertilizer, more feed would have to be brought in from outside, and given the increasing drought years here, that means imported palm kernel. Things can and must change, but change needs to be gradual.

I'm happy here. Paradise may have a few nettles, blackberries, gorse, and shit aka manure, but even they have positives. Kind neighbours make for peaceful living, and I try to be that neighbour.