Green Acres is the Place to Be

Is the song stuck in your head now?

My apologies.  But if Green Acres is referring to Ballylagan Organic Farm and if I was a cow, a pig or a chicken, even a vegetable, then this is the place to be. 

I would have to say, all things considered, Kathy and I make pretty good farm hands.  All things considered being that we’re city girls and lack knowledge when it comes to working with farm animals. 

Correction: lacked. 

 

Having spent a little over one week at the farm, I wouldn’t go so far as to say we are seasoned experts, but we are a little further away from the completely ignorant side of the spectrum than we were. 

Every morning begins with feeding the animals. 

First, the laying hens. 

Two bucketfuls of laying nuts and half of a bag of oats.  Oats that the farm has sewn, grown and harvested from its fields. 

While we’re visiting the hens, we collect the eggs and clean the laying boxes. 

Next, Stacey and her piglets.

Three-quarters of a bag of oats for this lot.  And a good morning scratch for Stacey.  She expects it.  

 

Check on the chicks.

Fill the drinkers and replenish the chick feed and oats. 

Then feed the six-to-nine-month-old pigs. 

Three bags of oats.  And try to get through the gate to their troughs before they swarm the gate and start squealing.  The shrill squeal of a pig rattles the nerves; it’s awful.     

Next up, Ricardo and Trixie.

Five scoop-fuls of oats for Mom-and-Dad-to-be.  And, yes, those are tusks.  And, no, I’m not sure how he sees with those ears flopped over his eyes.  Side-step the boar, repeat to yourself: “He is more interested in the oats.  He is more interested in the oats.”  And get to the trough.  Quickly.

Lastly, the broilers. 

So called for a reason.  One flock left Monday and returned Friday, albeit in slightly different form. 

Two bags of oats.  And pull up the feeders inside the coops so they will be more inclined to scratch around in the grass during the day.

And the cows take care of themselves out in the pasture. 

After all the animals have been fed, commence the rest of the day’s tasks: weeding, sewing seeds, weeding, cleaning chicken coops, weeding, watering seedlings, weedingweedingweeding. 

Use of Round-Up or Weed-B-Gone?  Prohibited.  Access DE-nied.  No-can-do.  Killing weeds is not organic.  The resulting aches and pains from all the pulling and bending?  That is very organic.   

But Kathy and I have found ways of entertaining ourselves when the bending and pulling becomes monotonous.  The other day we had to pull all of last season’s parsnips out of the soil.  After the first wheelbarrow-ful and the first trip to the compost heap

I turned to Kathy and asked, “How many wheelbarrows of parsnips do you think there are?”

“Ummm eight,” she replied.

I looked down the bed and laughed. 

“That’s funny.  Fourteen.”

Two and a half hours and more importantly—fourteen wheelbarrow-fuls—later, all of those parsnips were pulled.

In her defense, Kathy didn’t know she was up against the Queen of Estimation circa second grade. 

There is also the odd job or two that keeps things interesting, such as painting or stacking wood.  Rather, lobbing logs into a big heap.  

 

After learning how to stack wood more, shall we say elegantly?, at the market, this pile makes me cringe.  It resembles the Before Pile more so than the After Neatly Stacked Ricks, doesn’t it, Ron?  Things are done a little differently down on the farm.       

And then there is the odd job that keeps things very interesting. 

On Friday, we moved pigs. 

Now there’s a statement I never thought I would say.  We moved pigs.  As in, Kathy and I were actively involved in this process. 

Tom brought all sixteen of the six-to-nine-month-old pigs up from the field to the holding pen to select the six largest.  They left today and will return in a couple of weeks.  In the same way those chickens returned—slightly modified.

We were involved with the returning of the ten non-selected pigs back to their field.  Tom emerged from the grain room with a bag of oats, looked at me and asked, “You will be lead pig?”

At least, I thought it was a question.  It wasn’t. 

You will be Lead Pig. 

Something to add to the resume, I suppose. 

Tom explained The Plan.  He and Kathy would be down below, preventing the pigs from straying into the vegetable beds.  Patricia would be in the holding pen to open the gate and then bring up the rear. 

And I would run. 

Down the hill, around the corner past Kathy and Tom, through the first gate, across the field, through the second gate, over the bridge and into their field to dump the oats into the troughs. 

I would run with the oats, in my wellies, while calling the pigs like this, “Piggely-wigs!  Piggely-wigs!  Piggely-piggely-piggely-wigs!”

It’s okay—you can laugh; I did.  It was one of the more absurd things I have ever done—running in boots, with a heavy sack, calling pigs. 

And then Tom gave the shout from below.  I heard the slide of the gate’s metal latch and took off with that bag of oats, shouting through the winded breaths that result from laughing while running: “Piggely-wigs!  Piggely-wigs!  Piggely-piggely-piggely-wigs!” 

Down the hill.  Check.  Past Tom and Kathy.  Check.  Through the gate.  Check. 

Across the field.  Up to this point, I had a pretty good distance on my suitors.  Then I think they understood that I was Lead Pig. 

And by that I mean they eyed the oats. 

As a result, their lazy ambling turned into zippy trotting.  The distance between us closed—and a little too quickly.  I responded to their change of pace with a small scream and a shift in my own gears, that is, from a run to a sprint, to make it through the second gate, over the bridge and into their field—check, check, check—to the troughs. 

Mission accomplished. 

While the pigs gobbled, I snuck out of the field to help secure the gate and celebrate success with Kathy, Tom and Patricia. 

I wish I could say that we further celebrated the occasion with pork for dinner—but we cooked chicken that night.    

And that leads me to the next wonderful thing about Ballylagan: Tom and Patricia have an organic farm store directly underneath our flat.  They stock it full of their organically home-grown produce and organically raised pork, chicken and beef.  In addition, they bring in a wide array of dry, dairy and frozen organic goods and produce. 

Are you sick of reading the word “organic” and all of its variations yet? 

Kathy and I have access to everything.  For two girls who love to cook and love to eat, it is a dream come true.  We’ve made some delicious meals, too.  Pasta carbonara made with Ballylagan bacon and free-range eggs.  Ballylagan steaks with broccoli and home-made macaroni and cheese.  Mixed vegetable stir-fry with grated ginger and soy sauce over rice.  Sautéed Ballylagan chicken breasts with zucchini and roasted sweet potatoes.

Tonight we’re having a Ballylagan pork roast with roasted carrots, potatoes and fennel.   

But if it isn’t organic, the farm store doesn’t carry it. 

And some things, some non-organic things, are especially necessary after working on the farm all day. 

Notably—Advil.  And most notably—wine. 

Neither of which can be purchased at our local convenience store down the road. 

Never mind that—we have bike access.  And backpacks.

Kathy, being the more experienced bike rider, offered to ride that rusty metal excuse for a bike.  Cue the Wicked Witch of the West’s theme song.  Da de da de da deee de. Da de da de da deee de.  Because it’s tré traditional—and because one could very easily contract tetanus from riding it—we affectionately refer to it as “Trad Tet.”  Short for Traditional Tetanus, of course. 

Ballynure is three miles away, mostly down-hill and a beautiful, scenic ride.

But, as we discovered, the local grocery doesn’t carry wine.  Or Advil. 

We don’t give up easily, so we biked on.  Ballyclare is three miles from Ballynure, even further down-hill.  And we struck gold at its local grocery.  Advil?  Sixteen-count for twenty-five pence.  Wine?  Two bottles.  Note: not to be consumed all at once. 

Down-hill on the way there only means one thing.  Up-hill on the way back.  And the climb is a bit arduous with heavier backpacks and bikes that don’t seem to have low gears.  But those are rather insignificant bothers, far outweighed by the benefits otherwise provided. 

We’ve already made the journey twice. 

Pig and biking adventures aside, working on the farm has presented an incredible opportunity to learn, to appreciate, to understand.  Each day brings with it fresh insights.  About the beginning, middle and end of the growing process of vegetables and animals.  About the intensity of labor—and amount of time—that goes into that process when it is fueled by a passion for growing vegetables and rearing animals naturally. 

And with those insights, I have a newly found understanding of, and respect for, the organic process.  It is about getting back to the land and discovering the rhythm within it.  A celebration of the seasons and the special role each time of year has.  About adopting an altogether different perception about time; that is, more is more because good food—great food—grows slowly.  

These green acres have proven themselves to be rich in ways I didn’t expect, but in ways that will continue to resonate and influence within.