Urban Coutryman

“We call this dead man’s hole” Kerr shouts over my shoulder against the repeating thump of the quad bike engine. “Something’s happened here in the past, we’ve nae idea what, but the coos can sense it and often dig at the ground”. He points to a depression in the field about the size of a barn door, scraped bare of grass, rushes and cuckoo flowers to betray the presence of something unknown. A hidden secret. I nod in acknowledgement, not sure whether to fret, laugh or lament at what is most likely just an old wives’ tale.

We continue, climbing steeply and heading towards the start of the electric stock fence, jostling along over close-cropped pasture pockmarked with a plethora of cowpats. The rush of warm air is rich and fragrant on the nose like a fine white wine. A squadron of Swallows follow in our wake cutting fat figures of eight through the sky, silently hunting the drift of flies and insects disturbed by our passage.

Eventually a stone wall, or ‘dyke’ as Kerr reminds me for the umpteenth time, brings us to a halt. I cut the engine and immediately the landscape heals back into itself, finding tranquillity and punctuated again only with birdsong and the distant lowing of cows. Tess lies in the long grass, panting and expectantly watching our every move. Being a sheep dog she’s always switched on, attentive and eager for her next command. In utter contrast, Pip merrily cavorts here, there, everywhere without a care and manages to find a stick which she brings gently to hand for me to throw. “Typical bloody spaniel” Kerr remarks, and we smile at each other in agreement.

We’ve come to move the strip grazing fence 40 yards further back so the cows can enjoy fresh grass. A daily task at this time of the year and Kerr is grateful of an extra pair of hands to get the job done before milking. It’s simple yet pleasurable work in the warmth of this late May afternoon, a joy to be out, as we walk the fence line gathering poles from the ground every 40 yards or so. Chatting as we go, light-hearted banter, catching up on local gossip and family matters.

A Red Kite scythes silently overhead as we stop to take in the view. From the height we’ve climbed we’re treated to the handsome sight of Galloway stretching away as far as the eye can see. To the west stands Murray’s Monument, a striking stone obelisk erected in 1835 in memory of Alexander Murray, a local shepherd who later became a professor at Edinburgh University. To the north lies the Glenkens where the Black Water of Dee flows through a narrow valley formed by glaciers, its peat-stained water eventually lapping against the shores of Lock Ken.

This is a gentle landscape shaped over millennia by hard working farming families; proud of their vocation, mindful of their heritage, knowledgeable about local history and passionate about the land on which they have forged their lives. These are scattered yet close-knit communities, connected through a shared appreciation of the unique characteristics and traditions which defines this place for what it is.

They say that familiarity often breeds contempt, but with regards to my unshakable affinity with this farm, I have found this not to be true and indeed quite the opposite. I have been lucky enough to experience these few hundred acres across all four seasons, in all kinds of weather and have come to intimately understand the lay of the land and personality of the place. Experiences and memories born from simple days like these have seen my relationship grow to become something much more… a kinship, which I sincerely value and hope will last as long as I do.

We eventually reach the far side of the field and then repeat the entire process in reverse, only slightly further up the hill. Wading back through lush knee-high grass, regimentally pushing poles back into the ground whilst wrapping the fence wire through loops to hold it and consequently the cows in place. A Roe doe appears on the high ground above, she watches cautiously whilst occasionally grazing, no doubt her fawn is couched-up in the safety of the nearby spiny.

Stock fencing work complete I fire-up the quad bike once more. The dogs bark excitedly and dance eagerly around as we turn downhill to head for home. Hurtling past dead man’s hole, I can only surmise at the secret hidden beneath, but decide there and then that I too must hide this special piece of Galloway away from the rest of the world, for a secret of my own.