There are plans to build a US style mega-dairy in Lincolnshire. I remember seeing one of these on a BBC documentary. These dairies do not look good. There is no grass. There are only heaps of grain, and dusty stalls. It is like chicken battery farming for cattle. It made me feel an overwhelming disgust at humankind. Nevertheless I hovered over the ‘sign the petition’ button. I wondered if the campaigning group were kosher. I wondered if they would abuse my personal information. I wondered if the government would keep my name on a list. I wondered – really wondered - if it was wise to sign.
I'm not a great fan of cows. I don't look into their long-lashed eyes and melt. I'm scared of them: it's cows that make me walk the long way round a field, cows that lumber fast towards me when I'm trying to vault a stile, cows that make my heart race on a would-be peaceful ramble through the countryside. I'm not signing out of sentimentality. I remember the BBC footage again. I sign. It takes 10 seconds.
It’s been a month of on-line petitions and surveys in the Greenwood house:
One late afternoon, my girls and I do the RSPB Garden Birds Survey. We watch at the window for an hour. We have put out stale cherry cake to tempt the birds in. Is this cheating?
We see: 3 black headed gulls, 4 blue tits, 6 blackbirds, 2 pigeons, 1 crow. We know it is a crow and not a rook because Granddad says: “See that rook? It’s a crow. See them crows? They be rooks.” Clear? Our local heron does not turn up. He’s more of an early morning kind of guy. We’re gutted.
We also do the British Astronomical Association’s Star Count survey:
It’s early evening, a cold wind is blowing, behind us the lights of the sports centre glow in the darkness. Robin’s hair is wet; we have been to her swimming class.
“Right,” I say, stopping on the path to the car park. “Star count!”
Fenella, who is walking with us, stops and listens. Robin and her school friend, Summer, are mucking around with the torch. Robin flashes the beam in my face.
“Turn the torch off!”
“Oh,” her bottom lip sticks out. “Why?”
“Because you can’t see the stars with the light on. It’s bad enough with these street lamps.”
She waves it about more. I try to grab it. She runs away, but turns it off.
“Ok,” I continue. “Girls are you listening?”
I lecture about the constellation Orion and about the star count survey and about light pollution. I point out the shape of the famous sky archer and show them Betelgeuse on his left shoulder. The girls are shivering.
“Now, how many stars can you see inside Orion?”
It’s too much to ask: the girls squint at the sky, they try to identify Orion, they look for - perhaps - one minute. Then Robin flicks on the torch and they giggle and run off between the lime trees across the dark grass.
“I can see four,” says Fenella.
I gaze up. “Five!” I say.
Fenella shakes her head. “I can only see four.”
I start to point out the five stars that I can see but Fenella is looking away across the dark common after the girls. I can see the torch waving about; a spot of white light in the darkness.
Later, I let Robin submit the results for both surveys: birds and stars. The surveys will provide data to help decision making in the UK. I feel good about myself. I'm contributing. I have the freedom to express my opinion; to influence my environment. Unlike those cows.
True these are only tiny drops. But drops do make an ocean.
The cows won. And I feel proud.
Read last month's post: road works.
