A Shaky Week on my Continuing Battle with Cancer, Childhood Christmas Myths and Farming in Rhodesia
In our weekly call with the family last Sunday, it was generally agreed that I should reduce the blog's reading time to about roughly eight minutes. Yippee! Actually, writing this blog is easy. It’s reading, editing and correcting my many spelling errors before posting that takes time. I do not have notes, but write as things come to mind. Once I have managed to make sense of it, I pass it onto my youngest daughter, who checks the spelling and grammar. No small task. We do this together as she often has no clue what I am trying to say. Which is not unusual, but secretly, I think we value the quality time together.
This month I retired from all my remaining board seats, investment and advisory committees. I am sad to be leaving AgDevCo and the boards of the companies I have helped create. It feels like giving up my own children. Not entirely true, just being overly sentimental. We closed our own companies in Zambia three years ago. AgDevCo has given me much personal satisfaction. A real opportunity to participate in Africa's development and a large contribution to my continued interest in life, garnering many new friendships.
“A happy life often just requires an active and busy mind. Boredom can be a curse.” Peter McSporran
As with everything this year, AgDevCo has had challenges. Especially in regard to travelling to Africa and visiting investments during COVID-19. Hopefully, by mid-year 2021, everything will return to normal, people can get on with investing and creating employment in Africa sustainably. I use the word ‘sustainability’ in a viable business sense coupled with the protection and improvement of the existing environment.
Regenerative agriculture is the “Buzzword” in the vocabulary of Agriculturalists these days. I hope that everyone touting the phrase understands it’s true meaning and it doesn’t become a new cliche in consultants reports. The AgDevCo Agricultural and ESG (Environmental and Social Governance) teams have put a lot of work into the guidelines for practical implementation of this - ensuring ethical farming practices. Good luck in the future to AgDevCo and all its African investees.
I sit here in Portugal and occasionally make the mistake of watching the UK news. What a rumpus. At least the Brexit Deal is done! I am sure the politicians throughout Europe are equally trying their best to solve the COVID-19 pandemic. It would seem, through the eyes of the press in their own multiple contradictory views, that politicians and scientists are both incompetent or even vindictive. The politicians are all seeking answers to a new unknown and working on the best advice available.
In regard to missing Christmas, remember, only in 1958 did Christmas become a recognised public holiday in Scotland. I can remember back to then—pictures of factory workers heading to work on Christmas day on the newspapers' front page. On the farm, we worked every Christmas day. Concerning COVID-19, my belief is that everyone needs to pull together, so normal life can return. You are not only responsible for yourself, but also the vulnerable whom you may come into contact with. Only at a later date will the negative impact of any irresponsible behavioural action lead to regret.
A Shaky Week
My fight with cancer this past week has been challenging. On Sunday, the 13th of December, I woke suffering from stomach pain. Not only did I have pain, but I seemed to have more flatulence than normal. That is saying something for me. Who measures? My wife, of course! Further, I had the feeling that I was constipated. That evening I had to resort to a painkiller for the first time. For the rest of the week, the pain continued to the extent that I had to stop exercising and walking. I then became completely constipated and finally resorted to laxatives to relieve the pressure in my bowels. My surgeon told me that if I was constipated for three days, I should immediately go to the emergency department at the University Hospital. Following the laxative, I had some relief, and the pain subsequently subsided. I, at present, no longer need a painkiller.
During this episode, the tumour seemed to have lodged under my rib cage on the left-hand side pressing on my organs in that area. In addition, my stomach was very distended. Furthermore, I started to put on weight, and my blood sugars started to rise despite no change in my diet. I informed my surgeon and my cardiologist of these changes in my symptoms. My blood pressure and heart rate remained the same as usual. My surgeon informed me that I had taken the correct course of action. She stressed again if I have three days consecutive constipation I must immediately visit A&E. The cardiologist seemed a bit more concerned. I have an appointment with him on the 4th of January. Meantime, he has upped some of my medication to help reduce fluid retention.
Perhaps I have not been giving the alien the attention it demands? Regardless, the last two days have been better, and I have a new earlier pre-op meeting with the surgical and post-operative recovery teams, which has now been scheduled for the 8th of January, moved forward from the 15th.
My surgeon has informed me this week that she is off to Germany for two months on a fellowship. Meanwhile, my appointments and surgery will be organised by her department head. I have been given an alternate contact surgeon during her absence. The delays, the pain in addition to my surgeon departing, was slightly disconcerting, but not something to lose sleepover. You have to keep the “bees” under control.
My Life Story and My Philosophy
As previously mentioned last week, we moved home from Kellan Farm to the main farmhouse at Killiechronan. It should be noted there is also a very large estate house on Killiechronan, which was used by the London Directors from time to time. In my personal recall, only Hood Barrs and his daughter’s family from Germany ever visited. My father said he had no desire to reside there. These sort of places, lying empty on many Scottish estates, were cold and damp due to no real permanent occupation. No central heating in those days.
Our new home was next to cattle sheds, bull-pens, hay barns and crop stores. A fascinating place for a young boy to live. There was always something going on, somewhere to hide, or dens to create.
The house was closer to the sea and nearer to the river Ba, which ran below the hill. The main estate workshops, offices, carpentry shops, sawmill, builders’ yard and garages were all at the bottom of the hill about one hundred and fifty metres away. Yes, plenty to explore and plenty of opportunities to disturb adults’ lives.
Initially, I shared a room with my sister, but unbeknown to me, my mother was getting more poorly, which would change everything. We did have a domestic worker, but her role gradually grew to include spending more time looking after my sister, Morag, and I. Over the next few years, we had a number of nannies, but the one who stayed the course most was a local lady called Maudie. I cannot remember her surname. She was a big girl and always wanted to listen to the Irish singer Bridie Gallagher on the radiogram.
I continued to attend Gruline school at this time. There were two ways to come home from school, via the bus or take off cross-country on foot, which always meant getting saturated as there were a couple of large streams to traverse along the way. We loved it when they froze over in winter. I can clearly remember the sound of cracking ice as we often took risks on testing the thickness. As long as we arrived home for tea in the evening, no one seemed to fret. In hindsight, perhaps to our then blissful ignorance, maybe they did? After my first year, the only boys left were myself and Lachie McPhail from Knock Estate. Outnumbered by girls, but not by many. I cannot recall ever carrying a schoolbook home or having homework. I do remember doing crafts, making a rug, making a dice and Christmas decorations. I also learned two poems. One was portrayed on the walls of the boat's lounge which took us to Oban, “Young Lochinvar” by Sir Walter Scot. The other is about the tragic drowning of a local landlord's daughter and her lover, “Lord Ullin’s Daughter” by Thomas Campbell. I remember much of the latter poem to this day. The first two verses go:
A Chieftain to the Highlands bound,
Cries, ‘Boatman, do not tarry;
And I’ll give thee a silver pound
To row us o’er the ferry.’
‘Now who be ye would cross Lochgyle,
This dark and stormy water?’
‘Oh! I’m the chief of Ulva’s isle,
And this Lord Ullin’s daughter.
In summer, we had lots of freedom outside, going wherever we could roam. I can never remember being told not to go somewhere or having any boundaries set. In winter, there were always the hay barns, granaries and cattle sheds to play in. I can also remember vividly, the hen shit we used to come across on the hay bales as we crawled over them. The byre was always the warmest place in winter. The dairy shorthorn nurse-cows* were housed here, they were very gentle animals, tolerant of children between their legs and troughs. Of course, it was not long before we were roped into work, feeding the cattle and cleaning the byre and bullpens. They were mucked out twice a day. Good muscle-building stuff! At this time, I received my first lesson on the need to respect the female sex. The cattleman, a man called Bell, had two daughters. One day the elder one hit me, and I immediately retaliated. Mr Bell witnessed this and following a cuff around the ear, lectured me that boys must never hit girls, no matter what. He was highly respected as a hero as he had spent time as a Japanese prisoner of war.
In summer, my time was full of fishing, haymaking, sheep shearing, shows, and sales.
Every Christmas there was an Estate Christmas party and dance. The party was for the children, followed by a dance for the adults. Those in attendance included all estate workers, farming neighbours, and anybody who was a customer or service provider to the estate—the year's event. The highlight of the children’s party was the arrival of Santa Klaus. My father would go up on the stage and knock on a mantlepiece, which spent the rest of the year at the back of the carpentry shop easily recognised to even a child due to its bright blue colour. Father would then say, “Are you there, Santa?” A gruff “Yes!” would then come from the mantlepiece and out would pop Roddy McNeil dressed as Santa, laden with sacks of presents. Roddy was a ruddy-faced, white-haired estate tractor driver and suited the role fairly well. Roddy was a very jovial chap who did not have any children of his own but did keep rabbits under the sink in his house as a substitute. We children had to “Ooh” and “Aah” and pretend to the adults that we had fallen for the charade just in case our lack of enthusiasm caused Santa’s absence, and more importantly the lack of presents in the following year.
As my mother’s health declined, discipline in the household seemed to relax. Bathtimes became more a game of ‘hide and seek’. My mother eventually spent more time in a Glasgow hospital than at home. Father would visit her most weekends. He would leave on the boat from Salen to sail onward to Oban on a Saturday and return by motor launch on Sunday via Grasspoint. There was no boat service on a Sunday. Grasspoint being the nearest point to Oban on Mull. Occasionally Morag and I would go with him. I hated these trips; I suffered from chronic car sickness. The roads in Western Scotland back then were narrow and very windy. I know this was before 1955 because I remember the lounge come-bar on board the boat had pictures of the poem “Young Lochinvar.” The boat that had these pictures was named the MV Lochinvar, which subsequently went out of commission on the Mull service in 1955. Sailing past Lismore Lighthouse could be a hair raising experience for a youngster. In contrast to suffering from car sickness, I did not suffer from seasickness. In 1966, the MV Lochinvar renamed the Anzio, floundered close to Grimsby, and sadly all thirteen crew members were lost.
The trip across the “Sound of Mull” on a Sunday in a small launch could be exhilarating. The open launch often took water over the bow, and I remember once a coffin floating about due to the amount of water we had taken on. An elderly lady, tanned as old leather, owned and ran this service. Her name was Mrs Spencer, the toughest lady, and perhaps the toughest person, I ever knew.
When we did not travel with my father, we stayed with neighbours if we did not have a nanny residing at the time. Three families catered for us most, the McPhail’s of Knock, a Gaelic speaking family, the Creightons, from Killiechronan, and the Camerons, who were tenants on Laggan Farm beyond Ulva Ferry. Three of the most contrasting families one would care to meet. All were extremely generous, kind to a delinquent, feral boy, and extremely interesting.
The McPhail’s looked after the hunting and fishing on Knock Estate across the bay from our home at the head of Loch Na Keal. The mother looked after the big house for Jock Skeffington, then known as Lord Massereene. He was an absentee landlord who would only visit for deer stalking and fishing. In his absence, we had the run of the house. The McPhails' son, Lachie, was the only other boy at Gruline school and obviously, my only and best friend at that time. He taught me about fishing, otters, and took me to the butchering of deer. I witnessed the gentry's idiocy in placing the head of the first deer they shot on their own head. Blood everywhere. Seemingly a tradition!
The Creighton’s were a self-sufficient family. They had two boys, Charlie and David, older than me. Rolly, the father, was always very busy but still got things done for everyone. He really looked after me; I spent a lot of time with him, including delivering salmon and fruit to the hotels in Tobermory. He taught me to shoot rabbits with a 410 and always bought himself and I a chocolate ice cream when we passed through Salen Village. The Creighton’s grew their own fruit and vegetables, reared their own ducks, geese, and chickens. They were excellent shots and acted as ghillies for the estate during the stalking season. They always had venison and rabbits in the ‘charcoal cooler’, and when the weather permitted, they fished off their boat in the loch. They loathed dogfish, which seemed to be the bane of Rolly’s life. They made him curse every time he caught one. Mrs Creighton made fantastic smoked mackerel. I loved these, but father held them in disdain preferring to stick to Loch Fyne kippers. Rolly had been born and brought up on an Argentinian ranch. His house was full of many interesting artefacts from bola’s to taxidermy. The Creighton’s were the first to introduce me to fishing. They first took me rock fishing with a hazel stick, string, and a bent pin. Believe it or not, I would catch. We would catch ‘cuddies’ which we took home and fried in oatmeal. Delicious. Cuddies are small coalfish and saithe. They also took me fishing for mackerel off the boat. Of course, every time they netted for salmon, I would be there too. Rolly was in charge of this. We were allowed to net the river every alternate day. We got sick of eating salmon in our house, preferring trout and seatrout.
Next week, I’ll divulge more about my Mull childhood, including the Camerons.
Farming in Rhodesia
For the first month, I lived with Hamish Smith and his family on Umzururu Farm. His eldest daughter, Margaret, had already left school while Alistair and David, the sons, were both still at school. They all became close friends to me. My first task was to purchase khaki shorts, khaki shirts, long socks, and veldskoen shoes. My farming uniform.
Each day commenced before first light. In summer, at about 04:30 and winter at 06:00. After a month, I moved into my own cottage and started my apprenticeship seriously. Each day, we had roll-call, and the staff collected a measure of Mahewu, a non-alcoholic protein-rich, maize fermented drink. The dairy milked three times a day and started the first milking at 03:00 hours. I did not have to attend the start of that, however, was required to check-up on each milking if possible. In planting season and other busy times, we would always have breakfast in the fields. On normal days breakfast was at 07:00 after all the work was set for the day, lunch at 12:00 noon. No tea breaks but sweet tea was carried in an old whisky bottle. If lucky and you needed something from the office around tea times, you could scrounge a cup and a homemade biscuit there.
Following roll call, I would set off with the main labour force to help supervise their task for the day. When I arrived that first year, it never seemed to stop raining. Our main task then was detasseling seed maize and weeding the other crops, as the existing crops were already established. Detasseling meant following the labour up and down the female maize lines ensuring all the flowers were physically removed by hand. If some were found, the inspectors who represented Seed Services had the right to condemn the crop. Rules were stringent in those days. Mike Caufield, the strictest inspector, has recently started writing the history of Seed Co. Hamish Smith registered me with the Government Seed Services as a trainee grower, which entailed a three-year apprenticeship period growing the crop. An essential asset for when I went farming on my own, which also helped me secure my second job. He also sent me on an artificial insemination course, to be most useful in later life.
I spent a lot of time with the cattle attending dipping, dehorning and castration. The latter was done with a sharp knife. Being broke and hungry, the stockmen and I often enjoyed prairie oysters.
My worst job was supervising the handpicking of the seed maize diseased kernels. I had no patience with this job and Hamish rightly so, was not impressed with my performance in this regard. Luckily, he did not fire me. The highest yielding hybrid commercial maize in the world at that time was bred in Rhodesia, SR52. This hybrid's production was difficult with the seed prone to disease and low yielding due to poor pollen synchronisation. Unluckily for me, Hamish grew a lot of this crop.
In my very first year, I received a brown envelope demanding my presence in the army. “Call-up papers.” Hamish said he could perhaps apply for a six months deferment. After that, I would either have to go for a year’s conscription or leave the country. The alternative was to stay and face a jail term. He duly managed to get me temporarily deferred. I did wonder if they played rugby in the army. Little did I know, I would spend more time in the army than at home on the farm for the next seven years.
While at Hamish’s, I learned plenty about cattle and range management. He also taught me labour management and the use of a task system rather than having the workers spending the whole day toiling under the sun. From surveys taken, it was shown that Zimbabwe's agricultural workers deemed time off for themselves very high on contributing to their work satisfaction even more than higher wages. Additional time off, affording them the opportunity to fish, hunt for rodents and small animals, collect firewood, pick wild fruits, and grow supplementary food for themselves. Meanwhile, in those days in Rhodesia, an employee and his family were given weekly rations of maize meal, beans, meat or salted fish (Bacalhao from Mozambique or Kapenta from Kariba). Housing was free, and while I worked for Hamish, we installed lighting and water into his employees’ homes. Not all farmers catered for their labour so well. Hamish taught me a well-disciplined and happy labour force is essential for a successful farming business. Our employees had access to the local council clinic. In addition, we carried a lot of the daily medicine stocks, including malaria prophylactics and other general treatments. A lot more than you will find in clinics in Zimbabwe these days. Employees were also provided with work clothes in the form of wellington boots and overalls.
Probably the most unfair system we had then was the ticket system for labour. This system was based on payment being made on completion of a twenty-eight-day ticket. Each ticket was marked daily for attendance. Sick days were marked as working days if the clinic had been attended. Tickets would therefore be completed at varying times. Therefore payments had to be done weekly, which took place on a Saturday afternoon. Meaning for me, my weekend started late. For the employees, no set regular payday.
Each week, the employees were allowed to buy traditional beer in bulk, one household would have the honour of doing this; doing so would help boost their income for that month. Selling beer was a much sought after task. Of course, some people were never trusted for this task, as the money to buy it was given on credit. Some just drank the beer and drunkenly shared it freely, forgetting to collect the cash. In other words, they did not adhere to ‘good retail business practice’. The brewing of homebrew for blending or spirits (known as Skokiaan) was not allowed. In fact, it was illegal. This blending was a means of boosting the seller's profits substantially. Much slipped through the system unseen by management's watchful eyes.
Being a farm assistant was basically a glorified foreman. Nevertheless, it was an excellent means to learn about staff management, equipment maintenance, along with crop and livestock husbandry.
After a while, I thought maybe I could take up the sport again and approached my boss, Hamish, to ask if I could join one of the local rugby teams. His reply, “You can either play rugby or farm, your choice?” In his view, if you wanted to succeed in farming, you should dedicate your life to it. Hamish was a ‘rain-fed’ farmer, meaning he relied on natural rainfall to grow crops. Being ready to plant on or before the first rains was critical to a seasons success to maximise returns. A tiny window of opportunity. Post-harvest and pre-planting land preparation was an exceedingly busy time to ensure the window was not missed.
“Timing is everything in farming. The seasons wait for no man. Being prepared for them offers the opportunity to gain. Not being prepared is lost opportunity both in yields and financial returns” Peter McSporran
Notwithstanding this, I still figured farming in Africa was superior to lifting sugar beet in Norfolk in the cold.
Next week, my management lessons learned in the army.
Nurse-cows* - Cows kept to supplement milk to pedigree bull calves.
Disclaimer: Copyright Peter McSporran. The content in this blog represents my personal views and does not reflect corporate entities.
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