Here come the rellies

January and school holidays means it’s down on the farm for city kids. Charlotte Rietveld and team accommodate the invasion.

THE YEAR BEGAN WITH ME EATING my hat. Assured of gales, a scorching drought and crashing stock prices, yet again I was proven wrong. If anything, our annual rainfall average appears to be taking a 10% long-running lift, stock prices have remained unfathomably good and the nor’west gave way to a refreshing run of sou’easters.

Even the perennial delights of silage stacks and flystrike failed to tarnish the summer joy. But I’d forgotten January’s annual arrivals.

I suspect we’re not alone in experiencing an influx of visitors every year throughout January. Often it is long-lost cousins, neighbours or relations. Occasionally it’s school, uni or work mates from days gone by, but most likely these days, it’s nieces and nephews on school holidays. Earnestly sent packing by their parents for a bucolic break, the reality is rather different; dirt, work and a withering lack of wifi.

Such was the case with this year’s arrivals, the three city-dwelling grandchildren staying with The Boss and The Chief Inspector for a week.

As an ex-school teacher, Granny is a slick operator in such times. When the grandchildren arrive, she’s the Chief Inspector, Governor General and Minister of Corrections combined. She runs a formidably tight ship, unchanged since the 1980s, centred on food, job lists and “off you go outside!”

“By the end of the week the gang of six were affectionately known as the Blowflies; insatiably seeking a food source, incompatible with sheep and consistently appearing from nowhere to be in the wrong place at the wrong time while emitting endlessly irritating noise.”

Evicted outdoors and presumably lured by the clouds of dust, said children teamed up with their country cousins, arriving in the sheepyards eager to help. “Help?!” we feebly repeated. Yes, they nodded, assuming us short of hearing when really we were verbalising a desperate request for intervention.

Granny obviously had her feet up nursing a Nescafé while trialling their noise cancelling headphones, as none arrived. Instead, with 3000 ewes and lambs in the yards awaiting drafting, drenching and dipping, weaning was warily resumed.

Our new workforce consisted of six children ranging in age from 2-12 years. Starting off with high hopes, it was quickly apparent the time any one of them took to open a gate was also 2-12 years.

Undeterred, they were stationed alongside the force pen with instructions to crouch when the pen was being refilled. What I thought would be a failsafe location quickly turned into a head-bobbing farce of paediatric whack-a-mole. A stint at the back of the yards followed, with children generously granted several of the endangered breed Notuxis needis, more commonly known as a Pak’nSave dog. This proved marginally more effective for our now-dismal work rate but clearly wasn’t as thrilling for the yellow-bag circus at the back as “what do we want?! …Milo!” chants soon emerged. Convinced they either had an E Tu union rep or Brian Tamaki in the yards, we quickly buckled to their protest demands.

Her indoors had fortunately rustled up a smoko extravaganza; fruit cake for the primary industry and honey sandwiches for the primary school. Roundtable negotiations were held, zero-hours contracts offered and a pay-freeze proposed. None achieved the desired deterrent so with strike demands of Milo met, we resigned ourselves to over-staffed sheepyard mayhem.

The week of weaning continued in similar fashion. Rolling smoko strikes resumed and their gate-opening pace improved just enough to allow the odd box-up.

By the end of the week the gang of six were affectionately known as the Blowflies; insatiably seeking a food source, incompatible with sheep and consistently appearing from nowhere to be in the wrong place at the wrong time while emitting endlessly irritating noise. Needless to say, proactive planning is already underway to avoid next year’s flystrike.