Old ways in the dairy

From 1946 to 1959 I lived on a dairy farm at Longwarry. The whole family was involved in various ways in the production of milk. There were eight of us living on that farm and we were supported by a herd of about 50 milkers, not a viable herd size today.

The herd was a mixture of Friesians, Jerseys, Guernseys and any other breed that got mixed in, but we never had any Ayrshires, once the primary breed in Gippsland. Most of our cows were bred and born on the farm. Our bull, Otto, lived in lordly splendour in a paddock of his own.

We were forbidden to go into that paddock because Otto was a nasty old bloke, perhaps because we'd sometimes spend quite a bit of time teasing him. When he was getting old and Dad bought a new bull, a smaller, black bull, inevitably called Ferdinand. He was tied up in the yard when Otto got out of his paddock, into the cowyard, and rammed one horn into the little bull's side. Dad tried desperately to save him, but Ferdinand died the next day.

He was buried down by the creek in a hole dug by two Clydesdales pulling a scoop. At the time, it seemed an enormous hole, but most things seemed enormous to me back then.

Gippsland has a long history of dairying, from the days of creameries to the days of the co-operative butter factories to the present domination of two or three large companies. At one stage there were butter factories at Longwarry, Drouin, Warragul and Trafalgar in this district alone. They were usually on railway lines to simplify the movement of heavy loads and, importantly, the roads ran to the railways so the milk could be brought to the factory.

We were at the easier end of it because we had a milkie come every morning to return the empty cans from the day before and to pick up the fresh ones. Even so, in winter he could not come all the way to the shed and we would take the milk out to the road on a sledge. Farmers separating milk in the Strzleckis from the 1870s on would have marvelled at how easy we had it. They had to cart or sledge the milk to a creamery for separation over roads that were often just muddy tracks.

In the opening stages of the industry in Gippsland farmers and their wives would separate the milk by placing it in shallow bowls overnight and scooping off the cream. The skimmed milk usually went to feed pigs and the cream was laboriously turned into butter. That butter was often kept until there was enough to make a worthwhile load, or until prices were good, but it had to be kept very cool, and that was not easy.

"Easy" is not a word you would use about old-time dairying.
The cream was made into butter in a churn. I've only ever seen one in action but I saw it many times and I helped turn the handle for what seemed like forever. The churn was a wooden box with no lid. There was a handle like a crank handle on the side, which turned two perforated wooden 'paddles' inside the box, so turning the handle churned the cream. Slowly, very slowly, the cream would become a solid mass of butter thumping and rumbling around in the box. It seemed a very laborious process, and it was.

When the butter was of the right consistency Grandma would take it out and roll it into a ball, or two or three in the spring and summer, and then flatten the balls with a wooden block that was carved with a simple country scene. That scene was pressed into the butter. Sometimes it seemed a shame to cut into it at all.
Grandma was lucky. She had only two cows. We had about 50 at any one time – but the Longwarry Butter Factory made and delivered our butter, in a nice paper wrap printed in green – I wish now I could remember what picture it had on it.

Our milk was brought up to the yard every evening by the cows, fetched by we little tackers with the dog helping from time to time. I'd then remain to bring the cows out of the yard and into the bails. I was not allowed to leg-rope them because Dad thought that a bit dangerous but I can do it now, just one more of the 'old' skills I'll never get to use again. The cows outside rear leg was held back by the leg-rope so Dad would have easy access to the udder and the cow was unable to kick. They can kick as well as a small horse and they seem to weigh much the same when they stand on your foot.

There was always something in the bail for the cow to eat. I would wash the udders with water and a rag, and Dad would milk each cow into a bucket.
The milk was warm and frothy and tasted very good. When each cow was milked Dad would let it out and I would bring in the next one. There were six bails in our shed.

Dad would carry the bucket through to the coolroom and tip the milk into a vat above the cooler. The cooler was a series of stainless steel horizontal tubes full of water so that when the milk reached the tray below it was relatively cool. A milk can under the end of the tray caught the milk and it was a real skill to successfully guess when to turn off the tap on the vat so the can would not be too full. Turn it off too late and milk would spill out onto the floor. That never made Dad happy.

When we were finished everything had to be cleaned up and we'd have a copper going in that we called the boiler room, a grand name for a small space with a copper and a pile of firewood, and no tap. The water was bucketed in.
It is a little different, nowadays. Our supermarket stocks 12 versions of cows' milk, not including the flavoured versions. I counted them.
It also stocks almond milk, oat milk and several other milks that are not milks. As a passing thought, I'm told it takes four litres of water to grow each almond.