When Farming is in your Blood

There has been the unmistakable smell of the countryside oozing around the village today, so it was no surprise to see that the fields were alive and buzzing with tractors when Mini and I were out on our walk. Some were busy to-ing and fro-ing between their well rotted heaps of farmyard gold, filling their spreading trailers and setting off for the next field to be fed. Others were busy turning the soil, leaving behind a rich, dark, velvety soil that looked almost good enough to sleep in. 

The narrow tracks we often have to ourselves were busy, almost congested, and we often had to tuck ourselves into the hedge to allow a tractor to pass. On one occasion I was surprised to see the driver was the young son from one of the farming families, being put to work during his school holidays.  He is not much older than Ed and was out alone in the fields, driving a huge tractor and looking to be enjoying every minute of it. A little different to Ed’s holiday, where lie-ins, music, bike riding, and a friend over are what he has been enjoying so far this week and even if I asked him to mow the lawn I doubt he’d know where to start. I guess this is the difference between the families who have worked the soil for generations and the newcomers like us. I love to feel the soil under my fingernails, something I am sure I inherited from my Granddad and eating from our land is an important part of our lifestyle, but it isn’t in Ed’s blood just yet. I doubt we will ever be a part of the land like these families who I’m sure have the soil of the village running through their veins but maybe I’ll suggest Ed and I do some soil bonding and weed the potager tomorrow.

Freshly turned soil