One each end and steady as we go

I feel like I’ve given the impression that this place has a song by Bernard Cribbens or Terry Scott as its soundtrack, so I’ll try to compensate with at least some small measure of reportage from the frontline of Otter Farm. And I promise not to refer to reproductive organs once.

Amidst all this rain, perhaps two days to get the tractor out and cut the grass. This isn’t good. English Garden are here next week to take pictures that may well reveal acres of docks and scrappy grass. Admittedly that’s how it looks for the other 364 days of the year, but if TV is allowed ‘constructed reality’ then so am I. Unless it’s too wet to be able to pull a fleece of orderliness over the place, obviously.

And wet it has been. Walking about last night I got wet to the undies. I had a waterproof coat on but as well as keeping my top half dry, it meant I got superwet legs, and I’m guessing osmotic pull compelled the water to spread, against gravity, upwards and inwards.

I came in, lit a fire, took a couple of beers out of the fridge. I intend to do the same tonight. I’m spending the evening reading a few catalogues pondering next year’s new orchards and the ones and twos that will add to the place. This is all autumnal behaviour. It feels like Autumn. The apples aren’t far off and the sloes are starting to turn purple.

The year seems to be accelerating. As Charles Bukowski so beautifully put it, the days run away like wild horses over the hills