A Neighbour in a Ditch.

 Tuesday 30th September 2025

I was back to farming again today. A couple of weeks ago Dad and I were all set to cultivate one of the fields ready for sowing, but he decided at the last minute that the ground was far too dry. So, we left it alone and waited on the weather. Now, after that bit of rain we had a few days back, he judged it right and proper for running the cultivator over.

Everything went smoothly through the morning—steady work, the sort that lets your mind wander while the tractors six cylinders purr, and the machine chatters along behind. After lunch though, things took a turn. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed someone walking across the field towards me. At first I thought it odd—people don’t usually come traipsing across when you’re working. On Eric's advice I keep a hammer by the side of my seat in case of something in needed of hitting, and secondly as a defence against unwanted attention from persistent visitors. It turned out though to be one of our neighbours, so the hammer remained stowed and out of sight. He’d been cutting around his field boundary when his tractor slid into a ditch and got itself hopelessly stuck.

Seeing me close by, he came over to ask for a bit of help. Well, I was glad enough to oblige. On the proviso that he didn't start on the seemingly usual road of questioning my age or abilities. I dropped off the cultivator, and I drove round to where his tractor was resting in the ditch at a rather sorry angle. Good job there’s always a length of wire rope wrapped round the weight block on my tractor—that rope has probably been someone's saviour more than once. Hence it being a permanent resident on the front of my tractor. We fastened it up and, once everything was secure, I eased the power on. I loved the feel of the tyres biting down into the earth, the whole machine sitting down on it's haunches as it pulled forward, as though it knew what I wanted. Bit by bit, with a steady pull, the other tractor clambered free of the ditch like a stubborn old cow finally deciding to move.

The neighbour was mighty pleased, saying I’d saved him no end of time and bother. I have to admit, it gave me a bit of quiet pride too, knowing I’d turned a sticky situation into an easy fix. I secretly felt very proud of my tractor too.

On telling the story during dinner, dad said, "It does a person good to help others—especially neighbours. You never know when you might find yourself needing a hand in return."

The pie department.

 Monday 29th September 2025

The first thing out of Eric’s mouth this morning, when he came in for breakfast with Dad, was:

“Okay, where’s my apple pie then?”

I can’t decide whether he and Dad have been plotting together or whether Eric happened to bump into Rob over the weekend. Either way, I think he was hoping to catch me short in the pie department.

Fortunately, there was still some of our apple pie left over from yesterday. I told him he wasn’t having it for breakfast and would have to wait until lunchtime.

Mum gave me one of her knowing looks, the kind that speaks volumes without her saying a word, while Dad chuckled and said,

“You’ll have to get up earlier than that to catch my girl out, Eric.”

There’s a way Dad shows his pride in me that is so plain, yet never overbearing. It always settles quietly inside me, warm and steady.

Eric laughed and shook his head.

“I think if I stayed up all night, I still wouldn’t catch this one out.”

I told him, “I don’t know why you go to so much trouble. You might have guessed I’d put some by for you.”

Of course, the truth was that it was nothing but pure luck there was any left — but I wasn’t about to admit that.

And so the kitchen filled with the sound of easy laughter, Mum smiling softly over her teacup, Dad enjoying the banter, and Eric pleased with his small victory of teasing me. It was one of those moments that stitched itself quietly into the fabric of home life — simple, cheerful, and warm. Breakfast time really is one the highlights of my day.

About Rob.

 Sunday 28th September 2025.

After I recently mentioned taking a pie to Rob, I was asked for more details about him, so I thought I would do so today.

I often mention Rob in relation to the stables, and that is because he lives in the house at the stables. The stables were once part of a farm in their own right, farmed by Rob’s family. When his mum and dad decided they wanted to retire, and with Rob having no interest in farming, they gave it up. They sold the land and the farmyard but kept the house for themselves and for Rob to live in. As my parents’ land bordered theirs, it made sense for them to strike up a deal, and that is how we ended up with what we now call the stables.

I’m not sure of the exact timescale, but eventually Mum took over the farmyard for her horse business. She offered livery for other people’s horses and also used her own horses for treks around the farm and riding lessons.

As I said, Rob never had much interest in farming. Instead, he preferred working for the local country estate. He went there straight from school and never worked anywhere else, staying until his retirement just a couple of years ago. Now he spends his time in his garden, which seems to occupy him non-stop, only ever driven indoors by the dark.

I first met Rob when I went to help at the stables on Saturdays. Mum insisted I go to meet people my own age. The first person I ended up making friends with, though, was Rob! I did eventually make some friends my own age, but Rob remained my anchor.

I’m drawn to him because he is steady and reliable—always there, always ready to help. No matter what I bring to him, I never feel like I’m a bother. Quite the opposite, in fact. My biggest grumble or problem, or a freshly baked pie—it’s all greeted the same. With all those young girls at the stables, things could at times be a little toxic, full of squabbling over who was riding which horse. When it all got too much, I’d take my lunch to Rob’s. Even if we didn’t talk much, I always came away calmer, steadier, more able to face the afternoon.

That’s Rob, really. Content in his own world, yet with a calmness that rubs off on you. His advice is always forthcoming, given freely, and without strings attached. He makes you feel it’s meant just for you, no hidden motives—just quiet wisdom from a man at peace with his place in life.

And so I always leave Rob’s with a little of that peace tucked under my arm, like the last warmth of the sun carried home in your coat. By the time I’m back in the kitchen with Mum or out in the yard with Dad, I feel steadier—ready again to take on the day, and glad to have someone so quietly dependable just over the way.

A golden little thread.

 Saturday 27th September 2025

“What are your plans for today?” Mum asked as I came into the kitchen this morning, still half-blurred with sleep. She was already busy sorting out breakfast. I say sorting out for everyone else, because in truth it’s only “we” in the loosest sense—I always stick with porridge, while the others tuck into what’s grandly called a full English.

The question caught me off guard. I honestly think it’s the first time since being here that the decision of how to spend my day has been placed directly into my own hands. Normally, Mum and Dad have a knack for seeing that my hours are spoken for before I’ve even realised it. It’s not something I’ve ever minded; I’ve always been content to follow along. But standing there this morning with my mouth half open and no quick answer at the ready, I suddenly found myself aware of the choice—and a little lost because of it.

Mum, of course, didn’t leave me stranded for long. A couple of seconds of silence was more than enough for her to step in with ideas, for which I was secretly grateful.

“If you aren’t going to the stables, how about making yourself useful by stewing some pears and those windfall apples from the garden for freezing?”

I wasn’t sure what stewing fruit involved, but it sounded a lot easier than trying to puzzle out my own plans.

“Yes, sure,” I said, probably a bit too relieved.

“You mean, yes Mum, that’s a good idea. I’m sure they’ll come in very useful for pies and suchlike next year.” She has this way of gently pulling me up whenever my words veer into what she calls “lazy speak.”

So I grinned and gave her my best tongue-in-cheek reply:

“What a wonderful idea, Mum. You do come up with the best suggestions. I’d be delighted to do that little job for you.”

“Less of your cheek, young madam,” she said with a smile that gave her away.

And just like that, the whole exchange turned into a bit of fun, the kind that sets a cheerful tone for the day ahead.

By the time I’d finished, there were six neat bags of stewed fruit for the freezer—two of apples, two of pears, and two mixed. And as a bonus, enough left over for a pair of pies: one for our lunch tomorrow, and one I carried down to Rob at the stables in the afternoon.

Two pans of fruit ready for cooking, I refill both pans twice more.

It was a simple sort of day, the kind where small jobs fill the hours without fuss or hurry. And as the light began to dip, I couldn’t help but feel a quiet contentment: One pie delivered and one on the counter waiting to be eaten, Mum pleased with the freezer now stocked for winter, and me glad to have been part of it all. A golden little thread of homeliness woven into the fabric of the day.

Something worth remembering.

 Friday 26th September 2025

I didn’t bother making an entry yesterday, as it was nothing but ploughing from eleven till almost dusk with hardly a breath in between. Even black bin day failed to provide any entertainment—no whacky races to watch this week. Honestly, I could do with Nigel back to stir things up a little! Then again, if he did return, I’d no doubt be grumbling that life had become too spicy. There’s no pleasing me sometimes.

Something worth remembering happened last night though, while the three of us were sat around the dinner table. Mum remarked on how quickly the evenings are closing in now; it felt like we had only just finished summer, and here we are already eating under lamplight. We all agreed with her, nodding like we always do when mum spreads her wisdom.

Then Dad turned to me with that thoughtful look of his and said, “You do realise that if it wasn’t for the work you’re doing, I’d still be out there in the fields until bedtime?”

I wasn’t entirely sure what he was getting at, nor what reply he was expecting. All I managed was a wry, “Well, I’m glad I have my uses.”

But he pressed on, serious this time. “No, Katie. If you hadn’t done what you’ve done this week, I would have to be out there myself.”

That stopped me for a moment. “Ah! Thanks, Dad. What’s brought this on?”

He leaned back a little and explained, “You were worrying the other week when I bought the new tractor—that I didn’t have yours to trade in, and that it was somehow a burden. But it’s no hardship at all. You’re making it earn its keep, and that’s all that matters.”

Before I could answer, Mum chimed in with her quiet smile. “It’s worth it to me just to have some company of an evening.”

That settled it. And sitting there with both of them, with the lamplight soft around the kitchen, I felt something I can’t quite put into words. Maybe it was pride, maybe it was belonging—or maybe it was just the simple joy of knowing I am needed and appreciated. Whatever it was, it wrapped around me like a blanket.

As for me, it’s most certainly worth it too. I get to spend my days doing what I love, and my evenings tucked in at home with the two people I love most. Tractors and family—it doesn’t sound much, but to me it’s everything.

“a damage limitation exercise.”

 Wednesday 24th September 2025

Dad has been in touch with Mr Booth today at some point. That doesn’t sound too promising, does it?! Mr Booth, for the uninitiated, is something of an eccentric agronomist who advises several farms around here, including ours. He’s very much the image of a nutty professor—hair sticking out in all directions except for the fringe which never seem to get ruffled, glasses forever sliding down his nose, and a habit of talking as if the crops themselves are whispering in his ear. Brilliant in his field, but more than a little alarming behind the wheel.

Apparently, he’s had what he insists on calling “a damage limitation exercise.” To everyone else it was more like a brush with catastrophe. He was driving down the road when, on rounding a bend (probably on two wheels), he came upon a narrow bridge just as a car was coming the other way. Instead of slowing down like a normal person, he veered down the bank beside the bridge, bounced across the river—which luckily was more a shallow trickle than a torrent—and only came to grief when the opposite bank defeated him.

A local farmer had to tow him out, and although the front of his truck looked a bit battered, he drove away as though nothing untoward had happened. His passenger, however, had had enough. He refused point-blank to get back in, preferring to walk home while loudly declaring that Mr Booth was a lunatic. Booth’s defence? He explained that momentum was essential to climb the far bank, and since he hadn’t made it, it only proved he wasn’t going fast enough. Slowing down had never been an option. I can believe that.

Over dinner, Dad relayed the whole saga with a grin, clearly amused. Mum, however, was far from impressed. She threw Dad one of her “I told you so” looks and said again that he ought to find someone more sensible to advise us. Dad just chuckled and shook his head, saying what he always says—that Booth may be crazy, but he’s the best agronomist around and worth putting up with. I can see both sides: Mum frets about his antics, but Dad trusts him because, in the end, the fields always thrive under his guidance.

As for me, my own day was rather more peaceful. I was back ploughing, and it’s been one of those warm, golden autumn days where the sun softens everything. My mood has been light and happy, and I’ve enjoyed the time alone to let my thoughts wander as I sang along to the radio. That’s the beauty of being on the tractor—no one can hear you, so you can sing as loudly and badly as you like.

Meanwhile, Dad has been sowing seeds with his new tractor, and he could hardly stop talking about how well it’s working. He looked downright pleased with himself at dinner. Mum rolled her eyes at the machinery talk, muttering that I’d do better to learn a new recipe or sit with her knitting. I can’t help but find it all amusing. Dad and his tractors, Mum and her homemaking—different worlds, yet both dear to me. And me, somewhere between them, I feel lucky to belong to both.

A Landmark Day.

 23rd September 2025.

Today was a bit of a landmark – we took delivery of Dad’s new tractor. Quite an occasion, really, with even Mum leaving her usual business to step outside for a little look. She gave it a once-over, smiled politely, but when I tried to coax her into having a sit in the cab she just shook her head. According to her, she had “more important things to do than play around with tractors.”

It wasn’t until lunchtime that we discovered what those “more important things” were. The house was full of the rich, spicy scent of Christmas, as Mum had been busy turning the cake mixture into proper Christmas cakes. They were just starting to bake, and the smell was nothing short of glorious. Eric and I both made noises about having a slice straightaway, but Mum quickly reminded me of the little incident yesterday when I tried sneaking a bit of Christmas pudding before it had cooled. Lesson learned—I decided to wait this time.

Before wrapping up for the days work, if one could call it that, Dad and I set to and hitched the seed drill onto his shiny new tractor, while the plough was fitted back on mine, ready for the morning. With a bit of luck, I’ll be back ploughing again tomorrow.

Feather Dusters and Boiling Puddings.

 Monday 22nd September 2025

When Eric came in for breakfast with Dad this morning, he tried winding me up straight away. He said he was “awfully sorry” about getting the inside of my tractor cab filthy with cow muck and mud. Honestly, he must think I was born yesterday if he thought I hadn’t checked since they’d had it on Friday! The first thing I did on Saturday morning was wander up the yard to see what they’d been doing with the seed drill and to inspect my tractor. They’d looked after it very well, actually. I’m convinced Dad even took his boots off, because the cab carpet was spotless.

“You need to get it cleaned then, Eric,” I told him.

He just laughed and said he’d get right on it — which I doubt very much even if they had messed it up!

After breakfast, Mum and I set about the usual Monday house-cleaning. The new feather duster made its grand debut, although I didn’t get a chance to try it — Mum was far too busy playing with her new toy, like she’d been waiting her whole life for the excuse. My job, apart from the usual vacuuming, was to keep an eye on the Christmas puddings we made on Saturday. They had to boil for hours — six or seven depending on the size — with the pans topped up constantly with water so they didn’t burn. It felt like half the day was spent carrying the kettle back and forth.

Eric came in at lunchtime and immediately started sniffing the air. “Smells like burning in here!” he said, eyes twinkling. “Better let me have that burnt pudding, it would be a shame to see it go to waste.” Mum told him to clear off and get on with his lunch before I ended up throwing a pudding at him.

I finished Christmas pudding.

Five Christmas puddings. We are going to sample the one in the container before Christmas.

Once the puddings were finally cooling, Mum decided we might as well get the Christmas cake mixture underway. That meant a trip out for whiskey (since Dad had drunk the last drop!) and a few other odds and ends. I teased Mum that Dad would have to make do with licking the cake tin, same as the pudding bowl. She just gave me that dry little smile of hers and told me to mind my tongue as he doesn't need any encouragement from me.

Christmas cake mixture.

Speaking of tongues — mine is still sore. I couldn’t resist sneaking a piece of pudding that broke off when we tipped one of the bowls out. It was still red hot, and I managed to burn myself before I could taste much of anything. Mum laughed and said it served me right. She’s probably right, but at least she’s put a small pudding aside for us to try before Christmas. I can’t wait for that — provided I don’t scorch my tongue off first. I've never had a homemade Christmas pudding before.

Sunday Surprises and Vanishing Whiskey

 “Katie, Are you ready? We have to go!” came Mum’s voice from downstairs. She was right of course. I’d completely lost track of time replying to messages and fiddling about with my diary. Off to church we went. It all felt much better than last week – I was more relaxed and even managed to enjoy the chat over tea and biscuits afterwards.

On the way back, I didn’t even get out of the driver’s seat. I just gave the car horn a good blast, and out came Dad like a well-trained… well, something-or-other. We were due up at Uncle Ken’s for Sunday lunch, and when Uncle Ken says lunch is at one, you’d better be there at one. To soon and you'll fill in time by pulling lambs from unmentionable places. To late, and you'll have no Yorkshire pudding on your plate.

After the roast and pudding, everyone lingered around the table, finishing off their wine and chatting. That’s when I overheard something I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear: apparently Kimberly had been on a date with Nigel – or “that lad” who worked with us at harvest, as they called him. I nearly dropped my glass. Surely not Nigel? Surely not now? I couldn’t quite pin down when this supposed date happened. I’m hoping it was before his little trips to shopping centres and photo jaunts with Charlotte. Otherwise, someone’s heading for trouble, and I’d rather not picture it.

We were home by five. Dad got changed and went out to check the cattle in the yard, while Mum and I cobbled together a light salad for dinner – which was all any of us needed after the feast at Uncle Ken’s.

There wasn’t really enough light left for a proper cycle ride, so I just wandered along the riverbank. The sky was already bruising into dusk by the time I got back.

Later, I settled on the sofa with Dad to watch one of his crime dramas. He had his glass of whiskey in hand – his last glass, actually. Between Mum’s puddings and his evening “detective work,” that bottle didn’t stand a chance

A Pudding Plot and a Whiskey Shortage.

 Saturday 20th September 2025.

“Perhaps next time Dad takes a sip, he’ll wonder if it tastes of raisins.”

I was up early enough this morning to sneak into Mum’s bed for a while. I must confess, it was for my own ends more than for Mum’s pleasure this time. I wanted to see if I could wriggle out of going to the stables.

So, after a suitable amount of time lying there quietly, when I thought the moment was right, I asked, “Mum, would you mind if I gave the stables a miss this week?”

“Yes of course you can. I’m surprised you’ve been going anyway since you’ve been doing work for your dad,” she replied.

I thought to myself, Well, thanks for telling me, Mum! There’s me, dragging myself off each week thinking I was still obliged to go. Of course, I kept that part to myself and instead said how it would be nice to spend the day together. She gave me a hug and a kiss.

While I was getting breakfast ready, Mum asked how I fancied making a start on the Christmas puddings. I liked the sound of that very much. I know Christmas is still a long way off, but apparently they’ll keep for several years once made. This is the first time I’ve lived somewhere that bothers with making their own puddings.

So, after breakfast was done and dusted, Mum and I set off to the supermarket to gather everything we needed. It made me feel quite optimistic about the months ahead. Even at the best of times, I don’t remember my parents ever doing much for Christmas, apart from buying in a few extra drinks or the odd different food. But Mum here is something else. Back at Easter I’d already been told how she goes above and beyond with decorating the house, so now I can’t wait to see what she does for Christmas.

We got all the mixture made, and now it’s sitting in a big bowl on the pantry shelf, soaking up nearly all of Dad’s whiskey. We took pity on him and saved just enough for him to have a little sip in the evenings this weekend. I’m not sure what he’ll do after that, unless Mum plans on another shopping trip. He might just have to settle for licking the pudding bowl instead. Mind you, considering how much whiskey we tipped in, he’ll still get a decent taste of it that way!

From Seed Drills to Garden Centres.

Friday 19th September 2025

Dad decided this morning that some of the parts on the seed drill needed replacing. He says the new tractor should be arriving next week, and once that happens he’ll want to get going with the drilling. Some of the drill parts still had some wear in them but would need changing before the season ended, so since we’re already a little late starting, he thought it best to swap them out now rather than lose a day later on.

After breakfast he had me take the plough off my tractor so he could hitch up the drill and bring it out of the barn. Once I’d got that done, he sent me off to collect the parts he’d ordered. By the time I got back, he’d already attached the drill to my tractor and was busy setting it up.

Then, to my surprise, he told me to take the rest of the day off and spend some time with Mum. I was hoping to help with replacing the parts. When I went inside, I found mum huffing and puffing over the ironing, declaring (not for the first time) that half her life seems to be spent doing it. I could see then why dad perhaps thought my time was better spent with mum. So I suggested we go out to the garden center and have some lunch. Mum does love garden centers — especially the eating part.

As I was ready before her, I quickly made Dad and Eric some sandwiches to keep them going. Then off we went. Mum had a Mediterranean salad for lunch, I had a big plate of fish and chips! Hardly elegant, but very satisfying. Afterwards, we wandered around the plants and displays. They’d already put up some Christmas decorations, which felt all wrong in September, though they were pretty in their own way.

Back at home, I only meant to change out of my clothes, but I made the mistake of lying down on my bed and promptly fell asleep for an entire hour. I must have needed it.

Since our lunch had been quite filling, Mum and I just had a light dinner later on. That meant we were done nice and early, so I asked if they minded me going out on my bike while there was still a bit of daylight. I love cycling after dinner, though I know there won’t be many more evenings left for it now the nights are drawing in.

All in all, it felt like a good day — a proper mix of farm work, family time, and a little freedom of my own.

Eric Thinks He’s Clever (But He Isn’t).

 Wednesday 17th September 2025.

Another day out on the plough, the Massey Ferguson 8727s purring along like a big red workhorse. The cab was warm with autumn sunshine streaming through the glass, and with the radio playing in the background, the hours slipped by most pleasantly. Watching the soil turn over in perfect, straight furrows behind me is strangely satisfying — neat ribbons of earth laid out as if stitched with a giant needle.

Eric was at it again before I set off, pulling my leg about Nigel. He thinks he’s terribly clever, if only he knew! But I know he’s only digging because of what Mum said yesterday. I didn’t rise to it — though I may have smiled a little too knowingly just to keep him guessing. Let him stew; it does him good.

The fields are looking handsome now in their autumn colours, and there’s a calmness that settles in when it’s just me, the tractor, and the land stretching ahead. My mood’s been good all day, and I came back feeling like I’d done something worthwhile. Hard work, all that consecration, but there’s a simple contentment in it that lingers.

The scent of cooking greeted me even before I got indoors, as all the doors were open as though it were still summer. I dumped my bag on the table and went straight over to mum who was toiling over stew and dumplings. I hugged and kissed her as always when I return, "Coming home wouldn't be the same if you weren't here mum." I told her.

"Get off with you, you soft devil. Go and do what you have to do as dinner will be ready in twenty minutes."

The Bottom Is A Good Place To Start.

 Tuesday 16th September 2025.

The day started in the worst possible way for me, even before I hardly got woken up properly. Thankfully I managed to resolve the problems I'd stupidly made for myself with a permanent fix. And no - I'm not going to elaborate on my stupidity.

I will say however that things did improved as the day progressed, so ending up a good day. Which just goes to prove that starting at the bottom is not always a bad place to start. Indecently this was a  bit of advice Dave passed on to me a few years back now.

Dad confirmed over breakfast that I was to go and carry on from where we left off yesterday. I had no reason to believe that wouldn't be the case. You never know with farm work though.

Part of today's Ploughing.

Mum had her mother hen head on her shoulders today, "Just pay attention to what you're doing." She told me when I was getting my boots on ready to leave.

"I will." I assured her accompanied by a sigh which was obviously louder than I thought.

"Well your head seems to have been in a different place to what you are these past few weeks." She informed everyone as well as myself.

Of course Eric wasn't going to miss out on an opportunity like this, "She's pining for Nigel, her young heart is broken to bits!"

"Get lost Eric!" I snapped - playfully.

"Katlyn! Please." Said mum in response.

"I'd go and get on your tractor out of the way if I was you love." Said dad.

I swiftly took his advice.

Of course in my haste I went and embarrassingly reinforced everyone's observations with regard to my current disabilities, by walking off without my packed lunch. Eric caught up with me just as I was leaving he yard. He didn't say anything other than, "Have you forgot these?"

He didn't need to say anymore as the big smirk across his face said everything he was thinking. 

A Quiet Sort Of Triumph.

 Monday 15th September 2025

It seems that autumn has arrived in full force over the weekend. The air has turned sharp and cool, the winds blustery, and the rain comes and goes as it pleases. Because of this, I didn’t mind staying indoors for most of the morning, helping Mum with the housework. I never really mind doing that—it feels natural, and besides, the weather outside was hardly inviting. Mum and I worked side by side, clearing and dusting, her humming away now and then. By the time we finished, the house felt warmer, as if it had settled in against the wind.

At seven, a truck came to collect one of the last stacks of straw bales still sitting near the wind turbine. They’d been bought months ago but never picked up, and with the turbine company coming soon to fit new blades, we had to give the buyers a nudge. Mum said it would be good to have them gone—it makes her easier in herself when things aren’t left hanging about.

After lunch, Dad took me outside for what I think was a bit of a test. He had me attach the plough to my tractor. He didn’t say a word—just watched, sharp-eyed, giving nothing away. No hints, no help, and best of all no criticism. It was standard three-point linkage work, nothing I shouldn’t be able to manage by now, but it still felt like an exam. Passing, silently, was a quiet sort of triumph.

Once that was done, we went down to the field. Dad had me mark it out the same way he showed me last week. Being back on my own tractor made it easier—I felt more in tune, more steady. He gave me a quick word about the depth setting, and then left me to it. We spent a couple of hours ploughing, the rhythm of it setting in until it felt almost natural. On the way home, Dad asked if I’d feel comfortable coming back on my own tomorrow to carry on. I didn’t hesitate—I told him I’d be fine. And I meant it.

The day had been steady, calm, without too much strain. Maybe that’s why, after dinner, Dad suggested we try again with our music night. Last week we failed miserably—both of us nodding off mid-album, curled up on the sofa together. Tonight we’ll give Paul Simon’s Graceland another chance. Those evenings are my favourite: Dad stretched out beside me, Mum settled with her knitting in her chair, the fire glowing, the music drifting around us. Mum’s needles click softly in time with the songs, Dad’s arm tucks me close, and I feel as though the three of us are wrapped in the same quiet warmth. No matter how wild the winds get outside, home feels unshakable.

Simply Empty

 Sunday 14th September 2025

Church this morning, routine as always. We didn’t linger — Uncle Ken and Aunt Carole were coming for lunch, so there wasn’t time for the usual drinks and small talk after the service. It felt brisk, the sort of service that gets you in and out, which suited me fine today.

Dad did his bit: peeled the potatoes and sorted the veg Mum wanted for when we got back. That’s about the limit of his contribution in the domestic stakes — but at least it meant something edible made it to the table. After lunch I cleared away while everyone else sat and talked; I could have stayed at the table with them, but I didn’t feel like pretending to enjoy company. They drifted into the lounge eventually, to be more comfortable in their chatter. I listened for a bit, then went back to the kitchen to finish the washing up. Not feeling especially sociable these days — which is probably obvious.

Between bites of conversation I caught Dad telling Ken we need to move a stack of straw away from one of the wind turbines; they’re due to do some work on it. I’m not sure whether that will mean me being roped in.

That was about it for the day. I didn’t even get to go with Dad to check the cattle — Ken went instead — which left the afternoon thin and a little pointless. Not everything in a life demands meaning, I suppose; sometimes things are simply empty. Hardly worth writing about, I know — but if I don’t keep a record, you lot will miss me. Ha.

The Truth Cuts Deep.

 Saturday 13th September 2025

I only made it halfway down the drive with Charlotte this morning before I wanted to scream. She was all smiles, her voice bubbling over with talk of Nigel—how funny he was, how easy he made everything. She even skipped her photo society meeting last night just to go with him to Meadow Hall. A shopping centre, of all places. Sheffield doesn’t exactly sparkle, but she made it sound like magic.

Her eyes lit up when she spoke about him. That stung more than I wanted to admit. I used to be the one she’d look at like that, laughing at nothing, leaning in too close. Now I was just the friend trudging beside her, listening to the soundtrack of her new life.

I cut away at lunch. Said I needed a break, but really I just couldn’t stand to hear another word about Nigel. Rob was leaning against his garden fence, smoking like is often the case, and so at lunch I joined him.

“You look like you’re about to bite someone’s head off,” he said.

“She won’t stop talking about him,” I muttered. “It’s Nigel this, Nigel that. Why do I even bother coming here?”

He gave me a long look, like he was trying to read something written on my face. Then he said, “You’re not really mad at her. You’re mad at yourself.”

I bristled. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“You had the chance,” he said. “Could’ve learned to ride with her. Could’ve gone to those photo society meetings. Could’ve shown her you cared about the things she cared about. But you didn’t. And now someone else has. That’s on you, not her.”

His words hit harder than I wanted. Because I knew he was right. I’d thought she’d always be there, waiting for me to catch up, waiting for me to—what? To admit what I never dared to say?

The truth slipped out like a crack in the dam. I wasn’t jealous of Nigel because he was fun. I was jealous because he was holding her hand in the cinema, brushing her shoulder in a crowded shopping centre, leaning close enough to catch the smell of her hair. All the things I’d thought about but never done.

From the training ring came her laughter—Charlotte’s laughter—light and bright, twining with Lyn’s. I wanted it to be mine again. I wanted her eyes to turn to me, to see me.

“Maybe I should just quit the stables,” I said, my throat tight. “Let them get on with it.”

Rob flicked his cigarette into the dirt and ground it out with his boot. “Or,” he said quietly, “you could stop hiding and do something about it.”

I couldn’t answer. My chest ached with the weight of what I wanted and the fear of losing even the scraps I still had.

The Guy Felt The Same Dread As Myself.

 They came to take Dad’s demo tractor back this morning, so naturally, I went out into the yard to watch the sad little procession like a mourner at a mechanical funeral.

After the truck disappeared down the lane, Dad wandered over, hands in his pockets, wearing the look of a man who’d just sent his prize racehorse back to the stables.

“What do you think then?” he asked.

“About what?” I replied, already suspicious.

“Which one is it to be?”

There was no doubt in my mind. “The Massey Ferguson,” I declared with the authority of someone who’d done absolutely none of the research.

“I think you’re right. It’s a nice colour red, isn’t it?” he said.

I narrowed my eyes. This was classic Dad. He had that glint in his eye — the same one he gets before offering you a “taste” of a chili that turns out to be one step removed from pepper spray.

Sure enough, before I could retaliate with a well-aimed jab to the arm, he added, “I didn’t like to say anything to Nigel, but I thought the blue and green ones clashed awfully with that nail varnish you wear.”

That earned him a proper punch. None of that playful nonsense.

“You’d better come with me after breakfast, then,” he said, rubbing his arm. “See if we can find one to your liking.”

I told him — quite rightly — that it was his tractor, so it should be to his liking. But in the end, we struck a deal: we’d both have to be happy with the purchase. Though how I ended up with joint custody of a 9 tons or 20,000 pounds hunk of agricultural steel, I’m still not sure.

Now, despite Dad’s fashion critique, it was obvious colour wasn’t really the deciding factor. That became crystal clear at the dealer’s, where the sales manager launched into what I can only describe as a dissertation on horsepower, hydraulics, and the baffling array of bells, whistles, and baffling acronyms that now come as standard on modern tractors.

Even within the Massey Ferguson S Series range, there are five options — from the 5S to the 9S — and then each of those has about five different models. It’s like choosing between ice cream flavours, if ice cream came with a 300-page operator’s manual and cost more than a luxury car.

Dad was after something around the 200-horsepower mark, so the 8S series was the obvious choice. That’s what we’d had on demo — and, I must admit, it did look rather magnificent rumbling across the field like some red-armoured warhorse.

I won’t bore you with all the options available — not unless you’ve got a few days to spare and a whiteboard handy. Truth be told, I’d probably get half of it wrong anyway. But some of the more basic choices included a front linkage (so you can run implements on both ends — the tractor’s, not yours), a front loader (which we didn’t need), satnav (because even tractors hate getting lost these days), and various external service controls for managing implements.

Anyway, after what felt like a high-stakes poker game disguised as agricultural commerce, the deal was struck. It was oddly fascinating to watch Dad in full-on “serious business mode” — all steely eyes and tight-lipped nodding. For a moment, I genuinely thought we were about to walk out empty-handed. He stood up, thanked the dealer, and made for the door with the kind of drama normally reserved for Oscar speeches.

My heart sank.

But clearly, the sales guy felt the same dread as myself — because the moment we left the sales office, he was on the phone faster than you can say "limited-time offer." Dad told me quietly not to rush out while slowing things down with a viewing of some Massey Ferguson merchandise displayed on one of the shelves. Next thing we knew, he returned with a revised deal, which must have taken some creative accounting or perhaps the sacrifice of a small goat.

Even then, judging by Dad’s expression, you’d think he’d just been asked to trade in a kidney.

The tractor we settled on isn’t actually at the dealership we visited, but it’s being brought over this coming week. Once it’s been checked and polished up like a show pony, it’ll be delivered to the farm — just in time for seeding, which is good now that the rain’s finally arrived as we need to get crackin'.

So, the Massey Ferguson 8S is on its way. Red, powerful, and blessedly nail-varnish-compatible.

A Look Of Contempt.

 The other day, Mum expressed a wish to go out to lunch again with her friend Lynette. For those who don’t know, Lynette is a chatty lady who never lets you get a word in edgeways—not even when she’s just asked you a question. It frustrates the pants off me, but Mum always seems to enjoy her time with Lynette. The fact that they were friends in school says everything about how much they must enjoy each other's company.

While I’m never forced to attend, I do get the impression that one of the main pleasures Mum gets out of having a daughter is the occasional chance to show her off. So, considering what she’s given me, it shouldn’t be beyond me to fulfill such obligations. I try to do it with meaning, from the heart, and not just as another chore—like baling for Mr. Luckyman or whatever.
When she mentioned going out to lunch with Lynette, I remembered that when we were away for my birthday, we visited a lovely little tearoom near Chatsworth. During the visit, Mum said, “What a shame this isn’t a little closer. It would be perfect for lunch with Lynette. She would love it.”

It’s about seventy miles from where we live—not too far, really. It takes about an hour and twenty minutes, which isn’t much to someone who drives a Massey Ferguson tractor for eight hours at a stretch. But for Mum, it’s too far to drive. So when she mentioned meeting Lynette, I volunteered to drive them over to the tearoom.

“Katie, dear, that’s so sweet. I can’t believe you even remembered! It’s a lovely idea, but I fear it’s a bit too far.”
“Mum! I’m a professional driver now. Honestly, I don’t mind. It’ll be nice.”

So, she got in touch with Lynette, who was happy to join us for lunch.

We also stopped by the garden center and the farm shop before heading home. As for Lynette—everything was business as usual. I defused my frustration with a walk around the village while they settled the bill. I wasn’t paying, and doing the driving, so I knew there’d be some prolonged conversation with the cashier before they could leave. That’s just how it goes with Lynette.
Simply walking around the garden center couldn’t happen without being drawn into a lengthy conversation with some random stranger about knee operations.

As is often the case with Mum and garden centers, we spent more on non-garden-related items than on anything for the garden. This time, we splashed out £7 on a feather duster with an extendable handle. We returned home and presented it to Dad as a new weekend pastime.
"I'd love to have a go with it. But knowing how you are with that tractor of yours, it will be squirreled away on there somewhere, never to be seen again."

"Oh yes, I never thought of that. Thanks dad."

Mum gave us both a look of contempt.

Ken & His Big Chopper.

 For once, I actually knew what I was doing when I got up this morning. Uncle Ken had called Dad in a panic last night because the contractors were coming to cut his maize. He’d known about this for several days, but instead of checking whether he had help lined up earlier in the week, he decided to leave it until Sunday afternoon. By then, of course, it turned out the usual help were all busy. One guy said he might be able to come later in the afternoon — if everything went well at the job he was already on. That’s when Uncle Ken thought of Dad to help get him out of his mess.

So it was that this morning, I found myself pulling into Ken’s yard at 6:45am with my tractor. The contractor — also called Ken — was already there with his big chopper, getting it ready to do some serious work. I found it very impressive. I say that because the machine was nearly the size of a combine. I was immediately directed to one of two high-sided trailers parked in the yard. These belonged to the contractor, and, just like that time with Lou at Mr. Luckyman’s, Ken the contractor was a bit sceptical about whether I’d be able to attach one to my tractor. I like to think he was just being kind and trying to be helpful, but it felt like he was quietly assessing me.

The rest of the day was full-on. I spent it running back and forth between field and farm, delivering loads of chopped maize. It wasn’t like carting grain, where you often find yourself standing around doing nothing. This was non-stop. I even had to eat my lunch while driving, which wasn’t ideal — I ended up with crumbs all over the cab.

To be honest, I actually enjoyed it. Unlike a combine, a forage harvester doesn’t store the crop. Instead, it chops it up and blows it straight up a spout into the trailer. That means the tractor and trailer have to drive alongside the harvester, on the move the entire time. It was a bit tricky at first, matching the harvester’s speed and keeping the right distance, but once I got the hang of it, it felt pretty natural. It really just depends on how the harvester’s being driven — once you understand that, it’s easy enough to keep pace.

When we’d finally finished and I was unhooking the trailer and getting ready to head home, Ken the contractor came over. He was full of praise. He admitted he’d been a bit worried when he saw me pull into the yard, but he said he was genuinely impressed at how quickly I picked it all up. Apparently, by the end of the day, I was more than keeping up with his main carting guy. He even gave me his phone number and said that if I was ever at a loose end, I should give him a ring — he could probably find me a bit of something to do.

I took it as an open invitation to come and have another play with his big chopper sometime — though I doubt I’ll take him up on it. I’m pretty sure Mum and Dad can keep me busy enough as it is.

A Cleaning Day.

 Monday 9th September 2025.

This morning I helped mum do some housework. After lunch Eric got the steam cleaner working for me and we cleaned down the baler. After washing it down we had a cup of tea while it dried. Then we painted some to the shiny bits with old oil to stop them going rusty before putting it away for the Winter.

The Bitch Within.

 Saturday 6th September 2025

I was a few minutes late arriving at the stables this morning, on account of being lost in thought and dawdling. I couldn't help but notice how autumn-like the mornings are becoming. As I strolled along the narrow asphalt lane, I looked out across the fields. The only remnants left of those wonderful harvest days were two straw stacks in the far distance. Apparently, they've been purchased by a neighbouring farmer and are awaiting collection.

My dalliance along the way meant I was last to arrive at the stables, so I missed Charlotte—in fact, I missed everyone. I collected some empty hay nets and took them to the hay shed, where I found Peter and Elizabeth. It always amuses me how these two have become one. While at the stables, they are never to be parted; Charlotte tells me they're the same when they're together at home, too.

Talking of Charlotte, I caught up with her for a few minutes during lunch break. She was bursting with news about Nigel! They went on their promised date Friday evening, which I have to confess I was a little surprised about, as I thought his interest now lay with Kimberly. I fear I was a bit of a bitch. I tried not to be—I made the right sort of noises and showed a certain amount of interest. I fear, though, that my true feelings showed through all the lovely sentiments. It was not my best moment as a supposed friend. I've suspected for some time that perhaps I'm not a friend at all, and that's just an acceptable mask.

When I left, Rob was waiting in his garden for me. I've told him before not to hang around—he has my number. I think he just likes to potter around until I show up. He didn't really want anything in particular, other than to tell me he'd seen Norman. He was in his car and not his bike, so it would seem he's fully recovered.

So, that was Saturday. Nothing overly exciting, but sometimes that can be good.

You Make Us Laugh.

Friday 5th September 2025

This morning, before breakfast I had a bit of fun with my dad. His new demo tractor was parked up the yard with the plough on, where we left it last night. So before helping mum I went out to my tractor, I couldn't help but notice there was a chill to the air, the first I'd felt in a long time. On reaching my tractor I climbed the steps to the cab where after entering I took off the name plate from behind the sun visor and took it down to the demo tractor where I placed it so that it could be seen through the windscreen. Eric spotted me as I was climbing back out of the cab and instantly saw the fun in it. This was okay as I told him to make sure dad spotted it before coming in to breakfast.

"You're a right un you are and no mistake." He said with a chuckle in his voice.

I went back inside and helped mum with the breakfast, hardly able to contain my anticipation.

Eventually I could hear there was a fair old ruckus before dad and Eric even got to the kitchen door, "Where is the little bugger?" dad said with humour in his pretend anger as he entered the kitchen.

"For goodness sake George, do we have to hear that language!" mum said scolding him.

"Come here." Dad said on laying eyes on me.

He got hold of me and gave me one of his bear hugs. "You do make us laugh!" He said before giving me a little kiss on the forehead.

"Ay, the place would be a dull place without you that's for sure." Added Eric, which made me feel nice.

Ploughing a Furrow To My Ancestors.

 Thursday 4th September 2025. ancestors 

This morning I leant during breakfast that I was to be spending the day with dad on the new demo tractor learning to use the plough. I was a bit nervous at first, but I think it was out of excitement rather than any sort of fear. The morning got off to an even better start when I beat Eric in the bi weekly bin race. Eric tried his usual cheating business by blocking my exit from the kitchen with his chair. But even though it worked and he got to the bins first, I think William had put a body the garden bin which Eric takes, because it weighed a ton. It took Eric several attempts to get it on to it wheels, by which time I was half way down the path.

The first thing we did when getting to the field was to mark out the headlands. This involves setting the plough in such away as to just leave the back furrow turning over a shallow groove in the earth. This line has to follow parallel to the field edge and is there as a guide to where to plough to before lifting the plough out of work. The point of the headlands is that it's where you turn the tractor around in order to make the next run down the field. At no point must you run on the earth that has been turned over by the plough. Once the headlands were marked out we then set to with ploughing proper.

The field we were in is in two parts, so after lunch dad drove over to the second part of the field and said for me to swap seats with him as he wanted to see me have a go. I was a bit nervous at first, the job was new to me as was the tractor.

I need not worry though as my dad's voice was a familiar, calm presence in the cab of his new Massey Ferguson 8S. "See, it's just like drawing a straight line," he said, his hand resting on my arm as I gripped the steering wheel. The engine rumbled beneath us, like a steady heartbeat. The air smelled of fresh of turned earth, which seemed to become fluid as it came in to contact with the mole boards of the plough.

The tractor, sleek and powerful in its new paint, had arrived just after the

 harvest. It was a serious piece of machinery, a big step up from the old one I was used to.

With a deep breath, I eased the tractor forward. The ground ahead was a perfect, flat canvas of wheat stubble. My dad talked me through it, his instructions simple and clear: "Find a point on the horizon, keep your eye on it, and don't let the front of the tractor drift." I focused on a lone oak tree at the far end of the field.

It was possible to just set the satnav, the line would have been perfect without me even having to touch anything. But dad said that before I used anything like that he wanted me to learn how to do it the proper way. The way that had been passed down through the generations. It was my connection to the family. I may not have been born of them, but things such as this made me apart of them. 

The first line was shaky, a little crooked at the start as I got the feel of it. I felt a surge of panic, but my dad's hand on my arm was a steady anchor. "You're doing great," he said quietly. "Just correct it slowly. Small movements."

I adjusted, and the furrows behind us began to smooth out, each one a rich, dark wave of soil. It wasn't just about driving; it was about feeling the land, listening to the machine, and moving in a rhythm with the field. It was a dance between man, machine, and earth. It is this feeling that draws me to work on the tractor. I noticed when I first drove a tractor by myself, when I was applying the fertiliser, how you can actually feel the earth that you run on change from one place to the next. The tractor somehow has an ability to communicate this with you.

Hours passed. The sun came and went as did showers of rain, and the field transformed, stripe by stripe. What was once a flat expanse was now a textured landscape of deep brown and black, ready for a new season. My dad watched from the side of the cab, his face a mixture of pride and quiet satisfaction. He didn't have to say anything at all after a while. The perfectly ploughed field, stretching to the horizon, said it all. it was very satisfying for both of us. I had learned to draw a furrow, and in doing so, I had learned a little more about my dad's world, and my place in it.

As we were leaving we saw a rainbow coloured light seemingly emanating from the top of one of the wind turbines. It was quite amazing and a wonderful end to a day with my dad learning a new skill. 

Ploughing a Furrow To My Ancestors.

Calm In The Storm.

 Because of the rain over the last few days dad said this morning that it would be fine for me to do some work with the cultivator. So today I have been out in the field all day working over some ground. There was quite a thunderstorm later on this afternoon just as I was working on the headlands. It gave me a special feeling that I would find it hard to explain to another person. All was chaos around me while I was safe, warm and dry in my little glass bubble. The way the rain as hitting the glass it made me think of the night I arrived at the big house in Scotland. Although the similarity stops there, that night I was neither warm nor dry.

Talking of my time in the big house. Someone asked me the other day following the conclusion of grandfathers lost sock. What happened to my own socks that he took from me. So below I will just explain what I should have done in the previous entry.

As was usually the case after a meal, I would help clear away the things from the staff room. So by the time I got back to our flat grandfather was on his couch watching the news. So I just shot straight through to my room. He didn't make any sign that he even noticed me, let alone had any sort of confrontation which I was expecting. As soon as I entered through the end of the curtain in to my room I saw straight away in a pile on my bed were all my socks that grandfather took away when he had hidden his own for me to find under the couch. All the time my socks had been away from me they have remained on the end of the sideboard thing in the living room. I think he left them in full view of me to serve as a constant reminder. Either that or a constant temptation to me to try and sneak some of them back. Before finding his sock I was pretty sure that was the whole point of what was happening. To see how long I could resist not taking some of them back. Anyway I was very pleased to get them. Whilst I did manage without them by wearing odd socks or my school socks when he wasn't around, I had to always be on alert for him spotting me. I was so pleased that when I left my room, after putting my sock back where they belonged, I was of the mind to thank him for their return. But as he never even acknowledged me all night I never bothered.

I think that this time that really is the end of "The Lost Sock."

Testing A 8s 265.

 Tuesday 2nd September 2025.

This morning dad asked if I want to go with him on his new tractor. Of course I jumped at the chance. It's only another demo tractor but I can tell this is the one he's been waiting to try the most. Which is why he arranged for it to arrive after harvest. So he could have a proper go with it and not let Nigel have all the fun. Another reason why I think it's the one he really wants is because it's a Massey Ferguson like his old one, the one that is now mine. It's a much newer model being a 8s 265. I think it has similar horse power to mine at 265 hp. Although this is not forced to be the tractor dad would have should he be able to do a deal for a new one.

I feel a bit bad really because normally he would swap his old tractor in and so not have to fork out as much money. But because he has given me his old on that means he doesn't have it so trade in. I thinkk he will swap in one of the John Deere's but he won't get as much for them as he would have done for mine.

So we put on the new subsoiler that he got at the weekend and he's been having a great time of it today. I only went with him this morning as I wanted to spend the afternoon with mum. We were doing some preserving. Mum picked some Damson's this morning and then we made some jam with them this afternoon. We also pickled some Beetroots. Got some apples and made an apple pie for dinner.

So I have had a busy day, and fun too.