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.