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."
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