Ah the joys of taking a midsummer stroll up along my writing space/lane at six in the morning. The air like silk, the sky pure blue, the dew sparkling and all the peace and quiet of the countryside, broken only by the trills and twitters of the birds in the hedgerows, a faint rustle of mice perhaps in the undergrowth.
And perhaps there should be a few other sounds – the swish of scythes through long grass, the clip clop of horses, and perhaps a little hymn-singing in the annual ritual of communal hay-making.
What I actually hear, of course, from before first to last light, is the non-stop clamour of silaging in the surrounding fields.
Farmers and contractors don’t do nine to five, certainly not in the summer. When they see a window of opportunity, they go for it. A monster tractor on the other side of the hedge…
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