HERE in Galloway, the drought is a distant memory and the monsoon has arrived early. It normally waits until we are about to start harvest. This has thrown our grassland-management plans. Back in the spring, we stood listening to Brian the contractor shaking his head dolefully and announcing the ground was so rock hard that he couldn’t direct drill and had to do a shallow plough ‘to make some soil’. (Contractors love getting the plough out as it is a costly business; farmers hate it for the same reason.)
The seed sat there through the drought, then grass emerged slowly with a sickly looking fluff, before coming with a rush of the ‘compensatory growth’ beloved of agronomists when it rained. Now, the tall sward of lush grass badly needs grazing to allow it to tiller and thicken in the base, but the soil brought up by the plough has the consistency of wet putty. Putting cattle or machinery on it now would take us back to square one.
How could a black-and-white bird with Day-Glo bill and pink legs think it could blend in?
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Save our family farms
IT Tremains to be seen whether the Government will listen to the more than 20,000 farming people who thronged Whitehall in central London on November 19 to protest against changes to inheritance tax that could destroy countless family farms, but the impact of the good-hearted, sombre crowds was immediate and positive.
A very good dog
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Best of British
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Old habits die hard
Once an antique dealer, always an antique dealer, even well into retirement age, as a crop of interesting sales past and future proves
It takes the biscuit
Biscuit tins, with their whimsical shapes and delightful motifs, spark nostalgic memories of grandmother's sweet tea, but they are a remarkably recent invention. Matthew Dennison pays tribute to the ingenious Victorians who devised them
It's always darkest before the dawn
After witnessing a particularly lacklustre and insipid dawn on a leaden November day, John Lewis-Stempel takes solace in the fleeting appearance of a rare black fox and a kestrel in hot pursuit of a pipistrelle bat
Tarrying in the mulberry shade
On a visit to the Gainsborough Museum in Sudbury, Suffolk, in August, I lost my husband for half an hour and began to get nervous. Fortunately, an attendant had spotted him vanishing under the cloak of the old mulberry tree in the garden.
