Harvest Home

We came across a pair of bright yellow ear defenders on the lane this morning, the sort of thing you wear when you're working with noisy machinery. I started forwards, intending to put them on the side of the road where they wouldn't be flattened by a passing vehicle, but then I stiffened and recoiled. How did I know it wasn't an IED, planted there by a terrorist to catch an innocent dog walker? There have been actual terrorists in Norfolk after all, just last week, and not all that far away. The momentary flash of sheer terror I felt passed quickly, but still I had to brace myself to pick them up. I was quite shaken by the experience, how something so innocent could be, just could be fatal. It's probably just as well I live in the back of beyond and not some busy city. Me nerves would be in shreds.

We've been confined to quarters today after a longish walk up the lane early this morning that has flattened the little boy. For all his desire to go lepping, he is still recovering from his op, and so he's been out for the count most of the day. What's stopping us from going even into the garden is that the field is being harvested, and the air is thick with dust. Foolishly I left an upstairs window open at the rear of the house, and most of the field is now inside the room. The noise has been almighty, especially when the combine is close, and the progress is very slow considering the size of the machine. All day Alyss has been perched in her air-conditioned cabin high above the ground, concentrating closely on her progress, while her husband collected the grains in an empty truck driven alongside. The mind just boggles to think how long this job would have taken 100 years ago. There must be people still living in this village whose fathers and grandfathers harvested by hand, huge heavy scythes swinging backwards and forwards rhythmically under the hot sun. I know, I'm picturing Cider With Rosie, and all those 19th century realist novels. It's a romantic picture, but I'm sure it was hell.

My earnest wish now is that they don't plough too soon. Those brown, freshly-turned fields just shout of autumn, and winter. For pity's sake, it's still July!