Going back in time

Today got off to a strange start with Tracey and I going over to the farm where I grew up, it was a Ministry of Agriculture experimental sort of place. No weird animals with extra legs, no, not those sort of experiments, more along the lines of how much fertilizer can we put on an inch of ground before it dies, or can we get extra hay by cutting it earlier, later, or do sheep get fatter if sheared in the winter. No, they just get cold and, wait for it, need woolly jumpers. Anyway the purpose of this trip back to my roots was to meet up with Dad who was the shepherd on the said farm.

He arrived in the now famous ultrabrite Audi, which had lost its few specs of mud gained whilst at Rock HQ. Locals to the Rock have been asking who were the stangers in the magic self cleaning car. They were late, I suspect because the queue at the car wash was too long. Anyway in the sunshine we all stood somewhat amazed at the farm, which is now a vodka distillery. The sheep sheds have been knocked down and provide some lovely parking for vodka producers. The hop yards have gone, so have the sheep and the rustic barns have been replaced by huge modern things that with a bit more glass and a few more doors would look like a Tesco. Amongst this concrete wilderness totally devoid of charm a lanky youth approached who looked all of 12 and asked what we thought we were about. Asked what he was about the startling reply was that it was his farm. Amazing what you get if related to a crisp selling dynasty. He chatted for a few moments before his ADHD kicked in and he had to get in his big tractor digger thingy that allowed him to feed the hundred cattle in ten seconds thus replacing the workers from the 12 cottages that went with the farm when we lived there.

The place was not the same. No sheds full of old machinery. No badminton court in the hop kiln (an old hop net stretched across the drying room and chalk lines) No kennels full of anxious sheep dogs desperate to get out and play with the sheep, the names of those dogs still live with me, Whiskey (old and brown, poor lad couldn't jump into the back of the land rover and would dutifully follow, arriving back in the farm yard when everything had been done for the morning) Cindy, Barney, Meg, Fly, Glen (looked like a Berner) No fishing in the pool. No playing chase on bikes around the buildings. No tennis on the farmyard. In fact, nothing. Just concrete, glass and machinery. I was glad to get away, the place has lost its soul. Its better how I remember it.