There is a stillness about the farm this morning. The sow, her litter weaned, lies half-hidden in elderflower shade, snout resting on her front trotters like a dog. The cattle, sleek and fat, their calves now sturdy, have settled beneath the beech trees along the river. Despite plentiful rain, this remains low and moves with the same languid spirit. I alone am purposeful, garden fork in one hand, scythe in the other.
The schedule of jobs for this time of year is always the same. It starts with chain-harrowing the poached ground and removing any stones that have risen to the surface. The warmth and wet have brought regenerated growth, but also nettles, docks, thistles and ragwort all threatening to seed, so I work my way across the field, alternating between scythe for topping and fork for levering the ragwort from its roots. Sometimes I don’t loosen it enough and it snaps. I know I’ll be pulling those ones again.
This landscape has quietly reawakened in recent weeks. First came primroses, then cowslips, followed by buttercups and bird’s-foot trefoil, each flowering more boldly yellow than the last. Now oxeye daisies bob cheerfully in the wind, and campion and cranesbill bring a hint of summer colour. At the end of the field I find less to do than usual; the work of previous years is paying dividends.
I cross to the opposite bank. The dividing fence needs mending – I add it to the list. There are bobbles of brown fur on the broken wire, tell-tale evidence that a beast has used it for a scratch. I leave the thistles to desiccate, but gather the ragwort into piles and throw it into the wood. It has a retentive, acrid smell. A buzzard hovers low overhead, having spied something in the long grass. It turns out to be a shrivelled balloon on a streamer. He drifts away, perhaps disappointed.
I reach the gate at the far end and look at my watch; it’s already late morning. Time has been suspended, my mind stilled, by the labour and the breeze and the birdsong.
• Country Diary is on Twitter at @gdncountrydiary
