Woke yesterday to what appeared to be a great combining day. The sun was shining and the breeze was just right.
He-who-believes-he-should-be-obeyed duly hopped onto the quad to nip down for a final check . . .
Yup, the barley was most certainly ready . . .
Moreover, he wasn't the only one to agree that it was, indeed, quite ripe enough; thank you very much !
We had had a breakout; a revolt, pandemonium on the back benches: The cattle had stormed the Bastille; taken out the fences and elevated al fresco dining to an entirely new level. . .
The bull was looking decidedly mutinous and, whilst there could be no doubt that his bulk would have played a huge part in the operation, he's a lot more more brawn than brain . . .
The Intelligence could only be . . . The silver Charolais . . . ! I do have a soft spot for her . . . She's trouble, but anything that will jump a five-bar gate whilst eight months pregnant deserves a round of applause !
Eventually, after he-who-believes-he-should-be-obeyed had exhausted his entire back catalogue of Ye Olde English Curses and sweated more than a few buckets, we were done by nightfall . . . ready to bale the straw this morning . . .
Until the hailstones came !
Which forecast predicted that ?
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