Heavens, we’re in overdrive. All the hedges are flowering, all the drills are drilling, the whole breadth of the blue sky is witness to the stirring of the newborn, writes Andrew Dennis.
I’m reminded of mothering Sunday when obeisance was paid to the miracle of life and to undiminished love. It’s the mysteries of spring and a time to celebrate love and fertility.
This morning we drove our ewes into the barn and I felt reconnected with the past. We smelt the fresh hay as the sheep swept down the road in a woollen flock. We were characters in the novels of Thomas Hardy or better still the paintings of Samuel Palmer whose vision has enchanted one generation after another and made the world seem sacred. We were. We were.
At times like this I’ve no interest in the wider world.
There’s drama sufficient on a window sill where butterflies unfurl their wings, or among brassicas where red flags resemble the banners of an army.
Pheasants bloom like flowers in my garden. The farm is a garden and the magnolia is full out and luminescent and it’s all so very animating I don’t want it to end.
We have our first speckled turkey egg. Calves lie in the golden straw. Easter beckons.
I’ve never known such creativity in ordinary things: a cauliflower curd, the whisker of a hare, the slow beat of a heron. The farm has become a vibrant transforming place. It’s exciting. Organic sales are increasing.