Ben it was who found them, whimpering and circling the freshly turned sods like he was shepherding  our black Welsh  Mountains. ..   sheep that is. The slope in that field is treacherous for a tractor. Ben was my rescue service in case I turned turtle.  

Thinking it over, leaving it to the last of the day was foolhardy after 10 hours ploughing. But I can’t resist the evening light slanting over the hedges, particularly after an electrical  storm, with the brown damp smell of the land and the sun catching the earth’s drops of moisture, throwing it back in rainbow jewels.

Dad had always said that this field held more promise than being left to lie fallow. Just plough a portion of the field and across the slope so that the ridges would make the water “walk off not run off”- another  from Dad’s tomes of witty farming wisdom. That way you  stopped all the richness of the top soil cascading down to gather at the slope bottom. What’s more Mystic Meg had  this morning pronounced that today would be  “a day to remember…. when all your dreams come true.” A pot of gold at the rainbow’s end will do me I thought.