Notes from a small holding on the edge of the moor: the hedge, the wall, the hens, the weather, and whatever else needed doing that week.
The hawthorn along the lane had grown leggy and gappy, so this was the winter to lay it.
Part of the boundary wall slumped after the wet winter.
The starter is reliable now.
After three days of rain the beck came up over the footbridge, which has not happened since the year the alders came down.
Four beds in rotation: brassicas where the beans were, roots where the brassicas were, potatoes in the manured bed, and legumes in the bed the potatoes cleaned.
The stack felled last winter has dried to under twenty percent on the meter, which is what the stove wants.
First swift over the barn on the fourth, screaming round the gable where the old nest boxes are.
The top hinge had worked loose from the post and the gate was dragging a groove in the track.
A good year for the old Bramley and the two unnamed eaters by the wall.
The bottom of the field is always three degrees colder than the top on a still night, because cold air drains downhill and pools where the hedge stops it.
Set off in sun and was in cloud by the second cairn.
The north slope of the roof grows a thick moss cushion that holds water against the slates and blocks the gutters every autumn.
Laying drops with the light and there is nothing to be done about it short of a bulb in the house, which I do not do.
Second for the onions, nothing for the beans, and a first for the loaf, which surprised me more than anyone.
The wood below the house is white with it for about three weeks.
Found a tithe map from the 1840s in the county archive, with every field named.
Missed the signs and the big hive threw a swarm on the hottest day of the month.
Late cut this year, after the yellow rattle had set seed.