The succession of chores that were presenting themselves was like climbing a mountain; you keep thinking the topmost crest is just there ahead of you, but when you reach it, you discover another has been hiding behind. Photograph: Getty Images
Because news does not respect the Sabbath – Christian or Jewish – reporters’ rosters include weekend work with days off during the week in compensation. I’ve always enjoyed this aspect of the job, there being something attractive about being footloose and free while the rest of the world has its head down.
It was a bright, cloudless day and tinkering and weeding soon progressed to work requiring a shovel and a pitchfork. When the mid-morning coffee moment came, that too was consumed outdoors, on the hoof. By now my blood was up, and the succession of chores that were presenting themselves was like climbing a mountain; you keep thinking the topmost crest is just there ahead of you, but when you reach it, you discover another has been hiding behind. On I went. The sun reached its zenith.
I could see that farming was an occupation defined by its unending series of chores, most of them outdoors. The seasons brought different chores as did the passing hours of each day. Milking the cows. Bringing them in. Bringing them back out. Burning gorse. Mending stuff. I once walked with my uncles back from Moate, where they’d bought a few cattle in the mart that they herded back along the road to the farm.
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