Flindt on Friday: Guests arrive as harvest hits a hiatus

It’s all very well having a mental age of 15 (and yes, I have written “Bum” in the dust on the new combine – and changed “APS” to something ruder) but the rest of me will be 60 in a few weeks’ time. (It’s 8 October, since you ask, and I have a tab at the Jolly Flowerpots, thank you kindly.) And I’m feeling it.

My kindly Guardian Angel decided that the August bank holiday would be a good time for me to have a break after 17 days’ continuous combine driving.

That’s the only explanation for the sudden arrival on Saturday of Cousin Rob, after eight years, dropping in for a chat and a coffee.

See also: Harvest 2021: Unsettled weather hampers progress

He’s a retired police officer, and a very senior one, too, so much of the day was spent on rural crime. Has he gone a bit more “hang ’em, flog ’em” since losing the shackles of his job?

I must have been imagining it. He went off with a copy of my book to suggest to his book club in the West Country.

He did ask if I’d like to come down and address the members, but warned that they’re all fierce lefties. I said I’d come back to him. But we managed a few acres of wheat in the evening.

Niece to see you

Sunday morning saw Niece Sarah dropping in, doing research for her book. She’s done the bestselling law book (she’s a barrister by trade), and now wants to cover farming.

She’s a young person, so she’s thoroughly enamoured by all the regen stuff. It was a lively coffee and doughnut session – as you can imagine – and I think we’ll fill the whole chapter marked “dinosaurs who think it’s all snake-oil”.

© Charlie Flindt

She had also completed the marathon reading of Dad’s diaries (1939-1991), and we all chuckled at him repeatedly doing unspeakable things with primroses in the 1940s, until it dawned on us it was “picking”.

But once again, I defied my Guardian Angel, and did a few more weary acres in the evening.

Which is why, on the bank holiday Monday morning, just as we were thinking of setting off, an aged Defender rumbled into the yard. Out stepped the straw-hatted neighbour Robert, and on, once again, went the kettle.

Another good couple of hours were spent catching up with harvest news, all the gossip (having not seen each other for several weeks) and agreeing – after hearing about his combine’s AdBlue issues – that farm machinery is in danger of drowning in the quicksand of new technology.

Rain of the weather gods 

When I popped out for few more hours in our combine, my Guardian Angel called in the weather gods, and an invisible drizzle turned the wheat to uncuttable leather at six o’clock. Undaunted, I switched plans overnight to the beans – just the job in damp conditions.

He was having none of this, and the Tuesday dew turned to mist, then to drizzle, and then a burst of heavy rain.

All utterly unforecast. The one tank of beans I did cut in the morning only just got out of the unloading arm, and the bag I took up to Trinity Grain in hope of a “human consumption” analysis – and premium – was handed back with barely suppressed laughter.

I admitted defeat, and after a sudden and deep snooze on the sofa, rang Robert to suggest a Tuesday Flowerpots trip. Not much persuasion was needed.

Luckily, the Muscle was up for giving me a lift, and has now got used to me stumbling through the passenger door at the end of the evening going: “Tee hee bum!”. One day I’ll grow up.