Will’s World: From pitch hero to grass zero all too quickly

First of all, a sincere apology. Some weeks back, I wrote about the tremendous late spring we’d had, and the fact that we had more grass than you can shake a sward stick at.

I even boasted of my success with overseeding Wrexham Rugby Club’s pitches, and the fact that I was being universally hailed as a hero.

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Well, I don’t know what I was thinking, because I clearly angered the Weather Gods, and the current prolonged drought is therefore entirely my fault.

There’s more grass on Wimbledon Centre Court than there is on the entirety of our farm, and the rugby pitches have completely burnt off.

I’ve gone from hero to villain quicker than you can say “smug idiot”.

What a strange few months it’s been. We officially finished harvesting our wheat on 23 July, which is a sentence I never thought I’d be writing, farming as I do in North Wales.

If this is a sign of things to come, and all indications suggest that to be the case, then adapting to the new food-producing normal is going to take some paying for. I hope policymakers and supermarkets are taking serious notice.

I spy, with my little eye…

In the spirit of trying to find the positives, though, the morning after I parked up the combine for the summer, the present Mrs Evans and I, along with numerous adolescent daughters and a frankly ludicrous amount of luggage in tow, headed off for a much-needed family getaway.

“Look, grass!”, I repeatedly shouted out, as we trundled up the M6 through Lancashire and Cumbria in the heavily weighed-down Vengabus.

For those of us residing in the parched lands below Manchester, it may be hard to believe, but I can assure you that it’s green up north. We even glimpsed some silaging taking place, much to my incredulity.

Eventually, after much marvelling at the different colour of the landscape, several arguments over the music choice, and at least one spilled coffee, we finally arrived at the Scottish branch of the family’s farm overlooking bonnie Dundee.

For obvious geographical reasons we don’t get there very often, so it was lovely to catch up with them all and we had a great time at my cousin’s barn dance and barbecue.

There was even some traditional Scottish dancing involved, though thankfully no video evidence remains.

Busman’s holiday

From there it was down to Northumberland to fulfil an ambition that I’ve held since childhood when I first read Rosemary Sutcliff’s epic novel of Roman Britain, Eagle of the Ninth.

Hiking from Steel Rigg to Housesteads Fort along Hadrian’s Wall did not disappoint. Atmospheric, ethereal, and majestic, it’s one of the best things we’ve ever done as a family.

Walking back to the car, we spotted a farmer hard at work fencing in the neighbouring field and I immediately felt a crushing sense of guilt that I wasn’t working too.

Why do we feel this as farmers? We’re an odd bunch, aren’t we. It’s probably because we’ve been conditioned to be busy since we were old enough to walk.

I can see myself in my 90s, crippled with arthritis, still half expecting the old man to walk round the corner and bollock me for sitting down while there’s jobs to be done.

Still, I got chatting to the farmer, and we ended up comparing notes on the trials and tribulations of tenant farming, the challenges of farming immediately adjacent to a World Heritage Site, and even established that we were both Harper Adams alumni.

Hello Julian if you’re reading this, it was very nice to meet you.