Will’s World: Maize silaging has me in a bit of a flap
© Lee Boswell With every couple, there’s one who has a cast-iron immune system and robustly breezes through life laughing off all forms of illness as if they have their own personal forcefield.
And there’s another who, if they get within 100 yards of a virus, bug or infection, is guaranteed with absolute certainty to pick them up.
Guess which one of the two I am?
See also: What’s in your Livestock Shed? visits £115k lambing shed
About the author
Yes, I’m currently suffering with a serious flu that no doubt one of our numerous daughters has brought home from school. Honestly, the way I currently feel, I might not make it to next week.
If this is the last column I write, thanks for all the support over the years, and much love to you all.
Birds not of a feather
The couple thing also works with early mornings.
The present Mrs Evans is an enthusiastic and unapologetic lark, delighting in leaping out of bed at ungodly hours to get things done with all the energy and military precision that she brings to every aspect of our family life.
I, on the other hand, am an owl. I like going to bed late, do most of my best work then, and passionately despise early mornings.
It takes at least a few hours and three strong coffees to get my brain and body functioning correctly – and yes, you don’t have to tell me that I’m in the wrong job.
I’d say I made my bed and now I must lie in it. But unfortunately, I can’t.
There are exceptions to this, though. They are mostly on days when something exciting is happening – and such was the case last week when we were due to be harvesting maize.
I awoke like a Jack Russell hearing the postman, and was out the door in a flash to get everything ready for the contractors’ arrival.
The morning was as dark and still as a mill pond, and without so much as a hint of breeze in the air as I began to unroll the plastic side sheets in the silage pit.
It was one of those mild mid-September mornings when you can smell damp soil and rotting leaves in the air, and the only sound was came from me and the birds. I couldn’t help but smile.
I cut some bale string, fetched the ladder, and made a start on tying it up. And then, a raging hurricane arrived.
As the youths might say – if you know, you know – and this was very much one of those occasions.
Sheet feat
The wind went from 0 to about 60mph in what felt like a matter of seconds and I was left frantically clinging onto the sheet, as it flew horizontally away from the wall, like a doughty ship’s captain tied to the mast in the golden age of sail.
Why does this happen every time? Have there been studies of the phenomenon? Does it prove that the man upstairs has a twisted sense of humour?
“Bahahaha! I see that hopeless sinner Evans is tying up side sheets again, let’s get that wind blowing!”.
If these things are truly sent to try us, then it certainly did, and it took the old man pinning the sheet down with the telehandler and several bales before we could get it under some semblance of control.
After that dramatic start, the rest of the day went swimmingly, with a very decent crop filling the pit for winter, not an eggcup of soil leaving the field with it being so dry, and zero breakdowns.
Perhaps God really does love the sinner, after all.