Will’s World: The incredible legend of Edgar v the rabbits

The day had started well. I’d finished feeding cattle, packed a lunch and flask, hitched up the plough, and was heading off to turn over some earth in the early autumn sunshine.

Unfortunately, Wrexham council had other plans, because not 300ft out of our yard gate sat a man, dressed head to toe in hi-vis, in a truck beside a Road Closed barrier.

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“Sorry mate, we’re resurfacing so you can’t get through,” he drawled.

“For how long?’ says I, with no small degree of incredulity in my tone.

“All day mate,” he replied.

“But how will I pick my kids up from school later?” I asked.

“We’ll be done by 2pm,” he said.

Road to nowhere

It crossed my mind that a farmer’s and a council road mender’s idea of “all day” is wildly different – and I should explain that our farm is at the end of a no-through lane too.

But before I could say anything else he uttered the immortal words: “Did no one let you know then? You should have had a letter.”

By now resisting the urge to go full Basil Fawlty on the poor man, I replied in the negative, before reversing back to the farm.

Still, I suppose I should feel comforted that in this rapidly changing and uncertain world our local council is, as it has always been, a bit rubbish.

Speaking of certainty, the next morning, the old man and I were hanging the side sheets in the silage pit ready for harvesting maize, and bracing ourselves for the inevitable gale-force wind that always hits when you start that job, when we received a phone call from my mother.

“You’re not going to believe this,” she started. Yes, they were back, and guess where the aforementioned maize was? That’s right, up the lane.

It didn’t help matters that I’d just received a face full of effluent either (which if I ever write a mildly amusing book about my life in farming I might use as a title A Face Full of Effluent by Will Evans – coming to bargain bins near you soon), but anyway, the blokes were very accommodating, and we managed to work it out.

The maize is all safely sheeted in the pit, and there’s no more potholes on the lane – happy days.

Hole in one

While I was following the forager round one of the fields in the tractor, a rabbit sped out of the crop in front of me, which reminded me of a much-repeated family legend.

One of my grandfather’s many brothers, Edgar Evans, would carry a sawn-off shotgun tucked into a sturdy rope around his waist while driving a binder, with the idea of blasting away at pesky rabbits when they ran out of the corn.

I can hear your doubts already, and trust me, I’ve also questioned the thought process behind this.

It doesn’t seem like the most accurate way of shooting anything at distance to say the least.

But who knows, perhaps he was just an avid fan of westerns and imagined himself riding across the Texas plains on a stagecoach.

What red-blooded man among us hasn’t, after all.

It doesn’t stop there, though. According to lore, while hastily tugging the shotgun out to shoot a rabbit, he accidentally shot himself in the foot instead.

Again, I question the veracity of this, because surely, he wouldn’t have had much foot left afterwards, but perhaps it’s best just to smile and go along with it.

It’s good story anyway, and I hope it gets passed on for a few more generations yet.