Two good days on the trot, and a chance to revisit the silage field at the moment of its healing.
I asked a friend to lift the bales and haul them home. His tractor’s bigger than mine, and he has the endless advantage of a front-end loader. So he piled the black bales high on his trailer and hauled them home through the hazel woods. Most people stack their bales into a tall pyramid like a toblerone, but my friend knows that I can’t reach anything above shoulder height with my David Brown. So he lined them out side by side and I’ll pick them when I need them with a spike on the three-point-link, slow and steady.
It was fine to see the field recovering. I doubt it will show much in the way of greenery until the spring, but the roots and the grass seem settled and pleased to have the air around them. This field is the powerhouse which drives my entire project, so it’s fair to give it time to draw breath.
Down on the merse, the tide was high and the water was filled with life. Teal and wigeon purred around in the floody pools, and a line of redshank bawled at me in the scum. There were greenshank too; standing tall and pale in the salty grass. I found the feathers of a greenshank on a peregrine’s perch last week. I daresay that bird was killed in this bend of brackish water and its body was carried away for safe-keeping. Peregrines follow this merse to the sea, and for all the fowl were keen to caper in the sunshine, it will pay them to keep an eye on the sky.