Halloween has come and gone with little celebration from us. As children we would attend the odd party usually wearing a homemade costume, but being on the outskirts of a village at the top of a long steep hill, trick or treating never really reached our door. It would need to be a very determined trick or treater to trudge all the way out to Stott Hall. Getting past our Fort Knox style gate would deter most and those that decided to go through the creepy forest would definitely be spooked to death by the yelps, shrieks and hoots of the resident wildlife.

After driving home passing scores of little ghouls, witches and glow-in-the-dark skeletons all rattling their loot buckets, I felt guilty that I’d not gone to more effort for the little guy. Following a quick diversion to the local shop, we secured the last rather small and clearly unwanted pumpkin. John-William was delighted as he held aloft the lone orange vegetable, overcome with joy “there’s one left Mum” he yelled. We headed home and after failing miserably at drawing a sheep’s head with twisting horns, settled on a scary face. With a sharp knife I painstakingly hacked away, desperately trying to avoid severing any fingers, whilst a very excited child bounced up and down next to me. Any fanciful Mary Berry ideas I had of creating pumpkin soup or pumpkin spice scones from the middle of our miniature Jack o’ lantern soon went out of the window after battling with endless seeds and stringy lengths of slightly pungent orange flesh. Thankfully, after perseverance, a lit up and ever so slightly lopsided face sat in the window casting an eerie glow around the kitchen. There was much joy as he stood there in the darkness, admiring his artwork, a small thing bringing him immense delight. The feeling of being the world’s worst Mum eased and I reminded myself I’d saved his teeth from a mountain of sugar and fillings and judging by the howling wind and horizontal sheets of rain, a thorough soaking.

Our sheep shed is suddenly looking empty after an enthusiastic couple from Wales came and bought eight of our Bluefaced Leicester tup lambs. They went through them all, checking mouths and feet, discussing colour, size and overall conformation. Both Paul and I were surprised at how many they settled on, but as they were sharing some with a neighbouring farmer and running some on, they were keen to go home with a full trailer. As they were loaded up the ramp, I felt proud that they looked so well and hoped that they would thrive in their new home, three hours south in the hills above Builth Wells in mid Wales, the home of the Royal Welsh show. Paul of course was positively ecstatic as he waved them off down the lane and almost skipped back into the house muttering about what a good do that was. Knowing they’re going for breeding purposes makes it significantly easier to accept than when they head off with a one way ticket, which is something I will always find very difficult. Part and parcel of livestock rearing but far from easy for both of us.

What Halloween is like at the farm in the middle of the M62 - Jill Thorp