Farm on the M62: That easterly wind can be so cruel - Jill Thorp
When the east wind blows, we know about it. The house shivers, the dog shivers and we join in with the shivering. It has a way of finding it’s way inside. It needles and pries, searching out the tiniest of cracks and slithers to worm it’s way in to our home. No amount of heavy curtains or draught excluders keeps it out as we sit edging ever closer to the fire whilst desperately trying to ignore the intermittent icy blasts that streak across the room.
I find myself staring around the room, as if I can see it creeping in; halt it’s advance with a withering glare. But it just keeps coming. Our heating bill goes through the roof, the rantings and ravings I hear most mornings alert me to the speed of our usage and the money we are quite literally burning.
It doesn’t take a lot of wintry weather to cut us off from the outside world. Our steep drive quickly turns into the Cresta Run, daring us to give it a go. Many a time I’ve driven through the underpass and stared with horror at the glistening ramp, slick and menacing, challenging me to put a wheel on it’s icy surface. No amount of gritting deals with the ever constant stream of water running down and the subsequent night-time plummeting temperatures. Whilst the narrow strip of grass at the side provides a small safety net, the tight chicane at the bottom leaves little room for error. The recent arctic blast which was initially predicted to be in the words of the media a “danger to life event” proved far from it for us.
Scotland got a fair hammering but what else should we expect; it’s January, winter. Near hysteria erupted when it became clear that we could definitely get the little guy to school, the early morning text from them stating they would most definitely be open resulted in multiple door slamming followed by pleading and begging. However, the excitement of having a friend to stay for the weekend soon pushed the disappointment aside as he excitedly planned out the next forty eight hours.
I forget how lonely farming can be, the work load keeps the solitude at bay, but for a twelve year old lad, it can prove quite isolating. I realised how much he craved a sibling, a friend or just a partner in crime when I watched the two of them at the weekend. His friend, desperate to be a farmer and have a flock of his own was an absolute joy to have around.
Donned in wax jacket and flat cap, he worked tirelessly with the little guy, absorbing every shred of advice and encouragement that was showered on him. Corn bag in hand, he proudly led the Leicester girls up into the yard whilst we mucked the shed out, the little guy shrieking at him to run faster, don’t let them get to the bag! In and amongst sledging and endless laughter they never stopped all weekend. I remember the joy and pride that first swept across the little guy’s face when he gave his dog Bess her first command and she took it. His very own sheepdog, working for him. I saw that same glow light up another little face this weekend as she tore across the field, his words “away Bess” blowing in the breeze behind her.