Good intentions for the festive period don't go to plan at the farm on the M62

I had every intention of being organised this year. The tree would be bought the very first day of December, all presents which I had, of course, bought throughout the year would be wrapped and the cupboards full to the brim with mince pies, mulled wine and chocolate.

However, as with the best laid plans o’ mice an’ men, none of the above happened on time.

The tree arrived this week, thanks to my mother who after driving around the Holme Valley, eventually found somewhere that hadn’t completely sold out.

Gift shopping also commenced this last week and our cupboards are distinctly lacking in any seasonal treats.

After Boo, one of our Teckels, attempted to poison herself by eating an entire box of mince pies one year, they’re banned from the house. She of course lived to fight another day, but it was decided that as her daughter has inherited her food thieving ways, we’d just not bother with them.

I had grand plans to decorate the outside of the house, something I’ve been determined to do since John-William was born. My vision of prancing reindeers, giant waving Santas and dancing elves as well as a multitude of brightly coloured lights adorning the roof and back field were met with a stony glare.

“Perhaps the sheep shed could have a string of festive lights” I said.

Again the fixed glare. Visions of a brief magical display of lights and cheer, followed by a bang and the entire house, motorway and possibly valley being plunged into darkness have clearly brought the Ebenezer Scrooge out in my husband.

In amongst the Christmas shopping and the dreaded annual house tidy, where every Classic Tractor magazine, piece of Lego, half-chewed sock and stray flat cap is crammed into an already filled to capacity cupboard, the cows are busy calving and mile upon mile of electric fencing is going up and coming back down.

Saturated land greets us wherever we go, making the task of fencing even more tedious. Piles of muddy, steaming overalls and waterproofs lay discarded on the kitchen floor, the washing machine running constantly.

The sheep look done in, even my Welsh Mountain ponies are fed up of the constant rain and mud.

It’s no surprise our farm is yet again resembling the Battle of the Somme, being built entirely on a peat bog. Leaving the odd welly behind in a gateway or succumbing to a slippery banking and finding yourself gazing at the skies above is part and parcel of life here.

The ever present oozing mud is inescapable and you just have to accept it. As I discovered at the weekend when I was coerced into it by the little guy, sliding down a muddy embankment on your derriere is quite good fun!