When winter came back
WHEN winter came back, I was at the top of the hill, ratcheting a line of barbed wire so tight it sang fierce. We have animals that could give Harry Houdini lessons in escapology. I had been on the fencing—in traditional farming, we do not ‘do’ a job, we are ‘on lambing’, ‘on haying’ and so on—all the morning. It had been warm, great tits had belled in the wood, a brimstone butterfly had erupted from nowhere in a puff of primrose yellow and
