We walked past the cattle munching contentedly in the barn towards the glow of the farmhouse kitchen, the only light disturbing the blaze of the autumn stars. We’d tried, unsuccessfully, for a roe doe, but the expedition was as was much about seeing each other as putting venison in the freezer. The darkening months can be lonely for rural people and any sporting foray is a welcome excuse to see old friends.
My friend is a farmer’s son. How long his family have farmed isn’t a secret but it’s vague: like many yeomen, their ties to their acres drift back centuries and often predate the claims of ‘grander’ families who like to think they are the ‘county’.
Locals only
Inside the kitchen,
