Page 28 of Christmas at Hollybush Farm
‘Come home soon,’ he says, and the voice inside me says,But I already am.
I press the red button, hang up and hold the phone to my chin, thinking about what he’s just said. Maybe I am too close to it all. Maybe the answer is to sell Gramps’s field for solar panels. What’s the alternative? Selling the farm altogether?
I look out of the feed shed, towards the lights of the town. The temperature has dropped again. I take a picture of the stars as they start to pop out one by one over Gramps’s field and post it on my Instagram account. #ThinkingofGramps #Home #Onthefarm.
Back in the farmhouse, I take Dad a bowl of cawl on a tray, prop him up on his pillows and lay it on hislap. He smiles a watery smile. ‘Diolch, cariad,’ he says, his shaking hand holding the spoon.
‘Here, let me help,’ I say, taking his hand and guiding it to his mouth. He slurps. ‘Just like you used to make?’
‘Just like it! In the good old days.’
‘Yes.’ The word catches in my throat.
His eyes fill with tears. He leans back against his pillows and I know he’s exhausted. ‘It’s gone, though. Those days …’
My eyes fill too. ‘Not yet they haven’t, Dad, not yet.’
‘This place, it’s not a family home any more. It’s time to take what’s on offer.’
I clear my throat and raise the spoon with more cawl. ‘We still have plenty more cawl.’ I smile at him. ‘And hope.’ But, in my heart of hearts, I know he’s right … I can’t for the life of me think of another solution.
Early the following morning, I put on my coat and wellies. The wind is flinging the rain into my face as soon as I step outside the front door, as if it’s punishing me for staying away so long. I spend the next couple of hours feeding the ewes with hay and ewe nuts, and breaking up the ice that’s formed overnight in the water butts.
With the ewes content, Bertie and Harriet fed, I go back to the feed shed and sit on a straw bale, Ffionand Dewi at my feet. I’m cold, wet and thoroughly miserable and, if I’m honest, alone. My hands are freezing from the water in the butts as I made sure they were running free. I pull off my gloves. My hands are red with cold. This is hard work and for what? For the fields to be turned over to solar panels.
I sit there, listening to the rain against the window. More like sleet, now the weather’s turned colder. The feed shed has always been my place of safety. When my mother left, this was where I’d come, angry she’d hurt my dad so much. Sad to see him sad. But I realize now how he felt. Not good enough. And maybe that’s how I feel. I’ve spent all this time working my way up the career ladder to feel good enough. Good enough for who? Or for what? For me?
I look at the metal stalls, ready for lambing. Something we always looked forward to, coming out of winter and into the brighter, lighter days of spring. I look at my phone, wanting to share how I’m feeling. But with whom? Clearly not Matthew, who doesn’t get it. I want to share how sad and frustrated I feel that all this work has been for nothing. Two generations that have farmed the land, cared for the livestock, produced the best they could, for what? I want to say that I can’t see any hope of people wanting to take on this job. The older farmers are getting out of farming and I don’t blame the younger onesfor looking to work elsewhere. There are jobs in the local supermarket that pay more.
But no one seems to know where their food has come from! It’s not grown in the supermarkets. And that means animals have to be cared for. I look out at our sheep grazing on the fresh pasture I’ve just moved them to, with Ffion’s help – Dewi’s over-enthusiasm made the job take longer than it should have done. I love Ffion’s patience with him and the ewes, doing what she has always done, working gently but firmly to move them to fresher pasture and give the fields a rest. It amazes me how she understands what needs doing, how the grass needs time to recover to make a better habitat for them, Nature working to give us what we need. I want to tell someone how fantastic it is out here, but also how blooming hard.
So who do I want to call? If not Matthew, who?
I put some music on but somehow the mix I’ve selected just seems to bring me further down.
What if we were to sell the farm? If Dad were to come with us to Seattle? But who would take this on? Why would anyone want to? It doesn’t make money. It doesn’t make sense …
And yet, leaving it, the ewes that have grazed on this land, feels like erasing the past.
Ffion settles down at my feet and Dewi chases wind-blown straw around the barn. I put my phone beside me. I look out of the window. I love this place.The familiar view. I always have. I take a deep breath. I love the smell of the lambing shed, yet the feeling of isolation is almost overwhelming. I’m so used to having a phone in hand, pinging and vibrating when messages come in: WhatsApp, Facebook, Instagram, email. But right now, I feel as if I’ve fallen off the edge of the world. Would anyone even notice if I had? Matthew maybe. I’m missing him … At least, I think I am. Or maybe I’m missing the little messages throughout the day. The plans for drinks or dinner. There are no plans here. Just waiting. Waiting for Dad to get better. Waiting for the rain to subside. Waiting for the days to get longer and lighter. But then what? What are we waiting for? Waiting until something worse happens? Or someone buys all of the land for solar panels? Waiting to live again.
Phffff…
I pick up my phone and check for messages. Nothing. HR has clearly told everyone I’m not available and someone else is dealing with everything at work. I scroll through social media, see everyone living their best lives. I have no idea what will happen here. My muscles hurt. Everything hurts. And for what? For Dad still to be trying to keep the farm going on his own because he can’t afford help. What’s it all for? Tears spring to my eyes. I brush them away. Ffion looks up and snuggles closer to my legs, which I really appreciate. If only other people could seehow beautiful it is here. That this is where their food comes from, not plastic packets in the supermarkets or on a moped, delivered by a struggling student.
I hear the ewes call in the rain, keeping in touch with each other, making sure they’re all safe. I can see them huddling under one of the big oak trees, settled into their new field for the next few days. I lift my phone to take a picture.
My fingers are clumsy and I end up taking a picture of myself. I look at it. I hardly recognize the face in the photo.
I’m cold and wet. Worry is etched on my face, as I wonder what’s going to happen to this place and to Dad when the inevitable occurs. If not Llew Griffiths then some other agent will be looking to buy land and plant trees or more solar panels. What will the future look like when farms like this are gone and we wonder where the green fields went? Who would want to carry on doing this thankless job? I look out again at the flock. A flock that has continued since my grandfather’s day, cared for and part of the family.
I look down at the phone and lift it again. I don’t know who, but I have to tell someone how I’m feeling about this. It can’t all be for nothing. I have no idea if anyone out there will understand, but I turn the camera to take in the fields over my shoulder. This time, I press the live button on my Instagram account, deliberately.
‘Three, two, one … you’re live,’ says the screen, and I’m like a rabbit caught in bright headlights. What am I doing? Who am I trying to tell, and what am I trying to tell them? That I’m lonely, scared for the future, worried for the farm and the flock?
I feel a nudge on my leg as Ffion leans into me again. I look down at her and she barks. A single, supportive woof.
‘Um, yeah, hello.’ I stare at my face. ‘I’m Jem and I’m working on my family farm in west Wales.’ I take a deep breath. ‘I’m cold, tired and I’ve never felt lonelier. I just wanted to share that with someone. But I also know I don’t want to give up on this farm. I don’t want to sell our land so that solar panels can be installed here. I don’t want to eat meat that’s been flown halfway around the world or generated in a laboratory. Any food for that matter. Yesterday I ate a jacket potato and, for the first time in ages, it was real food. Comfort food. A basic jacket potato, with butter and cheese. It wasn’t just me. There were a few of us. All enjoying something as simple as a jacket potato and the company of others. It’s a lonely life being a farmer. It’s hard work. But when I got home from that lunch, I pulled out the ingredients and made cawl for me and my dad. He’s been ill. Cut himself and got sepsis. So, I’ve taken on the farm, just for a bit. Until …’ I stop. No need to tell anyone it’s until we decide what to do with it. I see an image ofDad moving to Seattle with me. A confused, blurry image that doesn’t sit right. Eating a pizza from a box arriving by Deliveroo. ‘I made cawl. It made me feel better. And him …’ I stop. I don’t know why I’m doing this.
