Snowdrops and Akanites currently litter our garden; a hint of colour before spring breaks through and the daffodils emerge from hibernation. Many years ago I planted a few tiny bluebells underneath the holly tree by the back door and each year they too bow their heads in readiness to grace our garden with colour. These tiny flowers that appear year on year always bring back poignant memories for me, memories of my late father-in-law who, even though had lived on the farm since 1924 (his birth), had no idea who had created such grace within our surroundings. He suspected it had been his mother on her rare days off as a farmer's wife, or maybe his father in between working the land with shire horses. Life on the farm was so different back then; machinery not an option, horse power readily available. But whoever planted our ancient beauties will live on this farm forever, their joy peeping through the soil each and every year in remembrance of their toil.
A farm as old as this one has seen so much; hardship, laughter, fortune and failure, but most of all it has seen life. As we sit back after a hard day's work, fill in the daily journal and sift through the paperwork that continues to mount and bring a farmer's job to a halt, to look out onto a space filled with vibrancy makes it all worthwhile. Who are we to end a farmer's dream, to stop the flowers dripping their golden glow onto our bare feet? Who are we to forget the memories that were once a heartfelt task by farmer's hands of rough skin and calluses? While those sweet little buds of colour rise above the earth, so will we, farmers who love this land, who work and strive to keep the circle of life as prolific as once an ancestor's dreams for a future were created.