There were few things i enjoyed better, than my weekends on the farm.
Back in the late 80's and early 90's.
I worked like a man possessed to achieve fame and fortune in the world of top class cuisine. I was lucky, i was good at what i did and i was surrounded by outstandingly talented assistant chefs.
This allowed me to enjoy the fruits of my labours with all the decadent trappings that money could buy;
and i enjoyed buying.
I had it good.
The time spent at Woodside farm was a refreshing break from the hustle and bustle of the big city. We were enjoying the peace of the countryside with little or no distraction.
A ten minute stroll to the local pub where a pleasant luch and a pint could be had without prying eyes looking to see how i tackled my food; no resident chef watching to see if i've eaten all and expecting to hear my congratulations on such fine culinary skill. It was generally good grub.
The walks around the farm with the dogs, Sooty and Rosie, was particularly relaxing. Seeing the new born calves, their mothers lining up to be milked, the horses playing with each other, the occaisonal sound of gunfire at the nearby pheasant shoot. Big Boris the bull always looked knackered but what a job he did!
Okay, so in the winter it was a little bleak at times, but we all ate plenty and often before crashing out in front of the real log fire. A peaceful nights sleep was usually the norm but now and again there were farm problems. even a city dweller like i enjoyed
'part-time farming'
On returning to the city, totally relaxed and ready for the ever challenging week that was to lie ahead, it was great to know that it wouldn't be too long before i once again was able to put on the 'green wellies' and go aimlessly squelching through the mires and cow-shit, with dozens of little kittens dodging the monsterous farm machinery
Happy Daze
That was just something else that you really fucked up for me Claire.
