The harsh light of reality.

The harsh light of reality has shone over the farm.

It is standing there, pointing a finger at all the hidden faults which were covered by the thick blanket of snow and ice.
The thaw has pulled the blanket back and exposed a multitude of sins; broken guttering here, burst drains there, missing slates, little heaps of rusting machinery...

The Spring work has come suddenly and we have hit the ground running.

A few days ago, I walked around the farm with a notebook and tried to list "What needs doing", then realised it was a bit futile and you could just whirl round blindfold and open your eyes to something which needed attention.

It is like a farmyard with hundreds of demanding children. "Me, me look at Me, come and spend time with me".

The elements have nibbled at paint and metal and left oxide bruises all over the place. The farm looks battered and hungover from a very wild night out.

The fields have been under attack too - moles have been busy under all the snow and there appears to be more brown mole heaps than grass.

Where on earth to start?

It is also bitterly cold with a lazy, icy wind blowing. The wind cuts through the many layers of clothes I have on and bites earlobes, fingers and nose. It renders the dung brown duffle coat as useless as if it was made of chiffon.

I plan to build a big fire today. The old rafters can be consumed by flame and return to the Great Shed in the Sky. They are so riddled with woodworm that they disintegrate when you pick them up and it is sad in a way. They once held the weight of a proper slate roof and sheltered many a beast from the hard elements and now they crumble to dust at the touch of a hand.

I can smell snow on the wind and the highest hills are dusted with a covering. It is still winter but it wears a false mask, a Spring like face with hidden arctic agenda.

I wish I could throw this winter on the bonfire and make it go away.