Can’t beet having tot in backpack
IT’S been a dismal sort of a week. Mist has shrouded the moors, never clearing.
But my persistence with the fodder beet has finally paid off and after a week of dropping them out in the fields the sheep have finally begun to nibble at them.
They smell deliciously sweet and, as per usual, the children have been sampling the delights of these most ugly of root crops. They were soon reminded that they do not taste so good.
Other than some terrible-sounding peasant food and a lethal type of home brew once popular during prohibition, they are purely animal food.
Baby Nancy travels in the backpack as I do my rounds and is master of all she surveys, so long as her balaclava hasn’t obscured her view. If I turn to the side I just about catch a glance of a vision in pink, complete with a runny nose and a look of surprise.
The wind blows, the air is cold and her cheeks are pink but what a sparkle she has in her eye. I imagine her senses are in overdrive with the smells, taste and sounds of life on a hill farm.
All of my children have travelled via this conveyance. Held securely by the straps they don’t move even when I lean forwards to pick up piles of hay.
Nancy wears an all-in-one suit with bootees attached and mittens that I tie in place with string. I have discovered over time that mittens for baby are essential in the prevention of bald patches on my head.
Tearing my hair out over 20 tons of uneaten fodder beets is one thing but Nancy’s tiny fingers tearing clumps of my hair out is a real no-no.