Ploughing

It is Ploughing Match season again down here in Devon. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky at the weekend as we followed the trail of little white signs down a myriad of narrow lanes to the allotted fields. The actual ploughing was nearly over by the time we arrived. We watched the horses, clinking in all their regalia, circle round for the last time. There were one or two vintage tractors making adjustments before completing their final furrow. We ummed and aahed about who we thought had done best, but in the end, we proved ourselves too shallow not to be won over by the prettiest tractor.

There were sacks of oats and barley, and piles of beets and maize, adorned with winners certificates, to peruse. In the produce tent we marvelled at egg yolks and runner beans. The cake stall sagged under a veritable mountain of mouth-watering home baked treats. As I took a generous mouthful of jam scone, I gazed out over the golden fields to the trees and green hills beyond and felt the old pang that this time of year brings. Dark nights beckon, but just for now, I’ll revel in the bounty of September.