Farmhouse Journal

Here is a way to keep warm on a bitter, snowy day.

At half past six the alarm goes off. It will be an hour and a half before sunrise, but there is a pale, eerie glow outside, like dim moonlight. Also a deathly hush. Upon further inspection we discover that, contrary to all our hopes, Sussex has succumbed to the Frost Giants that have captured most of the country for the past week. Our world lies under a foot of snow and the flakes are still steadily falling. We heave out of bed and into layers of clothes – extra socks, leggings, mittens - check that the rayburn is still alight, turf the Bramley apples out of the sledge and load up to feed the Stoneywish animals on foot. Also part of the kit: a flask of hot water to defrost the gate padlock, a broom to sweep the snow off the gypsy caravan roof, a camera, wellies and sacks of corn and barley. It takes two of us to lug the sledge along as the snow is sticky and piles up under the runners. Tree branches along the path, drooping under the weight of the downfall, catch on our hats and tip their icy loads down the backs of our necks as we pass.

The top of the big pond has become a frozen slab, grey and solid as slate where the water birds take tentative steps. And the animals greet us in the half light, faces and backs matted with snow, feet lost in it, attention narrowed to the urgent matter of eating as much and as quickly as possible.

Today is Michael’s birthday. Plans for a family lunch have sadly had to be postponed, as his daughters are unable to travel, but he remains philosophical. 1938 was just such a year as this and on the day he was born, his father dragged hay on a sledge to cattle which were stranded in the drifts in nearby Keymer. I think he finds it satisfying that the pattern of history has set him walking, as it were, in his father’s footsteps. It is the second day of Advent and the shops are full of imitation icicles, reindeer, snowflakes and all the trappings of a winter dream. But this actual snow has a sense of unreality too. For one thing, the oaks have not yet lost their leaves. The full, summer profiles of the trees sit oddly in the frozen landscape. Each time the wind blows, a dusting of birch catkin bracts and brittle brown leaves comes down, littering the pure white beneath. The world wasn’t quite ready for this. Poor black hen still has a bald rump from her late moult!

We break ice in the water troughs, cart hay, distribute corn, barley, oats. And trudge home, warm as toast, for a birthday fry up. Everybody telephones to congratulate the birthday boy, but there is no rest for him. The yard needs shovelling clear, logs have to be fetched. By the time that is done and I have dealt with the usual waterfowl scrum on the Black Swan Pond, we are late for lunch and the snow is still falling and by two o’clock the light is beginning to fail and it is time to set off with buckets and sacks and feed the animals all over again! The trudging, hauling, sweeping, bashing has found out every aching muscle we possess. But the quiet beauty of the Reserve, the sudden sense of closeness to nature that a bit of hardship brings, gives us energy – enough energy even to plough back and retrieve a shovel dropped at the wrong end of the farm! The snow is studded with footprints: geese, moorhens, rabbits … we know exactly which way the foxes have gone! And our own footprints from the morning, preceding us home, are a welcome, companionable sight.

Finally returned, we set about the evening chores, lighting fires, cooking supper … It is dark and still outside. Even the owls are silent. I want to fall asleep, but resist it, because the sooner I sleep, the sooner I know it will be 6.30 a.m. and the start of another day of toil. But we are warm. A log fire warms you twice, says Michael: once chopping the wood, and once burning it. And he has another saying for a winter’s day. This weather is what he calls ‘the Master’s weather’ because labourers must work hard to keep warm and the master doesn’t need to chide them. Today has proved that at 72 he is still young enough to be a good labourer, and, angina notwithstanding, I have made a passable labourer’s mate. So we are both happy. Once we have had our slice of birthday cake we can rest easy – all the animals have full tummies!