I live in farming country. Our village is Switzerland is surrounded by farms. If I decided to go somewhere, usually in my wheelchair, the first sight I see are the horses behind the local railway tracks. I always make a stop for a few photos. Sometimes there are just a few horses, and often there are many. And so I wheel on, cross the road and yes, I arrive at the next farm.
This is the real McCoy where the farmer plants the crops. I must be quite honest, growing up in London where the only crops we saw were the weeds growing between the paving stones, I have no idea what is what, but I believe this is barley. The field was planted next to the local castle.
Fields are everywhere, every spare space of land is planted with a crop. Now and again there is an empty field, where they just let the grass grow.
These are left to the cows for breakfast, dinner and tea. They are not fussy about the menu plan. as long as it is green and grassy. In the winter they get the dry version known as hay. If you can chew it, that is all that matters.
We are still in the castle grounds, and moving further down we get to the chicken coup.
Even chickens come in all shapes and sizes. These are the aristocrats, the silky breed. They usually keep themselves to themselves and apparently love to brood.
The average chicken is not so fussy and even shares its pastures with a couple of goats now and again.
And let us not forget the geese. They always seem to have something to cackle.
It is a mixture of neighing, mooing, cackling and crowing as you approach the farm, accompanied with the noise of the farmer’s tractor, even if it is only muck spreading. That is life out in the country, and I would not want to exchange it for anything else.
