WE are into the barley and harvest has started. Glorious shining stalks glistening like gold in the afternoon sunshine. And coming in at 14.2 per cent moisture, which if we were sending it into the grain merchant would mean no drying costs.

As it is we shall be using all the crop for animal feed and the sound of barley being rolled will once more dominate early mornings.

The timing is a little unfortunate for John because Geoff, his brother who usually helps at harvest, is only recently out of hospital, and I am accompanying my oldest daughter and her family to Spain. As Ollie, my grandson, is severely autistic, non-verbal and an accomplished escapologist, it will be an interesting break. Definitely not relaxing, but certainly interesting. The new regulations on fully-charged electronic games, iPads and laptops may prove a little stressful as Ollie enjoys playing with all of these, and is not very amenable or understanding of why we may need to restrict their use to conserve the batteries. Could be fun. Or not.

As usual I have left John with enough food to last a month. He has already been invited out for a few meals, but if everyone else is busy with harvest, grab a bite when you can is the order of the day.

Geoff has had surgery on his lung. He gave up smoking 15 years ago, but a shadow proved sinister and needed excising. All looks well and the operation was successful. Like John, Geoff keeps fit, so the prognosis is good for a swift recovery. But it does mean John is a tractor man down and now even his reserve, moi, is unavailable. The weather is looking good and with no breakdowns (fingers crossed) he hopes to finish tomorrow.

With my ducklings (sob) gone, that is one less job for him. The two surviving ducklings were traumatised for a day or so and would not leave their shelter. Now though they have attached themselves to an adult Aylesbury duck using their run for rest and recuperation. She is the sole female and the four drakes have been giving her such a hard time. I tell you the poultry world is a den of vice and violence.

The guinea fowl, however, are thriving. A vast confusion (NB: collective noun) of them trail round the yard following their preferred foster mums. There is also a cross-over period while one of the hens goes off to lay an egg and this is the time when the rejected foster mum pounces and triumphantly leads the gang off in another direction.

Rape, pillage and subterfuge. We’ve got the lot here.