THE ground in front of the hen hut resembles a battlefield – craters and sink holes – most caused by Millie our terrier digging furiously to flush out a rat, and the earth giving way when the said rat runs collapse. Go out in the dark to shut the hens in and you risk a broken ankle.

Despite Millie’s efforts, no matter how many traps are set or poison laid, the rats still proliferate. It is not helped by someone in our village providing a handy home for retired rats under a caravan in her garden. Food is conveniently left out for the birds just in front of this old van and the rats pop in and out with impunity to feast.

Around this rat haven, neighbours despair. Two have a vermin control service call every few weeks. We have several traps set permanently around the farm and a red-hot rat catcher in the shape of Millie; otherwise we would be overrun.

I have asked the rat lady, as she is called, if we could set traps under the caravan or let Millie loose on the vermin, as she herself knows they are a problem. But her beliefs she tells me, do not allow her to take the life of an animal. She may change if she finds one in her bedroom.

I have been delegated to speak to this neighbour as John is currently of a testy disposition, being unable to get on with making silage. The weather is against us. Enough days to dry the grass out after it is cut, but then downpours forecast on the crucial day to bring the silage home.

Next week’s forecast looks dull, but dry and it could possibly be a goer. But as a result of this frustration over the silage, John is not minded to be diplomatic about the rats, or anything else for that matter.

While we are in this midst of this unnatural calm in farm activities, I have been practising my skills at casting. I have rigged myself up with a new rod at our fishing pond. When I was fishing on the loch on holiday, the cross winds played havoc with my line. Frequently it was vertical – not many fish in the stratosphere. John always makes casting look so easy, but I lack staying power, so he has devised a training programme for me and after this new regime in skills and techniques of casting, he aims to rid me of all my bad habits. What an optimist. Big Bad Barry, as my granddaughter Sophie calls all fish, had best look out.