ALL being quiet for the next week, John had planned an escape from the farm. And me. Although he has already spent several days away shooting, there is still the lure, for him, of fishing.

Allegedly this is the prime time for salmon fishing as, again allegedly, this is when the fish come up to spawn. I understand the fish need rain and therefore fresh water into the river, to encourage them to swim up the river. They, in theory, return to where they were hatched, to repeat the circle of life.

But. And it is a big but. The fish need that rain to kick start the procedure. And there has been a distinct lack in recent weeks on the particular river John had planned to fish. Apparently it is great for paddling, but not for fishing.

Hope springs eternal for fishermen however so early last Sunday morning I put John on a train heading for Edinburgh. He was to be picked up at Waverley station by his friend Jerry to spend a week fishing, if there were any salmon, on the Tweed.

As they were being joined by another friend the next day, they will also no doubt have availed themselves of Jerry’s excellent range of home distilled gin and vodka (all legal) and may possibly not be doing as much fishing as they should.

Now although a reasonably capable fellow, who has been a self made, self employed farmer for many years, my husband is not a computer, mobile phone or internet savvy person.

I made the booking stressing a non smoking, forward facing seat and made sure I got him to the station on time. I did consider packing him a marmalade sandwich and attaching a note to his fleece that read “Please look after this farmer. Thank you.” But I was not allowed to.

Jerry had printed him a map showing exactly where to meet him outside Waverley station and John was under strict instructions not to get out at any of the other stations en-route. I had even shown him various views of the station on the internet and done a virtual tour on the computer.

Meanwhile I (and Geoff) were left in charge and so I decided on returning home to let the hens go free from the prison John had made for them. Bad idea. They scattered to every corner of the farm yard and the pet lambs in the paddock got into the hen run and snaffled the scattered corn I was feeding to the poultry.

How would I ever get the hens back in again at night I despaired, especially as the lambs looked very comfortably ensconced around the hen's grain feeder.

But six days on and hens, lambs and me, have come to a comfortable agreement. The hens are laying more eggs with access once more to fresh grass and the lambs cannot work out how to get under the stack bar I have placed across the gate to the run.

No fish yet though. Low water, high pressure, bright sunshine, east wind, stale fish. Honestly. Some people will find any excuse.