If A Farmer Calls Me To A

I Love Writing About My Job Because I Loved It, And It Was A Particularly Interesting One When I Was A Young Man. It Was Like Holidays With Pay To Me.

It Was Sunday Morning (one A.m.), A Not Unusual Time For Some Farmers, After A Late Saturday Night, To Have A Look Round Their Stock And Decide To Send For The Vet.

At Times It Seemed Unfair That I Should Be Paid For My Work; For Driving Out In The Early Morning With The Fields Glittering Under The First Pale Sunshine And The Wisps Of Mist Still Hanging On The High Tops.

I Could Do Terrible Things To People Who Dump Unwanted Animals By The Roadside.

And There Was That Letter From The Bramleys—that Really Made Me Feel Good. You Don’t Find People Like The Bramleys Now; Radio, Television And The Motorcar Have Carried The Outside World Into The Most Isolated Places So That The Simple People You Used To Meet On The Lonely Farms Are Rapidly Becoming Like People Anywhere Else. There Are Still A Few Left, Of Course—old Folk Who Cling To The Ways Of Their Fathers And When I Come Across Any Of Them I Like To Make Some Excuse To Sit Down And Talk With Them And Listen To The Old Yorkshire Words And Expressions Which Have Almost Disappeared.