There’s something about a bright winter’s morning that does wonders for the soul. As the first light spills over the horizon—turning frosted fields into a tapestry of silver—the farm is momentarily silent but for the call of a wandering pheasant or the distant hum of traffic. This is the time of day that allows a farmer a rare moment of contentment.
Winter on the farm can be a grind. The long, dark nights seem to swallow the meagre days whole. Mud gets everywhere and tests both patience and machinery. The British maritime cold—much wetter than its continental cousin—has a way of seeping into the bones and spirit, and the daily wrestle with numb fingers and icy padlocks is an exercise in endurance. But then, just when the grey and gloom threaten to become a permanent state of mind, a beautiful morning like this arrives.
I’ve come to realise that these moments—especially the first light of day and the final glow of sunset—are crucial for my own mental wellbeing. Farming is relentless; a job where the to-do list never ends, and where it’s easy to fall into the habit of worrying about what’s next or dwelling on what didn’t go right yesterday. But on days like this, when the sun rises clear against an unbroken blue sky, I remind myself to just be present.
The sky is scrubbed clean by the cold and the air is sharp over the flat fields of Cambridgeshire. I feel as though I can see to the edge of the earth. In winter the sun never gets particularly high, so long shadows stretch across the land, highlighting every contour and furrow. Each crunching footstep leaves a print in the frost that glistens like powdered glass. This is a day that demands to be savoured.
Instead of racing into the workload, ticking off tasks as I go, I now make a point of pausing. I stand in the yard, my breath rising in the cold air, and simply watch the sun creep above the horizon. It’s a ritual of sorts, a moment to reset before the day begins in earnest. And in the evening, as the last golden light spills over the fields, I do the same, letting the quiet settle in, feeling the satisfaction of a day’s work done.
There’s science behind it, of course. Studies show that watching the sun rise and set can help regulate circadian rhythms and reduce stress. But more importantly than the health stuff, it just feels good.
Farming is at its core about working with time, not against it. On a crisp winter’s day, I’m reminded that there are moments when the best thing you can do is stop what you’re doing.
And it’s for this reason, after three years of writing, that now feels like the right time to bring this column to a close. It has been a privilege to share stories from the farm—both the triumphs and the struggles—and to connect with so many readers along the way. I’ve travelled far and wide as I’ve learned about farming, I’ve met great characters at the cattle market and I’ve been confounded by conspiracy theorists. I’ve pondered Jeremy Clarkson, protested politics and, at one particularly low point, I shot a sheep.
Thank you for your thoughts and your company. Thank you for buying British and supporting your farmers. I hope, wherever you are, you take a moment today to step outside, take a breath and simply enjoy the world as you find it.
