Dare I say it but it feels like summer is finally making a sneaky arrival. Just when I had gotten use to the fact that my feet were unlikely to see anything other than the inside of my wellies this year, last week provided a grand total of seven days of pure sunshine based satisfaction.
Spending any moment inside just wasn’t an option I was going to consider especially with the dreaded jury duty I was obliged to endure was only a few days away. I don’t see the sunshine as an excuse just to lie around and add colour to my jaundice looking shade of skin, to me it’s a time when outdoor jobs are at their most pleasant, weeding, pruning, digging and most types of horticultural chores become enjoyable rather than the laborious tasks they seem to be when the rain seems to be on a constant flow.
Living a farmer girl type life for some time now, it has become installed in me that when the sun starts to shine, work must not be avoided but embraced in the most slave flogging ways.
As a young girl, my summer months would consist of long heat sweltering days on the back of a rickety old wooden hay trailer with not even a postage stamp worth of shade.
For hours we would be passed the hay bales via some weight bearing but incredibly strong men on a hay fork, which we would then proceed to stack in a interlocking fashion that meant it would be possible ( and safe ) for the 10 – layer high trailers to be travelled down the lane.
If we thought it was bad enough in the bare heat of the mid-day sunshine in the middle of a harvested field, it was preferably refreshing compared to the suffocating hours we then had to spend re – stacking every hay bale once more on the inside of a heat retaining barn where the air seemed to be sucked up by some un known force as soon as it had exhaled itself from your body.
Looking back I have no idea why I endured it for so long. The hours dragged on, the temperatures were immense and the injuries were a plenty. But when I could have been hanging round some run down park, swigging from a bottle of cider that tasted like the contents of someone’s bladder, I think I got off lightly ( even though the wage was mildly Victorian like ).
Laughter was a plenty and the thickly buttered best ham sandwiches brought to our starving selves by the farms 90 year old first proprietor ( god rest his soul ) made my allegiance to the cause all that much greater. The next two generations down from granddad ran the show, well, being father and son they naturally thought one was boss of the other, a mutual respect that still runs strongly through them both today. Little was I to know that the teasing, whip cracking, slave labour enforcing son of the business was to become the person who I was to spend the rest of my life with.
Over the years I’ve been promoted from lowly bale stacker to chief tractor driver to the one who just turns up with the sandwiches. I would like to thank my marriage for my uplifting through the ranks but thanks to new machinery and time saving new ways, my assistance is no longer needed. My marital status would be a pathetic excuse in my husband’s eyes.
For two summers on the row now my tractor driving skills have not been called for, which if I am being honest was doing my credibility no favours, but my inability to sit still in the sunshine is still prevalent in me. The smell of the harvest chugging past me as I relentlessly slapped paint on to the never ending summer house ( as it has seemed ) triggered a unwanted feeling of envy to those who were collecting their harvests in this short lived bout of good weather we were having.
In my newly appointed role as ‘Farmer’s Wife, it is my duty to provide a hearty feast for my man on his arrival home after a hard day’s work in the field. Feminists can worry not, for I am not dressed in an a – line style skirt and pretty frilly apron (yet), or do I get his pipe and slippers ready for as soon as he walks through the door, but having been there and done it I can appreciate how much of your blood sweat and tears goes into making just one bale of hay, so the need for a hearty meal on your return home is not just necessary but it is a must.
Lamb baked in hay.
I appreciate that hay isn’t likely to be found on the shelves of your local supermarket but look out over the next couple of weeks in any nearby fields for any harvesting going on. If you are quick you may be able to sneak a bagful before the farmer gets back from his dinner!
1 joint of lamb – shoulder/leg etc.
2 cloves of garlic – peeled and sliced
2 sprigs of rosemary – cut into small pieces
Salt and pepper
Olive oil
One wine glass of white wine
1 handful of freshly cut hay
Pre – heat the oven to 180oc.
Soak the hay in a large bowl for about 15 minutes, then drain.
Make small incisions in your lamb joint then fill them up with the slices and garlic and the rosemary. Drizzle the olive oil and the wine all over and season with salt and pepper.
Place a layer of hay in the bottom of a lidded roasting tin and put your lamb on top. Cover with another layer of hay then place the lid on top of the roasting tin taking care to seal any way word strands of hay and roast in the oven for 30 minutes per 500g. Once cooked allow to stand for 15 minutes before unwrapping your parcel and seeing the moist and juicy lamb that awaits you underneath.
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