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Authors: Rosie Boycott
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Callum Elsworth, splendidly dressed as Asian, with a eat's mask and plenty of
yellow ribbons for his lion's mane. Down below the small stage, his parents, grandparents and an apparently endless stream
of cousins and aunts clap their delight.
It's easy in our current climate to romanticise a town like Ilminster. Locally, it is reckoned to be a 'nice' place, unlike
nearby Chard and Yeovil, which both have problems with binge-drinking and drugs. Certainly in a time when the home news agendas
are dominated by stories of binge-drinking teenagers throwing up in gutters, violence on inner-city estates, failing schools
and fractured communities, the cosiness of a small market town getting together to celebrate Christmas on a Thursday night
is wholly seductive. But it is narve to think that everything in Ilminster conforms to an idealised image of community life,
embedded in families and annual festivals which mark the regular turning of the seasons, connecting us to nature's cycles.
There's unemployment, illness, divorce and every other pitfall that is so much a part of the human lot. For a few short moments
that evening, however, I get a sense of something else which all too often seems to be missing, certainly from my own life
in the hustle of the city: a community which hangs together, bound through geography and common purpose, one which knows how
to celebrate small but pivotal achievements.
But I find myself wondering as I walk up the hill back home towards the Dairy House: if the supermarket came and the shops
started closing, if Lane's Garden Shop went bust and the baker and the chemist, would there be a Christmas shopping evening?
No one's going to bother to come if there aren't any mince pies or glasses of steaming mulled wine being handed out for free
to anyone who asks. Who on earth will be interested in a Tesco Christmas window?
I also realise that, in concentrating on the town, I've been ignoring all the reports I've read on farming, in particular
on small farms. They're closing at a steady rate, right across the country, and why should I assume that somehow we can avoid
becoming yet another statistic, a casualty of the war of the countryside, every bit as much as Bryan might well become a casualty
in the town? It wouldn't bankrupt Charlie and me if our farm collapsed, but I find it hard to contemplate just how much failure
would hurt. For David it would be a disaster. There are so many things that could go wrong: what happens if the chickens carry on
laying only twenty eggs a day? We've already had one sick pig: Guinness's foot got infected and required antibiotics and visits
from the vet. The bills soon topped the amount she had cost us as an eight-week-old weaner. What will happen if chicken flu
strikes? Or if Dillington House stops taking our vegetables, because they run out of patience at our inability to supply
all they need on a regular and reliable basis (as happens to small producers who attempt to supply the supermarkets)? Our
friends all too often refer to our farm as a hobby, but I realise that has changed. It's not just a hobby any more, it's something
that matters very much to Charlie and me and our life together. Somehow it has to succeed.
I keep my fingers crossed that the luck of the Tailor of Gloucester won't desert this town - or our farm.
4
Trees Are Excellent Listeners
Bluebell's departure from the north wood changes the balance of power among the females. In her absence, sister Bramble takes
over as top pig, pushing Babe firmly into second place. There's no doubt that Bramble is the biggest pig - she stands about
thirty inches tall and is getting fatter every day. She probably has another three inches to grow in height and many inches
to grow round her girth, but she now seems to have the psychological clout. All the pigs seem calmer, especially Babe. Now
she comes to the fence at a walk, instead of her usual pushy jostle, standing
yellow ribbons for his lion's mane. Down below the small stage, his parents, grandparents and an apparently endless stream
of cousins and aunts clap their delight.
It's easy in our current climate to romanticise a town like Ilminster. Locally, it is reckoned to be a 'nice' place, unlike
nearby Chard and Yeovil, which both have problems with binge-drinking and drugs. Certainly in a time when the home news agendas
are dominated by stories of binge-drinking teenagers throwing up in gutters, violence on inner-city estates, failing schools
and fractured communities, the cosiness of a small market town getting together to celebrate Christmas on a Thursday night
is wholly seductive. But it is narve to think that everything in Ilminster conforms to an idealised image of community life,
embedded in families and annual festivals which mark the regular turning of the seasons, connecting us to nature's cycles.
There's unemployment, illness, divorce and every other pitfall that is so much a part of the human lot. For a few short moments
that evening, however, I get a sense of something else which all too often seems to be missing, certainly from my own life
in the hustle of the city: a community which hangs together, bound through geography and common purpose, one which knows how
to celebrate small but pivotal achievements.
But I find myself wondering as I walk up the hill back home towards the Dairy House: if the supermarket came and the shops
started closing, if Lane's Garden Shop went bust and the baker and the chemist, would there be a Christmas shopping evening?
No one's going to bother to come if there aren't any mince pies or glasses of steaming mulled wine being handed out for free
to anyone who asks. Who on earth will be interested in a Tesco Christmas window?
I also realise that, in concentrating on the town, I've been ignoring all the reports I've read on farming, in particular
on small farms. They're closing at a steady rate, right across the country, and why should I assume that somehow we can avoid
becoming yet another statistic, a casualty of the war of the countryside, every bit as much as Bryan might well become a casualty
in the town? It wouldn't bankrupt Charlie and me if our farm collapsed, but I find it hard to contemplate just how much failure
would hurt. For David it would be a disaster. There are so many things that could go wrong: what happens if the chickens carry on
laying only twenty eggs a day? We've already had one sick pig: Guinness's foot got infected and required antibiotics and visits
from the vet. The bills soon topped the amount she had cost us as an eight-week-old weaner. What will happen if chicken flu
strikes? Or if Dillington House stops taking our vegetables, because they run out of patience at our inability to supply
all they need on a regular and reliable basis (as happens to small producers who attempt to supply the supermarkets)? Our
friends all too often refer to our farm as a hobby, but I realise that has changed. It's not just a hobby any more, it's something
that matters very much to Charlie and me and our life together. Somehow it has to succeed.
I keep my fingers crossed that the luck of the Tailor of Gloucester won't desert this town - or our farm.
4
Trees Are Excellent Listeners
Bluebell's departure from the north wood changes the balance of power among the females. In her absence, sister Bramble takes
over as top pig, pushing Babe firmly into second place. There's no doubt that Bramble is the biggest pig - she stands about
thirty inches tall and is getting fatter every day. She probably has another three inches to grow in height and many inches
to grow round her girth, but she now seems to have the psychological clout. All the pigs seem calmer, especially Babe. Now
she comes to the fence at a walk, instead of her usual pushy jostle, standing
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