I can see him now, grandad, on his faithful red tractor, gone these last nine years.
His old face, battered like the drystone walls by the hard Yorkshire weather. He’d walk the fields daily, taking a fistful of this rough dark earth, letting it fall between his fingers, as checking its wellbeing. Grandad had faith that nature would regenerate herself.
My dad isn’t so sure, he wants to provide for our family, he needs profits, faster yields.
Soon the farm will be mine, I will have children. Where is my allegiance ?
