Stuckness & Muckspreaders

There I was down on my knees hands clasping small spade and digging away at Sadie's nearly buried rear wheels. Yes. Sadie's rear end was well and truly stuck in soft sand. Don't ask me how it happened as all I know is that one minute I was heading for a nice grass covered parking spot. Next thing I knew there was crunching, ominous grinding, and a heart-stopping shuddering finality. Sadie, with stalled engine and impeccable timing uttered the immortal words; 

"We gotta problem Houston!"

This undignified and unceremonious arrival at Irelands Rosslare ferry port was deeply embarrassing and humbling; presenting as it did, a highly entertaining spectacle for all the other safely parked up motorhomes. As I knelt there digging away help was proffered by one of the English motorhomers as he dropped a few extra stones into the trench I was excavating. This trench would hopefully, and if all went according to plan,  facilitate Sadie's return to solid ground.

Then salvation. Or rather the very generous action by the one and only German motorhomer also parked up. He spoke little English but his actions said it all. Ropes were produced and while I secured them to Sadie he manoeuvred his motorhome into position and with very little effort tugged me free. I was so grateful that next day when we were all on the ferry I made a bee line for the shop, searched my rescuer out and presented him plus wife with a big luxurious, and bloody expensive, box of choccy's.

There is another side to this story. A quirky side which may be scorned by some but well understood and accepted by others. Before arriving at Rosslare Ferry port I had turned off the main road for a rest. I parked just outside a small village by a beautiful and well cared for grotto dedicated to Mary, Ave Maria, Gaia or whomsoever. For me, such grottos are places of powerful energy and are to be respected.

I was tired, I was parked right by the road and by the grotto, I wanted a cup of tea so I did not, or could not be bothered to kneel for a moment and pay due respect. Hmmmm! I should have known better. Approximately two hours later where was I? You've got it ...... on my knees humbly shoveling my way out of acute embarrasment.
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On my way South East towards Salisbury I visited Ray & Edwina in their snugly sheltered ground floor apartment in Kington. Ray is now ninety one and my X father in law. He still drives and they had returned only the day before from a few days in Somerset. Not bad eh! I guess I have a few years of happy wandering curiosity to go yet. Not sure how long Sadie will hold up though. Fingers crossed please for next weeks annual service and MOT.

I was also warmly welcomed, always such a privilege for me, as I called on two loyal customers from my many years of agricultural involvement. The first is now retired and slightly bemused as to the dismantling and changing by his son of all the years of hard work he put into building up a successful farming business. As he and his wife pragmatically indicated though. 'We are well away from it all, in a beautiful home and enjoying the ripening fruit of a long happy marriage'. A warming statement and I guess you can't ask for much more.

Frocester Court is very different. Eddie Price (call him up on Google and read the Telegraph Obituary) and his sons ran a traditional family farm and his sons still do to this day. It is that very word 'traditional' with perhaps the addition of 'intelligent and solid family management' which enables survival for them in the forever difficult and erratic agricultural marketplace. For example; milk costs around twenty eight pence per litre to produce. They, at present sell milk at fifteen pence a litre from their dairy with no other choices available.

"Bearing that in mind it's a good job we bought that galvanised rotary muckspreader off you twenty years ago. It is still going strong". Said eldest son  Richard as we walked over to it.

This was amazing and I looked around it, muck covered as it was. Sure enough it was in remarkably good condition. To those of you sensible enough to have never had anything to do with farming this will of course mean little. But let me assure you that muck and metal are the bitterest of enemies. Muck always comes out the winner and usually pummells shiny new muckspreaders into rusting abandoned hulks within eight or nine years. To see this machine still working away after twenty years completely justified the extra money spent when originally purchased.

I was reminded of another 'muckspreader' story as we continued our walk in glorious sunshine around the farm. This story comes from life after agriculture when I was working in Mental Health Wellbeing as a Counsellor.

I for several years was part of a team offering Support to employees of well known banks and finance houses in the City of London. 

"Hmmmmph! They don't need support". I hear you say. 

My take on it, having been a witness just behind the front line as it were; is that had sufficient correct employee support been in place the subsequent banking disasters may well not have happened. These employees were highly paid there is no doubt about that. They were also under intolerable and criminal pressure to perform regardless.

At the time I was working over the phone with an extremely highly paid fund manager from a top tier bank. Someone that in my agricultural life would have been up there with the Gods. As I listened attentively a mischievous thought popped into my head and gained memorable dominance for a few seconds.

"I wonder if this multi squillion pound earner knows his current telephone therapist is a guy who used to sell muckspreaders".

I am pleased to report this particular story does have a happy ending. Not all of them did unfortunately. My client slowly, over several weeks, withdrew from the yawning chasm of annihilation into reconciliation and repair of shattered work and family ideals.

One up for muckspreaders eh!