It is the 18th October 2017 and it seems hard to believe that today I have been carrying the 3rd cut of silage back to the farm. The latest silage cut I have known and the latest that Dafydd’s man Mouse, the baler driver, has known. But when you consider the average age of the British or European farmer, then Mouse and I are babies when it comes to farming. We’re not old enough to remember when the hayricks of Kent appeared orange as they reflected the terrible glow of the Great Fire of London, yet go to Ashford Market, all you’ll them going on about is that momentous night, STILL! My farming memories stretch back to things like John Gummer feeding his child a beef burger in front of a wall of cameras and the time that Edwina Currie killed all the chicken farmers. But, I digress. The 3rd cut was late and the weather has not been kind to any of us, other than June, which was good and we made hay and drank ale and ate Hafod. Upon reflection however, we have been ridiculously lucky through all this awful weather – we somehow, SOMEHOW picked-up a bumper harvest of oats, peas and barley AND a load of NON-MOULDY straw. Now, somehow, we managed to land the 3rd cut of red clover. Fortune smiled when Patrick saw fit to get Dafydd’s Dan to cut the clover, for it was then dried by the remarkable hot winds that came blowing across the farm - like God’s very own hair dryer - ahead of Storm Ophelia. We got the clover remarkably dry and all of the farmers in the Welsh hills and mountains had, for one precious heaven-sent day, the most fabulous hair dos.