microscopic territorial terror

It has been wonderful to recover, for human and ovine use, the three horse fields.

Apparently sheep and horses cannot share the same pasture – or at least the same water – because the liver fluke that sheep harbour are even more disastrous for horses. On this basis we have been circulating the sheep, with some difficulty, on the five other fields, plus the two woodland pastures.

The sheep, too, seem to be delighted to recover grasslands that a only a few of the great grandmother sheep remember – at least that is how it seems for persuading them to enter the fields is not yet easy. Once in they are perfectly happy.

I, too, have been exploring these fields to see how the sowing, done so many years ago, has stood up to the aggressive pasturing of the horses, not to mention the weight on their hooves. Some 600kg stomping around on four iron clad feet tends to discourage plants. But so far, so good. There is still a lot of clover valiantly showing ragged heads, also vetches have survived. And there are buttercups (sheep don't eat those) and, of course dandelions, known in Dutch as 'horse flowers' which seems more accurate than 'lion's teeth' which is their French (and English) name. Neither horses , nor sheep, eat those – but some humans will take their leaves for salad. Here and there are savage clumps of high thistles but not as many as I feared.

'Horseflowers' put a sheen of yellow on the field, 'Greece' rises behind.

Not  least, some grass has survived and we shall see at the end of the summer whether it has prospered or whether we need to re-sow by 'scratching' the fields rather than plowing, then spreading seed. These are poor fields with shallow soil, best at growing stones, so ploughing is to be avoided.

The most interesting is no: 3 Horsefield, the one in the valley, at the foot of the pine plantation and running alongside the rising slope of scrubland that we have christened 'Greece'. This is very good terrain for wild orchids, wild fruit trees and wild pigs. In wet times a stream runs through it.

But, somewhere in this field, lives a highly aggressive, microscopic acarien with paranoid territorial tendencies. If I knew exactly where it lived, I would politely avoid its domain. But I do not. So once again, dear Reader, as some six years ago, Before Horse, it bit me. And I duly suffered. Two anti-histamine tablets, a long bath and a larger glass of wine partly defeated its evil purpose. But, you could say, it has won. Because there is no way I am going to walk in that field again.