The farmer and his wife

IT was about nine o’clock on a Friday night when we heard a vehicle pull up in the yard. You couldn’t miss it. I think it must have had a hole in its exhaust! Jip let the world know we had visitors. T

SHORTLY after we were married, a farmer’s wife from near Lanark rang Anne and asked if I was going to the sheep sales there that year. I was, so she persuaded Anne to come with me and stay the night w

RUTH climbed the narrow path to Windlow Hill. She had a canvas bag in one hand and her mother’s old cardigan tucked under the other. Below, the village looked almost as it had in her childhood – white

Miss Julia White, horsewoman, sailor, farmer and haunter of my own farming life (such as it isn’t) first appeared in my life when I was 17, trying to get myself to agricultural college. Or was it when

“Breaking up is never easy, I know…” Good old Abba – always ready with an apposite lyric, though in this case I suppose it should be “Letting go is never easy” as I say farewell to the garden I have m

Our columnist fondly recalls her childhood Christmases – apart from the time the milk ran out!