Jimmy Comerton and I were given the task of tidying up the big shed at the back of the yard. It was a wet autumn day, ideal for the job. After the frenzy of the harvest, the shed was in a mess. Bales of hay and straw had been thrown higgledy-piggledly everywhere, some bursting out of their bindings in an untidy sprawl. Machinery and tools had been lackadaisically discarded in unlikely places. We had also been commissioned to prepare a makeshift pen for the lambing season – my father always tended to think ahead.
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