I was walking along a deep field ditch looking for a drainage outfall in the opposite bank when I slipped and fell into the ditch. I ended up wet in a patch of briars, like Brer Rabbit, with thorns hooked into me everywhere.

Temporarily shocked into silence, I broke the grey November stillness with a few expletives (unlike Brer Rabbit). This finished, I began to extricate myself by grabbing hold of a clump of grass at eye level on the bank and hauling my uncompromising body up the steep and briary bank.

Now, even five years ago this wouldn’t have been a problem but at age 58, it definitely was a problem. I was shocked at my inability to pull my own weight. The effort left me breathless by the time I was back on terra firma. Okay, as an asthmatic, I wouldn’t have a huge amount of puff at the best of times, but this depleted me.

Immobile

The second incident was similar. In a rush after a bullock, I needed to jump across a wall at shoulder height. But could I pull myself up high enough to swing a leg across the wall? Not a chance. I was, once again, amazed at how immobile I was becoming.

Recently, I was in the yard of a go-ahead farmer in his fifties and I asked did he himself castrate his (strong) weanlings? “No I didn’t,” came the reply “the vet did it, sure I’m bo***xed.”

Now, I know you see the mums and dads on that RTÉ programme, Ireland’s Fittest Family, doing all sorts of extreme fitness exercises but many of us, in my experience, slow down rapidly in the mid to late fifties.

However, I would go further and say for some males, myself very definitely included, the fifties are awful. Not only is there a pronounced deterioration in physical ability, neither is one mentally as sharp as previously. This is unsettling and between the middle age spread and mid-life crises and memory meltdown, it’s all fairly full-on in a negative way.

Goodness knows I’m no expert and can only speak from experience, but I suspect the black dog that is depression insidiously sneaks into many a male mind for the first time when in their fifties. Then factor in everyday stuff like the greyness of winter and goodness knows what else and it’s a potentially dangerous combination. Should you find yourself in this situation you must talk to a trusted friend and see your family doctor.

Drains

Now I must return to the running field drains which I meant to talk about before I went off on a tangent. After the exceptionally dry summer and autumn, I thought it would take half a metre of rainfall before the water table would rise significantly and the field drains start to run again. I didn’t think the 110mm of rain we had in November would have had any effect. The fields are still essentially pretty dry.

But I was wrong. The stone-lined well in the garden, from which no water is drawn, has suddenly risen four metres from practically empty to within half a metre off the surface. Likewise, many of the field drain’s outfalls have started to run, which greatly surprises me. Equally, I think the streams and rivers have risen disproportionately to the amount of rainfall.

Finally, mind the deep ditches – but it’s not really the muddy water and briars that’ll bog you down. It’s negative thoughts are the ones to watch.