St Patrick’s Day – cloudy, grey and windy, and just one of those days. Lots and lots of work to be done in the fields, but they’re too wet and will be for a few days. Just four days ago we had 30mm of rain. I feel the greyness seeping into my soul and while I try to resist, my mood is slipping.

Rather that sitting with my head in my hands, I go for a walk. I know the risks; this can either compound the situation in my mind by seeing more work that I can’t do or, perhaps, it may offer relief and hope. It may put matters in context, which would be helpful.

I walk along the path to the hare’s corner, with the terriers skipping joyfully ahead. The trees are budding, as is the two-year-old hawthorn hedge.

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Into the winter barley – it looks sick and it doesn’t do me any good.

The fertiliser is on, with the yellowness giving way to a subtle green, but maybe 20% of the field is poor and the tramlines are messy.

Maybe it would have been better to have held off. Perhaps we need to re-invest in wide flotation tyres. We had them years ago when everything was ploughed.

I question myself as to why I planted barley in this field as it can be pretty wet, but we’ve often had barley in it before and it’s a very good field.

But not this year. Too much rain for too long and the die is cast. It’ll be a humiliating experience combining this crop.

I begin to doubt my ability as a tillage farmer; am I becoming careless and no longer fit for purpose?

The next field of barley bears this out. I had thought this was a nice little crop but it’s not.

Yes, it’s green and bushy as the tufty plants have tillered well, but it’s far too thin to yield. I cross the stile into a small beech wood which was planted in 2005.

I sit on the seat and reflect on matters for some time. It’s never useful to overthink, so time to move on and sneak quietly by the beehives and into a field of wheat – better than the barley, but in truth a middling crop.

However, wheat has hugely greater powers of recovery than barley. Maybe after 50 years of tillage, I should ley these fields down.

Or maybe ley the whole shaggin’ lot down, sell the machinery and become a summer-grazing-dog-and-stick farmer.

It always has a certain appeal to me. The family are all educated and away now so I no longer need to return a hefty profit.

I can’t anyhow – cereal prices are on the floor and inputs through the roof. Fertiliser – and oil – may become beyond our reach.

And the Basic Payment Scheme is only a fraction of what it once was and machinery is silly money.

I sit on the seat and reflect on matters for some time. It’s never useful to overthink, so time to move on and sneak quietly by the beehives and into a field of wheat – better than the barley, but in truth a middling crop

Such a change would permanently remove me from the sow-fertiliser-spray-combine cycle giving me loads of time to go on holiday and an odd weekend away.

I’ve an open-top sports car that, sensibly, should only be taken out on warm sunny days.

If I were to take off for a flitter, I’d have a panic attack that I should be on a tractor.

Farming comes first with me and, unfortunately, everything else takes second place.

However, in the time it’s taken to write this piece, the sun has emerged and everything is beginning to look a whole lot better. It could be a nice evening and maybe, just maybe, I’ll be spraying – and smiling – in a couple of days’ time.

Indeed I was and happy out and the plan to turn the Meath plains into a cattle ranch has been shelved. For now.