It’s going to take a bit longer to tell you about my trip to Holland last week for reasons which will become apparent. I was in Wageningen University along with 200 other like-minded individuals from across the world. We were there for the annual International Federation of Agricultural Journalists, organised by our Dutch colleagues this year. While some may think we are welcome to each other, it is without fail a wonderful networking, social and working event.

I took leave early on Friday and got the train back to Amsterdam to meet some friends living there for a long overdue early evening dinner gathering. Afterwards I made my way back to my hotel, admiring the beauty and sophistication of the city with its meandering canals and picture-postcard buildings and shops. Another feature of Amsterdam is its quaint bike culture and running trams. Both would combine in a truly freak event, which has left me typing with one hand from my Dutch hospital bed.

As I attempted to cross a street, looking right for signs of traffic, I suddenly heard the ringing bell of a bike coming from my left. As I leaped forward to avoid a collision, my toe tripped on the top rim of the tram track, catapulting me forward at immense speed. I tried desperately to stay on my feet before succumbing to the force of gravity with an almighty smack. It’s traumatic remembering it now but the image of my left arm outstretched diagonally and me not feeling it as I tried to get up will live with me forever. As I reached to my feet, the arm was hanging but I kept missing it as I tried to grab it with my right hand.

Something was wrong. This must be how Mayo’s Tom Parsons felt. I eventually was helped to a nearby police van in a state of shock. It wasn’t the cyclist’s fault. There was nobody to blame. An ambulance was called. I arrived in A&E under some sedation. The extent of my injuries soon became apparent; a dislocated shoulder which had also been smashed in five places. The agony of it is hard to explain on paper! Coupled with the uncertainty of being alone in a foreign country, last Friday night was one of the longest I can ever remember.

The first thing many would assume adding two and two together is that there was drink involved. As the paramedic said, it may have been better had I been under the influence of drink – or whatever else is on open offer in this cosmopolitan city – as I would not have tried to save myself. Our fancy tasting dinner earlier included samples of three wines to match some of the tiny dishes offered over three and a half hours. So thankfully there was no hangover thrown in, particularly since I was soon fasting nil by mouth for a potential operation to rebuild my broken shoulder.

Instead, the doctors here have made the decision to send me home for surgery when I’m up to flying. That will have happened by the time you read this. It’s a cliché but the staff and doctors here in Holland have been amazing, not least in reassuring me regarding the extent of my injuries. It happened all because I jumped forwards and not backwards. We are always warning farmers about the potential for accidents. Now I know too well how easy they happen. And here was me thinking: “Oh no, that’ll never happen to me.”

Anti-Trump protests

I was never one for protesting but I hope that buffoon Donald Trump got some sense of the protests and disdain ordinary, decent people have for him on his UK visit last week. It wasn’t fake either.