No, we're not going out into the cosmos – Exmoor may have a
dark-skies designation, but as far as I know the North Devon space programme is
still in its infancy and no livestock have yet been launched to the skies, not
even into low orbit. I'm talking about
the Dyson – the contents of which tell the tales of the seasons.
All through the winter, it fills with the ephemera of the
farm that make their way into the house – mostly straw and hay, dirt and the
occasional unpleasant lump of something brown.
The dried grasses are joined in February by skeins of husky fluff that
continue to make up the bulk of the suckings until at least July (joined then
by the collie fur, the other boys not wanting to be left out), and in June the
grass seeds inveigle their way home on clothes and dog coats, and if we are
unlucky, via ear canals and an expensive visit to the vet. Into autumn, collie fur is joined by leaves
and mulch, and later by yet another period of husky moult.
And it's not just the vacuum that is of interest. The washing-machine often disgorges unexpected
objects, such as pocket-knives, wire, and dog-poo bags (of course unused) that
were forgotten in back pockets. And
while dog hair seems ubiquitous even here, it's a bit of a shock to find a very
sharp grass seed embedded in the under-parts of one's underpants, having
hitched a ride into the washer on Ian's overalls.
Laundry done, back outside as the sun is shining, and
following common wisdom. we are making hay…
Ian picking up bales
Wrapping and stacking
Of course they wanted to help...
...or just beggar about!
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