My dad is a farmer, a damn good one at that. He has reached the end of his full-time obligations and he is joining Mum in retirement. I wish them the best of British on that.
Part of dad’s contract meant that he got a house with the job – a perk, if you would, of working in agriculture. We have never owned any land, my dad is a contracted farm manager. So, when he retires he has to move on. I have every faith that a house would have been found for him and mum by the estate. But, they have bought a property further North.
Part of this is that I came to the farm this Sunday to help clear out what had been collected by me (and on my behalf) at Home Farm – there was a lot of stuff and some weird memories came back as a result.
The highlight of it was an old menu from the Furlong & Furkin and a Chairman Mao cigarette lighter that plays “The East Is Red” when you light it up. I now have a few boxes from my old room scattered about my own place on Dragon Parade, from the farm.
What will I miss from Home Farm? Will I miss it? “If these walls could talk” is a valid worry for someone with my illness – let’s hope I don’t leave any ghosts behind :)
I will miss the Bird-Life and the surrounding trees to the farm. The farm was located in Dark Walk Woods, Near Ripon. There was an abundance of birdlife that my parents fostered. They were always tending the birdfeeders and reaped dividends for doing so.
They were often visited by Woodpeckers and all sorts of LBJs (that I can’t name). I fell into Field Recording (probably as a direct result of the sleepless nights at home farm listening to the dawn chorus) and found a lot of solace listening to the various visitors to the garden.
There was a down side to the house; it was so damn cold. Freezing. Let’s hope that moving house will help with my folk’s health. It was unheallthily cold in Winter and if it was not for the log burner we would have had problems …
I had a troubled time at home farm but I don’t think I would have recovered to the point I am at today, so speedily, if it had not been for the calm and peace at the farm for my extended stays there.
It was a retreat.
Yes, Harrogate is not a bustling metropolis – but the quiet of Home Farm was palpable. It was a constant. It was welcome. It will be missed.
Granted, there is an instant nostalgia of leaving a place you know you will never go back to again, especially if it rings with any emotional significance. But it is a location that has witnessed such turbulance this emotion is a difficult one to describe – all I can do is remove my head from my ar*e and wish my parents “Good luck & thanks for all of the fish.” If I was trying to classify the emotion it would be “Dankbarnostalgiezuentkommen.”