We are rather apprehensively awaiting the villagers coming to the farm tonight. They are probably gathering their pitchforks and readying their torches to be lit as soon as darkness falls. They said it can’t be done and, more importantly, shouldn’t be done. But I fear that they have heard that we have been responsible for affronting the natural order, for playing God, and for creating a monster. (Well eleven monsters actually).
Due to a number of factors, but mainly the predation by foxes and the goshawk, we were left in an unusual situation with our ducks. We had one Aylsbury drake and three Muscovey hens. The drake was militantly amorous with the girls but we were of the opinion that their frequent, and violent, couplings would be fruitless.
Most domesticated ducks, the Aylesbury, Indian Runner, Pekin, or Rouen for example, are descended from the mallard (Anas Platyrhynchos) and these ducks can interbreed and create hybrids quite easily. The Muscovey (Cairina Moschata), on the other hand, is descended from a different root and thus interbreeding is much less frequent. So infrequent that our neighbours, experienced poultry keepers, were certain they would not mate successfully. However, our Aylesbury drake disagreed and has managed. Now two Muscovey hens have hatched out 10 ducklings. We are sure that the Aylsbury is the father as no other drakes, wild or domestic, have been available. It is likely that these mules will be infertile and it is difficult to determine what they will look like when mature (all ducklings look much the same).
Hopefully the cuteness of these little fellows will placate the villagers when they arrive and we, and our monsters(*), will be left in peace. On a slightly less cheerful note their cuteness matters less to me than their taste, but I better not let the angry mob hear that.
(*) For obvious reasons we have decided to call these creatures Muscburys. This is much nicer than the official name of Mullard.
Mea Culpa! I should have posted this much earlier and I apologize for the delay. Two years ago I was felling some trees which were a mixture of larch, eucalyptus, oak and beech. During this time I learnt a life-lesson that I vowed I would pass on to anyone who would listen. I had hoped that once I have passed away that, in the future, someone would say “At least I was warned. I knew what to do” and I would be able to rest in peace knowing I had made an impact on the world.
Today’s workout was aimed at the arms and back. It had simple gym equipment; a bow saw and a maul (It is not called an axe, it is a maul, or at least a sledge axe). My intention was to start taking this years felled wood and splitting it for storage. Three hours of this is a good workout in anyone’s book. This year we had mainly cedar, oak, ash (because we have some Ash Die Back disease) and beech. It was then I remembered – I had not warned people about the beech tree, I had failed in my duty to the world!
There is a lot to be said for beech as a firewood. It is a dense wood which has a lot of thermal energy stored within it and an excellent firewood when properly seasoned. The chart below shows some of the properties of woods when they are considered as sources of fuel :-
Million British Thermal Units/cord
Therefore, I was quite happy to have a large quantity of beech for next years stove and oven. All I have to do is to season it. Beech takes about 12 months to dry properly when it is split and stacked. Thankfully I remembered something that I had intended to tell the world and had forgotton – It is vital to split beech when it is green. Some woods split better when wet and others when they are dry. The firs split very easily when dry for example but most hardwoods split more easily when still wet.
Beech doesn’t like splitting even when it is green. It takes a lot of force, a lot of swearing and a lot of time to split beech. It will sorely tax your patience and really test your mettle. There will be times when you look at one of the rounds which has resisted your onslaught and you will think “stuff this for a game of soldiers, let’s move onto the cedarfor a while“. But don’t be tempted , because if beech is difficult to split when green it becomes impossible once it has seasoned. Seasoned beech and eucalyptus are well-nigh indestructible. You will bring your maul down with all your might only to find it makes a minor dent, a loud bang and slips away jerking your hands leaving the log intact. These lumps of seasoned wood will take on the strength of rock and will drive you insane as you try to split them manually. It is best to bypass this stage and just buy, or rent, a hydraulic log-splitter.
This is the message I must leave for the world – Always split beech (and eucalyptus) shortly after felling; never, ever leave it until they it has dried. Remember this message, you will thank me one day.
(*) Coaling is the ability of a wood to form good slow burning coals which will last and is an excellent property for use in wood-stoves
I have hardly engaged with the broader outside world at all this week. I have hardly read a newspaper, watched a political show nor debates politics to any great degree. Indeed, apart from the annoyance of occasional tweets on my phone, I was out of the loop most of this time. Therefore, I have no erudite comments on the state of the world which, I imagine, is much as I left it last week.
The reason for this was very simple; I had too much to do in the real world on my doorstep. The first rush came because we had an unexpected dry spell and some unanticipated hot days. Our neighbours have a meadow, which we graze over the winter, and they thought this would be a good time to take a crop of hay from it.
After a quick cut, we then had three days of repeated turning by hand, before we gathered it in. We were working against the clock as there were thunderstorms and heavy rain predicted for the fourth day. For the gathering we used the pick-up, rather than our usual system with tarpaulins, as the field is a bit of a distance from our hay barn. Friends had arranged to visit us some time back, and they arrived in the middle of the work. I felt rather guilty that they were dragooned into the labour, but they reassured me that they enjoyed the experience. The meadow did prove to be productive giving us about 5 small bales of good value hay.
No sooner than had we finished this work than opportunity to have the assistance of an experienced forester to fell some of our trees came available. We have Ash-Dieback (a fungal disease) in a number of trees in our woods and need to fell these. One ash, about which we were uncertain if it had dieback disease, we found to be hollowed out for the bottom third of its length. Definite evidence of dieback and it would not have stood for another winter!
While I will happily fell smaller, straight-forward trees, some of these were large and complicated and beyond the level at which I can safely work. We also had a large fir tree which had become overgrown and bifurcated and was dangerously close to the house. This one was rather reluctant to fall and needed quite a bit if nudging by the wedges which you can hear being driven home in the video below.
I fear that this video does not give a good impression of the size of this tree and people might think that I am a wimp because I didn’t fell it unaided. Having heard of so many deaths and injuries locally due overconfidence, and people tackling unwise timber jobs, that I don’t really mind being considered a wimp. Forestry is the most dangerous occupation; you are safer as a soldier carrying a gun than as a forester with a chainsaw.
I may be a wimp, but I am an alive wimp and a wimp with my quota of all 4 limbs. Also, in my defence, it was a fairly large fir tree if you look at it from this angle :-
The fight of Les Gilets Jaunes may be starting to settle in France and it seems Macron may have managed to survive their onslaught on his presidency. Unfortunately we have had problems with our own yellow jackets. Over the past weeks we have been plagued by wasps and have encountered quite a number of wasp nests.
Wasps get a much worse press than bees. They are seen as violent aggressive insects who will sting with impunity as, unlike the bee, they do not die after the attack. However, wasps can be social animals like bees and are also useful pollinators. They pollinate a broader range of plants than bees and also eat many insects we consider pests, like aphids. They are also edible and the most common edible insect on sale in rural China.
There are thousands of species of wasp and most have little or no negative interaction with people at all. Most are black, small and would be mistaken for flies. Unfortunately one type, the yellow jacket or Vespula Vulgaris, is the wasp everyone knows and this is the black and yellow pest who will fight you for your picnic food. This one, and the hornet, taints the reputation of all the placid, shy and retiring wasps that we meet day in and day out.
Unfortunately some nests the wasps have made have been in places that has meant I have had to destroy them. One was in the kitchen window of the holiday let and another was face height at the door to the barn. As we keep bees I had the kit to dress up and tackle this fairly safely but I must admit that I always have my heart in my mouth when I have to move the nest. However, I was able to get both without any great drama, and we can move about again without hassle.
The nests are themselves interesting, quite different to the constructions the bees make; smaller and made of paper rather than wax. As you can see in the video below there are larvae at all stages and some still developing. The circular structures are pretty and fascinating to look at – when the adult wasps are not in the vicinity.
I can remember often uttering phrases such as “from what I can glean” or “I glean that the management had plans to close the unit“. All these times I spoke about gleaning I never actually did any gleaning, and was unaware of the origins of the verb, until recently. Today, however, I, and my wife, were mainly occupied in gleaning.
Gleaning is the action of collecting leftover crops from fields when either the form of collection, e.g. mechanization, or the quality of residual produce, make it uneconomic to collect 100% of the harvest.
Today we gleaned our neighbour’s field for some hay. His cutters and balers do not work into every corner of the field and there is plenty of good quality hay which goes to waste because it can not be gathered mechanically. When we collect it by hand we save on our feed bills for the goats and our neighbour benefits, marginally, by having a tidier field. By gleaning after the main harvest we increase the productivity of the field to closer to its maximum.
The practice of gleaning has a long history and is discussed in the Hebrew Bible where it was seen a right for the poor – only the poor were allowed to glean, not the rich landowner, when the crop was taken the remainder was to be left for the gleaners. It was in 1788 that the right to glean in England was removed (to secure property rights), prior to this often a church bell would toll morning and night to let the poor of a village know when it was right to glean the harvested fields.
As it increases the efficiency of the harvest by reducing waste we need to promote gleaning but it need not be as physically demanding as our day raking the loose hay in the fields. The developing action of giving unsold food in supermarkets to the poor is a modern form of gleaning, as are the trends to gather and use the “ugly” fruit and vegetables that can’t be sold in the normal trade. At its extreme “dumpster foraging” is a form of gleaning as it saves some of the harvest from being lost.
It is shameful that we waste up to 40% of the food we harvest. We need to try to tackle this problem. In America the Society of Saint Andrew is the largest gleaning organization, here in the UK it is The Gleaning Network. Excuse the dreadful pun, but I’d urge you to try and glean as much information as you can about this and see if there are opportunities for you to take part in this activity.
When you reap your harvest in your field and forget a sheaf in the field, you shall not go back to get it; it shall be left for the alien, the orphan, and the widow, so that the LORD your God may bless you in all your undertakings. Deuteronomy 24:19
We have just finished making hay. This is perhaps the busiest time of year for us and is certainly the most laborious task we have. We must spend three to four days in the fields cutting, turning and moving hay under a scorching sun – if there isn’t the heat the whole process is rather pointless. The power scythe largely held up after its repair though it did lose a few teeth on stones in the field which has left the main slope looking as if it is wearing a Mohican haircut.
We did manage to get all the hay in although we had a delay of a day because of an unexpected cloudy day which brought some showers. We kept the hay in wind rushes in the field during this day and resumed the turning and drying the following day. Although we feel we are not using much modern technology, and think our work looks like something a medieval peasant would recognize, during the rainy day I realized just how reliant we still are on modern technological developments.
We require at least three consecutive sunny, hot and preferably breezy days to make hay. Modern farms who take a lot of sillage can wrap the produce up in huge, black, polythene bales and allow anaerobic digestion get to work. The rain doesn’t worry them as much. We can’t do this and need to be able to predict the weather over the next few days. I just don’t have the skills for this, despite knowing many of the old rhymes which are meant to help, and rely on AccuWeather or the Norwegian meteorological site (yr.no) which is unnervingly accurate in our patch of North Wales. It is my opinion that our ability to make our own hay reliably, and hence feed our stock over the winter, without this aid would be severely compromised. I am going to have to look and see if there is any way I can learn some of these old skills and see if we can become a bit more self-reliant and independent.
In any event, we are still pretty primitive and manual in our hay making and by the last night I was dog tired and wanted to do nothing more than to eat some hearty but unhealthy food and sit and ache and throb in front of an undemanding film. The film channel that runs nostalgic material seemed a good bet and it was showing “The L-Shaped Room“. To tell the truth a number of British films from this decade blur into one in my memory. They all become a black-and-white, rags and riches, melodramatic morality tales. I knew this was not “Saturday Night, Sunday Morning” but half-remembered it as “Room at the Top“.
‘Room at the Top’ is a wonderful film and I initially thought I was going to be disappointed when I realized, after a few minutes, I was not going to watch a working-class anti-hero, fighting for power and philandering with an older woman. Instead I was settling down to watch the sad tale of a single French girl living in poverty in the seedier area of London and coming to terms with an unplanned pregnancy. I was thankfully very wrong. “The L- Shaped Room” is also a wonderful film. It too has excellent acting and in particular Leslie Carron shines and carries this film throughout; although it has to be said that all the actors warrant praise. The script is accurate and the moral and practical dilemmas facing the characters are well explored. All human life is here, the unmarried pregnant woman, the jobless men, the black immigrant, the old and lonely lesbian lady, the prostitutes working at the bottom of the house, the failed writer, they all play their parts. But interestingly they are not stereotypes, they are not there to be pitied as victims, but rather they are there to remind us that we all human and all have something to offer.
Though sad and downbeat in the main the thread which ties the film together is the ability of people to make connections with each other. These can be connections we would never anticipate, but they form the mesh which supports us in our day to day lives. Friendship, love and affection come from all sorts of people and when it is honest and true its source does not matter. I can not say much more about the film without risking giving away the ending (if it has an ending!) and can only say that it is a warm and enveloping film which you should consider watching if you have not already seen it. In theme and feeling it is akin to “Midnight Cowboy”, this might not seem likely but if you watch both you will understand what I mean.
Over the last few days I started to get ready to be able to take a crop of hay. The last time we did this we had major problems – when we were on the last small field the power scythe blade appeared to jam and stop working. We tried, with limited success, to get the remainder of the field by hand but this really didn’t work and I needed the power scythe working before the end of the month. The grass has been growing well and looks like a fair crop, we have to be ready should there be a dry sunny period long enough to do the work.
The power scythe is an implement which attaches to the front of our two wheeled Goldoni tractor. It is quite expensive so buying a new one is not a prospect I wanted to consider. The companies who sell these machines are keen to sell the kit but, I discovered, much less keen to get involved in repairs so it was down to me to get it working again. I had the instruction manual so what could go wrong ?
Firstly, the manual itself could throw an obstacle in my path. These machines are made in Italy (the small farms and olive groves make two-wheeled tractors popular there) and the manuals likewise. Thus my manual was written in Italian which made the first step an attempt to decode the booklet. It had few diagrams or schematics to ensure that there were no unnecessary visual clues.
Over two days I, with the help of a neighbour, stripped the machine down to all its constituent parts. We inspected and cleaned every piece and then reassembled the machine checking all the settings with feeler gauges to the millimeter. With new grease and oil the machine moved smoothly with no jamming or hesitation. We hooked it up to the tractor and proudly set forth into the field for a celebratory and confirmatory cut of some long grass. It cut smoothly and effortlessly through the sward for about a yard then jerked and the sickle blade seemed to seize. No further cutting was possible. No amount of rocking, shaking, cajoling or threatening, coaxed even an inch of movement from the machine’s teeth.
Back in the barn we disassembled the blade to see where we had gone wrong. This is not a fun job. The piece weighs about 80kg, is oily and slippery and has two rows of menacingly sharp iron teeth. I have seem those teeth slice effortlessly slice though the legs of an iron park bench – it is no fun to handle! After having looked everywhere there was no sign of any jam. No sign of anything that could block the transit of the blades. The problem had to lie in the connection between the power unit and the appliance but we had checked this twice. In additon we had checked with two other appliances to be doubly sure that the transmission linkage worked properly.
While we had the machine upside down we noticed a small hole and wondered what is that for. Peering in we could see nothing of note, just black think molybdenum grease. Five minutes later, after poking our fingers down the shaft and pulling out all the grease we could, we were able to see a small circlip around the drive shaft. As we rotated the drive shaft we saw that this was held in place by a small set screw – a small grub screwabout 3mm across with a hexagonal allan key head. We checked and this grub screw was loose so we tightened it up.
We realized that when slack this grub screw would not stop the driving spline from being pushed back just far enough to allow the connection between the power unit and the scythe to be lost – the two connecting faces would no longer be sufficiently close to carry the power down to the blade and instead they would just bump over each other. After tightening up the screw we powered up and returned to the field where the unit ran perfectly. We cut grass, tried on an area of brambles, and pushed over rocky ground and through dense scrub – it didn’t waver. It just ploughed on cutting as it went, it was well and truly fixed.
This episode taught me a two lessons. Firstly, be careful no to jump to conclusions. Had we spent more time at the beginning thinking about the problem we might have realized the problem lay further back in the chain from power unit to cutting blade. We might have saved ourselves a lot of work. However, I am glad I have dismantled and serviced the machine, it needed it anyway, and I feel much better knowing exactly how it is made and how it works. Even when we did realize the problem was to do with the power take off it would have taken us a while to find this small screw that appears no where in the manual.
The second lesson is perhaps more important. I often wonder if there is any point in trying to be green in my daily life as I try to reuse and recycle. I wonder if my attempts to reduce my consumption make any great difference. What does my level of consumption matter in the greater scale of things. On a wider basis I wonder if it makes any point that I, as a fairly insignificant and powerless individual, try to do my bit for a better society – can one person make a difference ?
This little grub screw was only about 0.0001% of the metal parts of the mowing machinery; of the parts it clearly was the “least of these“. Hidden down a shaft in the bowels of the machine, in the dark, covered in oil and grease this little screw had slackened off, stopped doing its job, and the whole hay making project shuddered to a halt. In the interconnected system it lived within it was as valuable as any other. And so it is with all of us. We might often feel small and powerless in comparison to our rulers, or the celebrities we see daily, but we all play our part and it may be our part which proves to be the vital step in how things change.
farm this week. A veritable fortnight of acts of rape and pillage, in which the major culprits have been the ducks.
If your look very carefully at the photograph on the right there are two things to be discerned. One you can see and one you can not. If you look carefully you will see that there is not a single surviving leaf on any of the runner beans. Not a solitary leaf survives, and the culprit? If you continue to look carefully your can see a fat, well fed Muscovey duck wearing a smug grin. She has just gone steadily up the row, truss by truss, and assiduously plucked every leaf for her lunch.
However, it is difficult to be angry with her as her plundering occurred because she is a refugee. She is fleeing the duck yard and trying to find safer pastures. The duck yard at the moment
has fallen under the control of a belligerent and vicious rapist and the females are fleeing his attention. As your will see in the photograph on the left the females have been left almost bald at the back of their necks. This is due to the drake pulling on their neck feathers when he mates with them and pulling them out.
Ducks mating, like most fowl, is never gentle and romantic but rather brutal and violent. I have heard of drakes killing their mates, as they cause then to drown, while they mate with them in the water. Unfortunately I, and the fox, must take my share of the blame for these recent problems.
The fox has taken a number of our ducks and now the drake only has a meager four wives. He really feels this is inadequate. Thus his lusty attentions are only quartered between four ducks rather than decimated between ten as before. I have the incubator running as we speak to try and address this aspect of the problem.
The other part of the problem was my fault. Much as I like Muscovey ducks I wanted a change. The meat on Muscoveys is a good substitute for red meat and it is very low in fat. However, Muscoveys, with their knobbly wattles faces, are not going to win any beauty contests. I fancied changing to something more traditionally duck-like and, if I am honest, prettier.
In my shallowness I went for Aylsbury ducks.
These looked sweet, they looked like kindly cartoon ducks. These were the kind of ducks I recall from reading story books to my children when they were small. Just look at him, on the right, I thinkl you will agree that he looks as if butter would not melt in his mouth. But this is the villain of the piece; he is the lusty, belligerent, abusive partner to my refugee girls. His cute appearance belies his fierce cunning and his domineering behaviour.
I now have a difficult dilemma : Do I procede with the ugly but healthy Muscoveys or change over to the cute but tasty Aylsburys? If I do the latter will they ask prove to be as difficult as my first? The balance of what hatches next week will help me make the decision.
One of the primary reasons that I was keen to move to the country was to escape the noise of the town. Over the years I had become aware of the increasing cacophony that surrounded my daily life. My penultimate house in the town had been sandwiched between a railway line bordering the garden and a dual carriageway at the front door. I had become inured to the noise and after a number of years only really noticed it if the trains stopped running or the traffic abated. It was eerily quite and normally presaged knowledge of an accident or problem. Our last town house was less troubled by railway noise but the noise of the town was everywhere. Cars revving, horns tooting, kids screaming, drunks singing, planes landing, families arguing, ice-cream vans luring, football fans cheering, metal workers banging – there was always some noise and something going on. This all seemed so different to the silence we experience when we ventured out of the town and into the country where we started to hatch our escape plans.
If I had to choose a single noise which prompted this decision it would be fairly easy. It was the sirens. A day would not go by without hearing a siren, there would always be a reminder from at least one of the emergency services. This sound was always depressing as it alerted us to the fact that somewhere somebody was having a terrible time. Somebody was being rushed to hospital gravely ill or injured, or someone was waiting for the fire brigade to come to help as their home burned, or the police were rushing to help someone who was being assaulted or robbed. There is never a ‘nice’ reason for a siren to sound, they were a daily reminder of misery and misfortune. Indeed, after we moved, the absence of the sirens was something I did, in fact, notice and welcome.
At first, we used to marvel at how quiet was the area around our house. We used to sit and enjoy the peace and quiet. Until we noticed the obvious – the countryside is not quiet. The noise is different but it is not absent. We listened to birds overhead, the animals in the fields, the wind in the trees and the noise of the river passing by the house. These noises never stop. They change through the day but it is never quiet. Even at night, after the evening serenade from the birds as they settle down for the night, the sounds continue: owls hoot, foxes scream, the river gurgles and snuffling, scurrying animals pass by you in the murk of the hedgerows. Different noises; some pleasant and some scary.
Indeed, during the day, especially in the summer, the animal noises are quite loud and prevalent. Cows, horses, goats, dogs, poultry and sheep all add their bit to the daily background thrum and in the main it is quite pleasant. It is the sound that things are as they are meant to be, that the world is running as it should and not a siren in earshot. But there is a fly in the ointment. Most animals have a happy noise, a noise that reveals them to be contented. There are many examples : cats will purring in the sun, cattle lowing as they graze, the whinny of horses at play, chickens contentedly clucking as they find some interesting morsel to eat. Even the waking cockerels greeting a new day ,or excited dogs yapping as they see their friends, are sounds of happy animals and pleasant on the ear.
However, sheep do not have a happy sound and unfortunately it is with sheep that we have arranged to surround ourselves! Sheep bleat and they bleat incessantly. It is no surprise that we use the word ‘bleat’ both for the noise made by sheep and the noise made by whiny, demanding people. There is no happy, cheerful way to bleat. A day in the country beside sheep is a day of “Meh Meh, I’m hungry”, “Meh meh meh, where is my mum”, “meh meh meh where’s my lamb”, “meh meh meh I’m still hungry”, “meh meh I’m stuck in the brambles”, “meh meh did I tell you I’m hungry”, “meh meh meh don’t forget now”, “meh meh meh still hungry here”, “meh meh..” There is no variation to this song even if you appear with a bucket of food “meh meh meh only one bucket meh meh where’s the rest“.
So after our move we still value peace and quiet. It is nice sometimes to notice that there no real noise and the farm feels serene. Until we realise the sheep aren’t bleating ! They are quiet, something must be wrong as they are never quiet, they are never not hungry ! They must have escaped or be taken unwell. That absence of bleating kicks a hole in our tranquility – the silence of the lambs is our new siren!
I am sometimes envious of other people’s gadgetry. I look at their tractors or back-hoe diggers and think “I wish I had one of them“. However, we have eschewed buying many of these items as we have sound reasons to avoid them. Firstly, if I can do a task by simple ‘manpower‘ rather than by petrol, or electricity, I tend to imagine that I will have less of a carbon footprint. Secondly, some of our fields are so steep that operating a tractor on them would verge on the suicidal. It would be very easy to topple a tractor on their inclinations – I sometimes think I might need crampons to get to the top of our small sheep field. Thirdly, machinery makes me less self-reliant, I can only do the work if I have petrol or electricity, and fourthly I would miss the opportunity for exercise. Avoiding gadgets, and using brute force, means I can avoid the gym and all that goes on there. But above all of these I am aware just how much these items cost. We just can’t afford them, so much better to realise that those grapes would be sour anyway and persevere in our morally pure manner.
However, today we saw a giant leap in our technological solutions. My task for the day was to put 200kg of fertilizer (25-5-5) onto our central field. Obviously, I was going to do this in the time-honoured way with a bucket and a cup. I would walk the length and breadth of the field like a medieval peasant scattering the fertilizer granules in front of me. If this was good enough for them back in the middle ages it was going to be good enough for me too! Indeed, it was a lovely dry and sunny day, so I realised I was going to kill two birds with one stone. I would improve the nitrogen content of our field and at the same time I would get my exercise. I have a project I call “Running away from Death” and try to keep active, hoping that meeting a high step count daily as well as getting my heart to beat a bit faster I might not drop dead too young due to my previous years of sloth and gluttony.
Then I had a brainwave. The fertilizer granules are quite small and my eyesight is not great, it can be difficult to be sure that you cover the entire field evenly as you are scattering. It is difficult even when you mentally divide the field into sections to be sure you don’t double dose or miss patches. I knew that the new fancy tractors had GPS systems which took care of this, but it was just me, a bucket and a cup so this seemed an unlikely solution. Until I remembered I had been given a smartband for my birthday. It is a gadget which tracks where I go and how many steps I take and nags me if I don’t do enough during the day. If I was the tractor with the fertilizing attachment, then I did have the GPS module also. I switched on the band and was able to check that I did cover every area of the field and that there were no blind spots or areas of double dosing. Two hours and 6 kilometres later the job was done, and my envy of my better endowed neighbours had almost completely dissipated.