The farm has seven acres of woodland spread across six separate compartments, as they are known in forestry. Most are relatively small areas of mixed broadleaved species, including Ash, Oak, Field Maple, Sycamore and Sweet Chestnut. The largest compartment, covering around 2.5 acres, consists predominantly of European Larch (Larix decidua) with some Ash mixed throughout.

All of these woodlands were planted during the mid to late 1980s and have been carefully managed ever since. They have undergone thinning, while the Larch has benefited from both high pruning and brashing. The Larch is particularly striking. Unlike most conifers, European Larch is deciduous, shedding its needles each autumn and creating a rich tapestry of gold, copper and nut-brown tones through the winter months. On a bright January morning, with low sunlight filtering through the trunks, it is one of my favourite places on the farm.

Because much of the planting took place during the same period, there has been relatively little development of an understorey beneath the canopy. Following two exceptionally wet winters, some of the Larch root plates began to loosen, creating concerns about stability. Our plan was to thin the woodland to allow more light and space, encouraging stronger root development and improving the resilience of the remaining trees.

Then, like many woodland owners across the country, we were confronted by Ash dieback.

The disease meant our plans had to evolve. Alongside the thinning programme, we would now need to begin the gradual removal of declining Ash trees. We worked with the Forestry Commission to secure a felling licence and produced a detailed Woodland Management Plan, setting out both our approach to restoration and a long-term vision for the woodland.

The plan includes restocking with a broader range of species, including Wild Service Tree, Small-leaved Lime, Alder, Crab Apple and disease-resistant Elm. Increasing diversity feels like the right approach, particularly given how much of the original woodland relied upon Ash. A more varied woodland should be better equipped to withstand future pests, diseases and the uncertainties of a changing climate.

The management plan also sets out clear objectives for climate resilience, establishment, tree protection and wildlife enhancement. We are always happy to plan for positive outcomes and, even at my rather advanced age, the prospect of creating a vibrant new understorey is genuinely exciting. The opportunity to introduce species that were never here before, and to create richer habitat for birds, insects and mammals, makes the challenge worthwhile.

We have already made a start. Alongside the roadside is a substantial stack of timber. The higher-quality Larch will find its way to a sawmill, the Ash will become firewood, and the lower-grade material will be processed for pulp and woodchip. So far we have harvested around one hundred tonnes, with more work still to come before planting begins in the autumn.

Perhaps what makes this woodland so special to me is that it has quietly measured the passing of time.

When we planted these trees they were little more than whips protected by plastic guards. Some failed and had to be replaced. Others flourished. Year by year they gained height and character, almost without us noticing. At the same time our own lives moved on around them. Children grew up, careers changed, loved ones came and went, and the farm itself evolved. Through it all, the trees continued their steady, patient progress.

Forestry has a way of teaching humility. Trees work to a timescale that bears little relation to our own. The Oak is not concerned with next week’s weather forecast or next year’s plans. It simply grows, adding a few more rings each season and accumulating strength almost imperceptibly.

There is a certain sadness in felling a tree that you planted yourself. Even when it is necessary, and even when you know it is the right thing to do, it feels rather like saying goodbye to an old friend. Yet woodland management has always been about looking beyond the present moment. The trees we plant this autumn will provide shelter, beauty and habitat long after I am gone.

Perhaps that is why I find the prospect so encouraging. The new Wild Service Trees, Lime, Crab Apple and Elm will become part of a woodland that is more varied, more resilient and ultimately richer than the one we inherited. Someone else will walk beneath them one day and take their presence entirely for granted, just as we do with the trees planted by previous generations.

We are fortunate that the off-grid cabin brings visitors from all walks of life to the farm. Many show a genuine interest in the landscape and the conservation work taking place here. It gives us an opportunity not only to explain what we do, but also why it matters. Woodland management is often measured in decades rather than years, and some of the rewards are unlikely ever to appear on a balance sheet. Yet they are no less valuable for that.

These woods have been part of our lives for almost forty years. We planted them as young farmers with little certainty about what the future might hold. Today they stand as a reminder that worthwhile things often take time. While it is sad to lose some of the Ash, there is optimism in renewal. The woodland is entering a new chapter, and we are privileged to play a small part in writing it.

After all, that has always been the nature of forestry. You do not plant trees solely for yourself. You plant them for those who come after you.

The lake was created in 1988 and is fed by three freshwater springs rising from the hillside behind it. These meander down through separate natural watercourses, principally across rewilded ground, before entering the lake via a smaller settling pond. This pond acts as a first line of defence, catching silt before it can enter the main water body. From there, the outfall leaves gently via a drainage ditch before eventually joining the River Swere.

Managing the lake is a constant balancing act - weed growth, silt, oxygenation, water clarity and, of course, algae all demand attention.

This is not a fishing lake, although we do keep a small number of grass carp. They were introduced in the hope that, as herbivores, they might help control aquatic weed. In truth, they have shown remarkably little interest in the task, and I would gently suggest that much of what is written about their appetite for weed is somewhat optimistic.

I test the lake water regularly using what can best be described as a £500 “My First Chemistry Set”, allowing me to monitor pH, phosphate levels, nitrates, hardness, clarity and harmful bacteria. Aside from naturally elevated phosphate levels, the lake is remarkably healthy — largely because there is no external water supply feeding it, and therefore no risk of agricultural runoff, sewage contamination or chemical pollution. The springs rise here on the farm, and we use no chemicals on the land surrounding them.

The lake sits on a bed of Charmouth Mudstone, which naturally releases phosphates. Those phosphates, in turn, feed weed growth and create a persistent summer challenge. My main approach is to reduce nutrient availability by carefully binding phosphate with small quantities of alum - an effective treatment when used thoughtfully, this combined with manual cutting and weed removal where necessary. Fortunately, the lake’s naturally high pH (around 8.2) and very hard water provide a useful buffering effect when alum is introduced.

For silt management, I use a product called Siltex, a calcium carbonate-based treatment that helps break down organic sediment, improve water quality and support aquatic life.

To improve oxygen levels, I built my own solar-powered aeration system: four diffusers running for around six hours a day, powered by a battery, a 300W solar panel and a small pump, with garden hose and improvised leaky-hose diffusers doing much of the work. It cost a fraction of a commercial system and, gratifyingly, performs rather well.

For water clarity, I use beneficial bacteria that multiply naturally and consume decaying and suspended organic matter. For algae, I favour an old but effective remedy: concentrated barley straw extract, applied early and often. Quite how it works remains something of a mystery - but it does seem to work.

None of these techniques is foolproof. Much of lake management is an odd blend of science, observation, experience and something that occasionally feels suspiciously like black magic. Weather remains the great variable. Heavy rainfall can overwhelm outlets designed for the gentler weather patterns of the late 1980s, while prolonged dry spells reduce spring flow - sometimes stopping it altogether - leaving the lake still, warm and increasingly vulnerable to imbalance.

I try to swim whenever I can, but winter is when the lake feels most alive. At dusk, I love slipping quietly into the water and swimming on into darkness. There is a curious phenomenon at that hour: wildlife seems either unaware of you, or perhaps simply willing to share the space. Deer and muntjac come down to drink, pheasants loudly dispute whose roost is whose, and as I swim in the fading light - cold sharpening every sense - I cannot help feeling that somewhere, somehow, there is more to this world than just us.

It is always a busy time and, as the soil temperature slowly rises, we can begin to think about planting. Ideally we are looking for a soil temperature of around 7-10°C. Ultimately, having done this for a while, I find myself fantasising about the perfect combination of soil temperature, some rainfall and, of course, sunlight. I know I need to get out more.

So much of farming is about what you think the weather is going to do rather than what it is doing now. Climate change has made this gamble harder and the odds can be tipped against us much more easily. There is nothing quite as depressing as planting expensive seed during a warm, showery week with a good forecast, only for the weather to instantly turn dry and cold.

If that happens - and it frequently does - then if the seed hasn’t started to germinate it will generally just sit there and wait. But if the process has already started during the good weather then it will likely perish and we end up with a patchy crop or, in extreme circumstances, back at square one again - a geographical location I am very familiar with.

To me the evidence of climate change is overwhelming. When I compare much of my lifetime experience of better defined seasons and a generally temperate climate against the almost unpredictable blur of more extreme and ever-changing weather patterns we experience now, then growing anything becomes much more of a lottery.

There is a desire inside any farmer to get it right - to grow something, whatever that might be, that you can be proud of. And when it doesn’t go your way, the strength to pick yourself up, dust yourself off and start again is an integral part of the DNA of farmers everywhere.

I salute them.

P.S. A big shout out to Leonard

A neighbouring farmer in his eighties doing what he has done all is life, getting up the hill is harder, even with the benefit of new hips and knees but it’s lambing and there is work to be done and it won’t wait.

For years I assumed it might be some sort of flaw - that perhaps I should feel a greater need for constant company or noise. But I don’t. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy company - I truly do - just in small numbers and not all the time.

Since Covid I have been almost exclusively on the farm, and the feeling of health and wellbeing that comes from spending long periods alone in nature has only reinforced that instinct. So when my children say, “Dad, you need to get out more,” I remain politely unconvinced.

One morning recently I had been digging post holes by hand. Winter still held a grip on the land, but it seemed to be loosening. We had enjoyed several dry days in a row and the light, although still thin, carried the faint promise of spring - with its growth, birth and renewal.

I paused and looked up.

On Sunset Hill a small group of roe deer grazed quietly. A pair of swans had flown in and appeared to be considering nesting on the island. Alongside them were Canada geese, herons, cormorants, coots and the usual assortment of waterfowl. Frogs were spawning in the shallows and only a few days earlier I had seen our first ever otter, which popped its head from the water, took a long curious look at me - almost with a cheeky grin - and then disappeared beneath the surface.

In that moment I felt an almost spiritual connection with the natural world around me. A deep sense of peace came over me and everything, however briefly, seemed hopeful.

I sat down, opened my phone, and was immediately jolted by the counterpoint of world events. Violence and hatred seemed etched into every headline and image. The contrast with my immediate surroundings could not have been starker.

Despite my “splendid” isolation I have always tried to keep up with the news. Hiding from it somehow feels like an act of moral cowardice.

Yet sitting there I was reminded of a poem by W. B. Yeats - The Second Coming - lines later quoted by Robert Kennedy in a 1968 New York Times op-ed when he felt the established order was beginning to fracture and urged Americans toward unity:

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world.

As I sat beside the lake, watching the quiet rhythms of the natural world unfolding exactly as they have done for thousands of years, I could not help but reflect on the strange contrast: nature moving calmly through its ancient cycles of renewal, while humanity - with all its intelligence and ingenuity - so often seems intent on tearing itself apart.

Perhaps that is why I find such comfort here.
Not because I wish to escape the world, but because the natural world quietly reminds me that disorder is not the only story being written.

Bella came to us (aged five, in September 2022) from Labrador Lifeline - an amazing charity. Having been rescued only a week or so before, we were offered the opportunity to go and meet her, where both our suitability and our compatibility could be assessed. Bella was over a two-hour drive away in Lincolnshire, staying with Shirley and Ron, who were providing foster care. We met these two wonderfully capable and humane people, along with Nicky - equally so - from the charity.

We sat in the garden and watched Bella as she moved around in the melee of other dogs, trying to avoid attention of any kind, both from the other dogs and, of course, the humans. She was relatively small, very slim, with a fine and insanely beautiful head. I was instantly smitten, and even Leigh - who is normally more cautious — seemed to feel the same. Having passed the test, we made a donation and arranged a pick-up date.

We were both excited and apprehensive at the same time. We knew from our first rescue, Roxy, that there are always significant challenges, but we were safe in the knowledge that we had boundless love, infinite patience, and a well-fenced farm with a lake for swimming, should the mood take her.

We were only told a few basics of Bella’s history, and this had been the same with Roxy. I think it is probably better that way. Bella came to a new life with us, and dwelling on the past would not help anyone.

I had built some extra fencing so that we could provide a smaller, contained area just outside our much-used back door and across from my office. Within a few minutes Bella had dug her way under the fence and, in fearful panic, run away across the farm. We found her very quickly, but it was clear there would be no miraculous transformation. Bella was suffering from extreme trauma and was not, at this stage, possessed of good mental health. She would only go to the loo in extremis, would not eat if either of us were nearby, and spent much of her time shivering and cowering in her bed.

In hindsight, we believe it was a man who had been cruel to her. It showed in how she initially looked at me and in her absolute refusal to go through a door in front of me - a sure sign that she had been kicked from behind. We knew that it would take time, but that was okay. We had time.

It was also abundantly clear, early on, that Bella decided to throw in her lot with Leigh, and it was wondrous to see this relationship develop. Leigh built calmly and slowly on the trust extended and was able to forge the most positive of relationships, even to the point of training Bella to obey some basic commands. To witness this small, vulnerable dog’s delight when she saw Leigh emerge from the house with a lead was a wonder to behold. The sight of Bella charging round, scattering gravel in transports of joy, seemed a reasonable indication we were on the right track.

I love Bella but my own bond formed more slowly, but I treasure it, just the same. It will never be as strong as the bond with Leigh, but Bella now trusts me, although I suspect I must always pay a small price for her previous experience. I have told her on many occasions, direct to her face, that those days are over and that she will only ever experience love, kindness and patience from now on.

Bella’s life now?

Anyone who has ever had a Labrador knows that food is the main driver of behaviour, and Bella is no exception. Most days, after a healthy breakfast and out on a walk, if she feels she can get away with it she will happily scavenge fresh sheep poo, decomposing wildlife, and - in an effort to keep up with her five-a-day - any seasonal hedgerow fruit she can find, such as crab apples, sloes, damsons and blackberries. Sometimes a lead is the only answer. Strangely, she has not turned out to be a swimmer, preferring merely to stand in the shallow part of the lake during hot weather. She loves to roll in fox poo and then seems genuinely puzzled as to why she must have a bath when she gets home.

Bella is still timid and nervous. She is not a tail-wagger and rarely barks, preferring to retreat instantly at the sign of an unannounced visitor. She does not like to be touched by strangers. When she is in the dog bed in my office (opposite the house), she will always track Leigh to see which room she is in, with her nose pointing at the particular room. And when we occasionally go away, the only place we can leave her is with Shirley and Ron - which involves a five-hour round trip — but hey ho, we would not have it any other way.

We now know that Bella was more damaged than we first thought, and the road has been longer and more challenging than we expected. The damage is partially, though not wholly, repaired. However, I do know that she is beloved and cared for on whatever terms work for her, and to undertake an exercise in endurance and patience such as this is rewarding beyond measure.

Perhaps Bella’s story is not really about dogs at all. Perhaps it is about what can happen when damaged things are given space, time and kindness. Leys Farm is full of stories like that - of land, of hedges, of people, and occasionally of small, anxious Labradors learning, slowly, that the world can be a safe place.

If you enjoy these glimpses into life here, I’ll keep sharing them.

From time to time, all farm hedges require maintenance and, occasionally, full renovation - which brings me to today’s story.

We have a very old boundary hedge, some 400 metres in length, with a ditch on our side indicating ownership. Because it runs in a reasonably straight line, I suspect it was planted after the medieval period (1200–1600) and relates more closely to the Enclosure period (1750–1850), although one can never be entirely certain.

The hedge is composed mainly of hawthorn, with some crab apple and the occasional self-seeded mature ash or oak. The hawthorn is now old and brittle, with very little growth at the base. As a result, it provides limited viable habitat. With this in mind, we have embarked on a substantial programme of restoration.

We have removed diseased and broken limbs and coppiced as much as we dare, leaving a skeletal framework of the former hedge. Into the gaps we have planted a mixture of hawthorn, blackthorn, hazel, field maple, dogwood and guelder rose. These are 40–60cm bare-root plants.

Bare-root stock is sensitive to cold and frost, so careful handling before planting is essential - protected from wind and kept from drying out. We make a narrow hole with a bar, insert the plant, and ensure the soil is firmly compressed around the roots to remove any air pockets. Before planting, the roots are dipped in mycorrhizal fungi, and bone meal is applied afterwards. The hedge is planted in a double row on staggered 45cm spacings.

Each plant is protected by a sustainable Tubex guard supported by a cane. These guards deter rabbits and squirrels while also creating a helpful microclimate for early growth.

Nurturing the plants during the early years is vital. Many hedges are planted with optimism, only to be neglected and eventually fail. Weed control, replacing losses, and periodic pruning to encourage growth at the base are the key disciplines.

Despite suffering from a bad bout of laryngitis, Leigh came out to help. As we have done - pretty much since 1979 - we are happiest outdoors, working together in the countryside that surrounds us.

I am nearly 67 now, so I may not see this hedge in its fully restored glory. But that is not the point. Stewardship is rarely about seeing the finished article. It lives somewhere deeper — in the heart and the soul — and in a vocation that is difficult to explain, but impossible to ignore.

I recalled this as I sat down to write about the wet weather we are currently experiencing and decided, without hesitation, that I needed a superlative - something so powerful that it would help bring home what we are living through at this very moment. The story of Noah and the Ark sprang to mind which, in a flash, led me to the word ‘Biblical’. So, as I tell you more, it is important to understand that we are experiencing Biblical rainfall.

After a very hot dry summer, the weather finally started to break in October, with the last few cabin guests getting caught in prolonged showers. At the time I was glad. The weather had been so dry, the farm looked brown and burnt, and the idea that, with some Autumn rain, it would green up before winter was an attractive one. At this point it is important to say: always be careful what you wish for - because, more or less, it hasn’t really stopped raining since.

Now, in February, as I write this, we have felled timber lying on the ground in standing water that cannot be extracted or sold. The outlet pipes on the lake in the centre of the farm cannot cope, and the water level is dangerously high as a consequence. All fields are waterlogged, all winter projects are at a halt, and yet still the leaden sky over Swerford delivers almost continuous rain.

I have never seen the farm wetter and, to me, without doubt, we are truly seeing the consequences of climate change - not in theory, but underfoot

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I no longer think in terms of ownership. Age brings change and, if you are lucky, it also brings perspective. I now think of myself as a steward - here for a finite stretch of time - with a responsibility to care for and nurture the land so that it is left in good heart for whoever the next steward may be.

In the post-war years, near-starvation forced the British government to legislate so farmers could grow more food, often at fair but tightly controlled prices. The aim was self-sufficiency and food security, and in many ways it worked. What went largely unremarked at the time, however, was the environmental cost: miles of hedgerows ripped out and the widespread introduction of chemicals whose consequences we would only understand much later. Silent Spring offers a powerful insight into this period.

During those years the farmer here was a man called Lesley Fox. He was hardworking, resourceful, and - of course - humble. He kept a few dairy cows, some sheep and pigs, and grew arable crops. Along the way he owned a combine harvester, several tractors, numerous implements, and a wire-tying baler. He paid his bills, brought up a family, and on wet days wore a hessian seed sack over his shoulders.

All of this on sixty acres.

Times have changed. Financially, farming is now far harder, and diversification is no longer optional. Today we host weddings, run an off-grid cabin, and at the same time direct our every effort toward rehabilitating the landscape through sound agricultural practice.

We plant pollinators and wildflowers. We grow seed crops for wild birds to feed on through the winter, and we supplement that feed to give as many as possible a chance to survive the hungry months and breed in the spring.

This is only a brief overview, and it misses a great deal. But I think of this as a marathon, not a sprint. Over time, I want to tell you more - and, if you’re willing, invite you to walk alongside us as we share the ongoing story of this place and our attempt to care for it well

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