I look forward to a day when we can grow, cut, and put up our own hay, but it isn’t happening any time soon. There’s a little grass out here, but it’s just enough to keep the sheep moving around like locusts and ripping every stray shoot from the earth.
Yesterday we took delivery of a tractor-trailer load of hay (380-400) bales, and since we don’t have barn access for a vehicle that size, I wound up helping unload it from the trailer into a stack, then my wife and I reloaded it into the barn ahead of an anticipated rainfall that hasn’t materialized. Not yet, anyway.
I would like to say that I awoke this morning rejuvenated by eight straight hours of throwing bales around, and go on about the spiritual uplift of the scent of hay and the working of muscles as the sun fades from the sky blah de blah I’m fucking crippled today.
I was doing good to shift myself enough to start some pizza dough and drive to Virginia to purchase some installation hardware for the woodstove in the “Tom Thomson” annex of our guesthouse/ shop.
Here’s a look at it from last week:
And here’s a shot of the woodstove from the spacious kitchen area: