Flindt on Friday: Ditch diving and other confessions

“It’s all very well you crowing about catching that rally car in a poacher trap the other day,” said Hazel over breakfast in the orangery, “but I think it’s only fair that you fess up to what else has got caught in those pesky ditches recently.”

As usual, she was right, and as I mopped up my quails’ eggs and asparagus, it got me thinking.

There was the time when I was hedgetrimming, and pulled over on the verge for yet another pee break. (Must book a doctor with long fingers.)

See also: How to get the best from a McConnel hedgecutter

About the author

Charlie Flindt

Charlie Flindt is a National Trust tenant in Hampshire, now farming 40ha of recently “de-arabled” land with his wife Hazel – who still runs a livestock enterprise. He also writes books and plays in a local band.

Read more articles by Charlie Flindt

Trouble is, hedgetrimming is one of the worst jobs for sitting in one position for too long, and I made my way down the steps rather gingerly.

I must also confess at this point that I get out of the tractor the same way as I head downstairs for my quails’ eggs every morning – facing downhill.

According to some, this is the wrong way; to me it’s safest, as I like to see where I’m going and I don’t put my back out doing the 180deg twist in the cab.

Down and dirty

Mind you, all that extra visibility did me no good this time. What I thought was firm ground for the final step was the void of the poacher ditch, masked by the long grass.

Funny how time slows down under those circumstances. I remember making a deliberate decision to tuck forearms and wrists out of the way as I went down like an ash with dieback.

I’d take bruised ribs over shattered wrists any day; we’ve finally got some gigs for the band.

I emerged unscathed (if you don’t count nettle stings and bramble scratches) and did the traditional high-speed check for onlookers who might have witnessed this complete loss of dignity.

Last harvest, another ditch almost claimed a load of barley. We were unloading on the second turn, and The Muscle thought he’d pull over on to the verge to keep off the swath and make the most of the long unloading arm on the new Claas.

I was fruitlessly yelling and waving arms at him from the combine cab, but luckily he realised that the tractor was rapidly developing a 30deg list and saved the situation before we flooded the road with something that’s now worth over £200/t.

Pole dancing

And in November, I was moving a huge telegraph pole from a gateway, and managed (with an unintended perfection that was a joy to behold) to drop it in the ditch, thus rendering both forms of barrier totally useless.

It needed the loader, two ratchet staps, a bit of digging and two forearms full of nettle stings (again) to sort it out.

It got more serious when a neighbour thought he’d check our wheat for ripeness. He’s not a farmer, but knows about farming – and you cherish neighbours like that in these parts.

He rang to report his findings and have a good-natured moan about taking a plunge in a ditch.

But what’s the next step? Almost as soon as we discovered how effective these ditches were, the authorities decreed that they were watercourses, and therefore no herbicide could be used on them.

No chance of the one-nozzle ATV sprayer getting to work with Roundup. Fences look hideous and get smashed down, and I’m damned if I’m doing a mile of strimming several times a year just to make the ditches obvious.

But one day someone will take a tumble in one, log on to falleninaditchthatwasntyourfault.com, and all hell will break loose.

Oh well, I thought, as I drained the last of my Earl Grey. That’s modern farming.