Flindt on Friday: Duncombinin – the new name game at Manor Farm

As you can imagine, a lot of midnight oil has been burned over the past few months as assorted family members have talked late into the night about our monumental lifestyle changes.

What kit do we keep? How about a holiday? What’s life like in harvest-free August? One question remains unanswered: What are we going to call the hundred-acre patch that we’re keeping come Michaelmas?

See also: Britain’s Fittest Farmer 2022: Meet the finalists

It feels wrong to call it Manor Farm, now that it has shrunk by 90%. “Hundred Acre Patch” sounds too twee, fit only for the latest woodcut-illustrated offerings from the “agricultural literati” – as Dave Richardson memorably christened them.

“The bit that we’re keeping” is the most used phrase during discussions, but it’s clumsy – and hard to fit on to a new nameplate outside on the drive.

Dead serious

My suggestion was “Dead Dog Farm”. For some reason, this did not meet with universal approval, and wasn’t even put to the vote. I tried to explain why it was perfect.

The golden rule of dog ownership is that it’s better to put a dog down too early than too late.

I’ll admit that it’s a slightly out-of-fashion rule, as superstar TV vets with huge budgets (helped by modern pet insurance) promote the practice of keeping your four-legged friend going at all costs.

And now that we call dogs “four-legged friends”, they’re more than just dogs; they have become substitute toddlers, and get treated as such.  

I once met such a doggie-woggie in the Flowerpots. It had indeed been treated by a famous vet (as the owner kept reminding us loudly). It was old and on three legs, but its eyes spoke only of pain.

I bit my tongue hard. I’m not advocating the return of the Keeper’s Despatch (a big bowl of your aged dog’s favourite treat, and a neat rifle shot as it tucks in), but this sad old fellow was done, and he knew it.

The way I see our situation is this: we’ve “retired” a few years too early, rather than a few years too late. I pointed out to everyone one evening that, yes, I creak, but I have many years of fecund farming in front of me. Me entering the Britain’s Fittest Farmer would be unfair on the rest of ’em.

Survival of the (not so) fittest

It took some time for the laughter to die down. “How many times did your back give way this harvest?” (Answer: twice, and I wish I could blame something ruffty-tuff like manhandling two-hundredweight sacks, rather than trimming toenails.)

“How long did you spend looking for the vital nut you dropped while greasing the Tucano unloading arm, because you’re struggling with arthritic grip and you’d forgotten your glasses?” (Answer: too long. Good thing we had long, hot days.)

“How far up a ladder can you go before your recently developed vertigo kicks in?” (Answer: four rungs, possibly five.) “What about your post-pub morning routine? (Answer: let’s not go there.)

It was all a bit harsh, but fair. Maybe I’m not retiring too early after all. All those years in the front row and behind the stumps – and a lifestyle that could never be described as conscientiously healthy – really are catching up.

We’ll stick with “Manor Farm” after all, and let the Trust rename their bit; my prediction is “Rampant Beaver Acres”.

The time is indeed right. I don’t want to be hobbling on one leg into the Pots; it’s bad enough hobbling out every Tuesday.

And I certainly don’t want to be offered a large plate of Hobnobs in the middle of the lawn and hear a bolt closing. Not yet, anyway.