Will’s World: Jobs can wait for harvest festival recital

I’d said I couldn’t go. We had cattle booked to go to the abattoir that morning, it was forecast to pour with rain all day, and I had a million other things to do as a result.

Our youngest daughter was disappointed, but she understood – it wouldn’t be the first time, after all – and her mum would be there to see her recite her few lines anyway.

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But after they’d gone, and as I finished loading cattle, it suddenly hit me that I only have a few more years left of watching primary school performances and banking the memories.

So I made the last-minute decision to leave the rest of the jobs until later and rushed off to the village church to get to the harvest festival on time.

I just about made it and stumbled through the large oak doors beside the ancient yew trees that are one of the seven wonders of Wales, soaking wet and dishevelled, just as Father Jeremy was about to head to the front to start the service.

Warm welcome

I like my country vicars to be loud, eccentric, and generous of spirit, and Father Jeremy certainly fits the bill; he shook my hand warmly and welcomed me in out of the rain like a lost soul in need of saving.

I quickly sat down in one of the few remaining pew spaces in the packed church and settled in for an hour of haphazard and chaotic entertainment.

Fellow parents of young children will appreciate what I mean by that, and I always secretly hope that an errant child will accidentally knock over some scenery, fall off the stage, or audibly swear during the show, and I’m rarely disappointed.

Sometimes the errant child isn’t one of ours, too.

As the various age groups began their heartfelt songs and recitals, all related to food and being thankful for the farmers who work so hard to produce it, I unexpectedly began to feel quite emotional.

I don’t know if it was because I’d had such a rush to get there, or if I was just feeling tired.

Perhaps it was the feeling of time pushing relentlessly on and being very aware that my daughters are growing up so quickly.

Or maybe it’s because 2024 has been incredibly difficult for so many of us in farming and it has taken its physical and mental toll.

Whatever the reason, I began to well up and had to discreetly wipe an eye and take a few deep breaths.

Through the ages

As the service continued, and those of us in the congregation self-consciously mumbled our way through “We Plough the Fields and Scatter” in traditional fashion as the children proudly belted it out, I began to think of the multiple generations of rural people who will have participated in events like this – giving thanks for a successful harvest – going back thousands of years.

I wondered what it must have meant to them, knowing that a good or bad harvest could be the difference between life and death for themselves and their families.

I imagined the utter dread of crop failure, and the resulting poverty and famine that would follow.

And I pictured the collective joy and celebrations that would have come at the end of a bumper harvest, safe in the knowledge that the community’s hard work and faith had been rewarded for another year.

And then, as I snapped out of my reverie, my daughter saw me, and her little face lit up with a huge smile.

I’m so glad I left those jobs until later.