T'was the night before Christmas,
and all over the farm,
nothing was stirring
~ a quiet eerie calm

No squawk from a goose,
no gobbling Turkey
They’re both stuffed and trussed,
just awaiting the gravy

No moo from the steer
~ that great thumping geezer
You won't hear him now,
from the back of our freezer

The silence of the lambs,
who along with mint sauce,
we’ve had chopped with our chips,
without trace of remorse

And the ewes and the rams,
after hectic conception
Chew a post coital cud,
in relaxed contemplation

The children have finished,
decking the tree with it’s bling
And lay dreaming of goodies,
that tomorrow may bring

Leaving old Farmer Christmas,
tying sacks on bedsteads
And mumbling ‘Bah Humbug’,
as he stomps off to bed

As winter approaches, and the grass slows its growth, it’s time to think about bring in some of the animals and feeding others in the fields; and so we cleaned out one of the stables in preparation to bringing in my late father’s horse – Jack. Bought for £300 from a neighbour as a youngster over thirty years ago, he was my dad’s workhorse and hunting companion for two decades until he passed away in 1997.

Christened Jumping Jack Flash in homage to the famous track by the Rolling Stones and also because he gave the local young rough rider – Ronnie – such a lively time while breaking him in. He was what my father would describe as a hony (as opposed to a porse) which meant that while he was a horse in height he was more like a pony in nature. In the begining Dad had grave doubts about Jacks ability to carry his six foot three inches across the moors , but he needn’t have worried – Jack had the heart of a lion and never missed a day.

‘The best horse is the one ridden the most’, is an old adage and Jack certainly proved it true. When my parents first bought the farm, it was only made financially viable through us taking in German students for horse riding holidays - whose parents would happily pay through the nose for so that they might improve their English. Jack would ride out as lead horse six days a week throughout the summer and then in the winter Dad would go out hunting most weekends; mainly with a ‘pirate’ pack of foxhounds called the Temple Beagles from the next parish.

When we carried my father’s coffin through the farm - Jack led the mourners; and despite my Dad once famously saying that he ‘might need another horse now that Jack has passed 20’, Jack has survived him by over ten years.

A few years ago, I thought I would take my eldest daughter to experience a ride out at the traditional New Years Day meet in the village. I took Jack out of retirement, dusted down my Dad’s old hunting jacket and out we went. From the moment Jack caught sight of the hounds he was in his element; he absolutely loved every minute and after three hours I thought my arms were going to be pulled right out of their sockets. Everybody recognised him and I was greeted by cries of ‘Hello Jack – long time’ all day.

I am writing this with a heavy heart as I decided that this would be one winter too many for the old boy. Spring can be the cruellest time for farm animals and with his dodgy teeth, Jack had only just made it through the last one. Having had a good autumn, it was time to let him go. Adam  - the hunt master – came and helped me and he is now buried within a few yards of his former master.