The influence that my continental trip (see below) continues to hold over me was illustrated quite nicely at our local livestock market last week.

DEFRA, (the Department for Environment, Food and Rural Affairs) had finally lifted some of the Foot & Mouth livestock movement restrictions (hurrah, hurrah!) and the valuable autumn sales were able to resume. As the main national ram sale in Wales had been cancelled last month I was tempted to go to our local market at Hallworthy for their own smaller but local affair.

Since converting to organic production in 1999 I have had little reason to go to the market, which in our subsidy-collecting ranching days was once a weekly fixture in our lives. I can’t say that I have missed it much as I never really felt at home in the very dour, testosterone-laden atmosphere that seems to hang over all of these weekly gatherings, and one glance around the sale ring at the gloomy weather-beaten faces was enough to convince me that I hadn’t been missing out on much.

To be fair, we sheep farmers are having a tough time of it at the moment with prices on the floor and masses of imported lamb being sucked in as a result of the FMD chaos. “So at least the rams should be cheap” I thought – and so it transpired. Bargain after bargain passed by my nose and the expressions on the breeder’s faces grew longer and longer.

‘Buy dear and sell cheap’ has always been my market motto and I wasn’t about to change today. In fact I had my eye on some rather fancy looking rams in the end pen which board proclaimed were pedigree Rouge de l'Ouest. Originating from the Loire area in France, and renowned for its rich thick milk, the Rouge was originally kept as a dairy sheep producing Camembert cheese. Well that was enough for me and I went home a happy man with possibly the two dearest rams at the sale.

Their distinct red faces and wide gallic bottoms would grace any flock and I am looking forward to the spring to see what the offspring will look like.

Just back from a farmers’ jolly to France. Organised by Natural England as part of their Heathland project, I was fortunate enough to be invited to join one of the cultural-exchange visits.

We few, (we happy few), consisted of  6 farmers (the other five all from deepest, darkest West Penwith) and a couple of conservation officers; and we trundled in our minibus from Cherbourg in Normandy, visiting many Heathland sites over four days, ending up at Roscoff in Brittany for the boat home to Plymouth.

From the moment we set foot aboard the French owned Brittany Ferry at Poole, the cultural differences began to show. The food and service in the restaurant were not only superb but also very reasonably priced (not that we were paying , you understand). And I had barely enough time it seemed to digest my wild salmon (washed down with a very nice Beaujolais), before we had disembarked and were unpacking in our hotel and getting ready to meet our first French guide in a very swanky seafood restaurant overlooking the night time harbour – local oysters and mussels followed and the chilled white wine flowed freely.

And so the trip went on, and I can honestly say that I have never eaten quite as much – or so well - in such a short time; and if it were not for the occasionally foray onto some French Heath we would all have come down with early onset gout.

Those of you who have already discovered the joys of North-West France will not be surprised; but I was truly taken aback by the miles of empty roads, the relaxed attitude to life, the fine local cuisine and the sheer peace and calm of the small towns and villages we visited. This seemed even more surreal as the surrounding countryside bears a remarkable resemblance to Cornwall – just without the traffic and tourists.

And whilst the farms we visited were not perhaps the tightest of run outfits, and some of the Heathland restoration projects looked unlikely to succeed much past their European funding, they did seem to have their priorities right – good food, good wine & convivial conversation.

Back home again and it is all I can do to stop myself pouring a glass of plonk midday and if I find myself becoming at all stressed, I take a deep breath and recite to myself B.M.F. – Be More French!