Out gathering pine cones, holly and yew boughs for the Christmas decorations, all at once my nostrils were filled with a ripe, rich reek. The smell of the manure rose before me solid as the stone wall of a stable. There was plenty of the “golden muck”. For two days the clack-clack of the manure shredder had resounded through the village and now the riddled, grey stubble acres were black with wreaths of straw and dung. Taking a few gleaning armfuls to mulch the bottom of the saplings growing along the bridleway, I felt the life in my hands: the manure was still warm. Each armful was a door opening in the byre, a flush of beast breath and the slow, hoof-rumination of the cattle. Despite our era of change, more things than we might think remain the same, and one of them is that w