I remember the farm was along the end of a country road, quiet enough for us to all ride our bikes without me fearing the children would die under a car’s wheels. It would give us a tremendous sense of freedom, only steps away from our village and we would be in the country; with just birdsong and the click of wheels; catching the sweet scent of strawberries and straw carried by the breeze across the fields.

We would reach the farm, fresh faced, as the lane was a steady climb, park our bikes near the rickety fence and feed the mallard ducks in the pond our hard dry bread. We would laugh as they bobbed about with their bottoms in the air as they fished out the weed from the lake bed. When the bread had been eaten, and the last disappointed duck waddled away we would slowly walk our bikes up the gravel path passing the smithy on our way. We could never walk past without leaning in on the stable door, peering at the arrangement of metal, forge and tools, the cobwebs gently floating in the breeze brought to mind ghosts from the past.

The barn was an impressive entrance to the farm, we locked our bikes under the huge oak tree, and made our way through the entrance to be greeted by the odd hen or two, scratching in the dust at some unknown worm or other. The Farm museum was just like time had stood still, the whitewashed farmhouse was separated from us by the yard filled with cows, pigs and sheep. It seemed to reflect an earlier age, a gentler age when people kept chickens and had fresh eggs each day. This would be a small holder’s delight, and my dream.