There are two tides to the day, determined by the feeding of animals, morning and evening.

The first gets us all up and outside. Literally, I get out of bed, into clothes and outside, bleary-eyed. Perhaps via a cup of tea swiped from the Aga on the way out. I've been getting up between 7:30 and 8; this feels late, the kitchen (and house) already deserted and empty mugs standing by the sink.

During this first wave of activity - feeding, milking, letting out animals, egg-collecting - we all move around each other, co-ordinating activities (feeding calves after cows have been milked). Then suddenly it's all done - eggs packed away, cows reshuffled into the barn - and people disperse into the house or caravans (Doug and Sam live in these, away from the house), towards breakfast and the rest of the day. The farm is quiet again.

I don't really know what happens next: letter-opening and 'phone-call making (and I'm doing this); is it farm work or life, or both, being the same?

In the middle of the day, an uncertain 'no-man's land' of slower time. I find myself something to do: preparing the garden for planting; making an egg sign for the farm. Drink tea throughout the day. Might read, make notes, run into town (can drive their landrover, yipee!), help Sam make ice-cream. Digging is a good afternoon activity: just to dig (lose time, forget everything including my own thoughts) until it's suddenly evening, the pre-spring light casting long shadows.

Then it's feeding time: the second wave to the day.

After this, a sense of things being done, everything put to bed. A glass of wine. Yet Ruth (Malcolm's wife; Sam and Doug's mother) might be making dinner for a B&B guest, Malcolm on the 'phone for something about the farm.

At dinner, conversation flits between farming gossip and Coldbrook plans.