My father had very little sleep once haymaking started. It was always a race against time and weather to get the grass cut, dried and stacked. He would often work throughout the night, using storm lanterns to light his way.

When I was young he cut the grass the old fashioned way with a large scythe. He would work his way around the field using wide and confident strokes, each swathe of the scythe cleanly cutting the grass before him. He would stop occasionally to sharpen the blade with a stone, taking the opportunity to have a swig out of the bottle of cold tea that was slung round his shoulder in an old sack. If the sun grew hot he would take out his large white handkerchief, and knotting the corners would fashion a hat to protect his balding head.

I have a vivid mental picture of my father as he toiled on the land – a tall upright figure, whose strong arms made light work of wielding the heavy scythe. He would be wearing a collarless shirt, its sleeves rolled up, and waistcoat loose with his pocket watch and gold chain glinting in the sun. His brow would be furrowed with squinting against the bright light, and damp with the sweat of his labour. If I concentrate hard enough, I can almost smell the sweet scent of the newly cut grass, and hear the gentle rhythm of each swathe.

After the field was cut the fallen grass would be gathered into sheaves and laid to dry, all the while praying that the good weather would hold. When the hay was ready my father would bring horse and dray into the field and load it high with the fragrant sun drenched grass, taking it back to the farm to be made into a haystack. My father was renowned in our district for his creative stacks – well shaped and firmly packed, with his own distinctive plaited top that kept them watertight. Even when machines took the place of hand cutting, and tractors made the horses redundant, my father still kept his scythe hanging on a hook in the barn, well sharpened and lovingly oiled to preserve it. Occasionally he would take it down to cut the long grass that lined the farm lane, enjoying the feel of it in his hands again.

I think haymaking was my father’s happiest time, he was always very close and in-tune with his land, loving the richness and fertility of the soil, and the rituals that each season brought.

He died in his beloved fields, a blessedly quick heart attack, that struck whilst he turned the hay. I could not have planned a better end for this giant of a man whom I dearly loved. He lay amongst his ripening hay, and as his last breath left his body he was surrounded by the sights and smells that he most prized. His eyes would have finally closed against the fierce sun in the clear blue sky above him, and knowing my father, his last feeling would be of anger. Anger that he was wasting precious time by dying, when the sun was shining, and there was still some hay to get in.