Singing in circles

The farmland around here has been throbbing to the sound of Great Big Machinery. Everywhere it is ploughing time, spring sowing time, harrowing time, lime spreading time, spraying time. All pretty much simultaneously, on all the farms at once with contractors roaring around like blue-based baboons (that's a 1930s literary reference).

Cut to Norwestie's walk through the woods. Striding up the hill we were, towards this deep engine note. That'll be the sprayer, I thought. Wrong I was. It was a little grey Fergie and here it is.

The mowing gentleman was going round in his necessary circles, singing his head off. He saw me and waved, as usual. I waved back as usual. Norwestie and I went on walking. He went on mowing. And singing, though in fact he had never stopped.