Post by andrew on Jan 22, 2008 13:08:54 GMT
There's nothing quite like the smell of freshly tilled soil. Some might take it for granted, after working the land for so many years, but it is here that me heart is at home; working with the earth. It was the work of me father, and his father before him and his father before him, going on for as long as the records of Knighton have been written.
Or, at least, till it was burnt down and disappeared along with the nobles living there. Edward let me look at it, sometimes, when I was a young lad, and I would wonder what it said, what the names of me ancestors were, and if I were really lucky, he'd tell me a few, just to get me out of his hair. When he had hair.
But there's nothing quite like the smell of freshly tilled soil. The uprooted weeds waft into the air, smell like grass does when you're lying exceptionally close to it. Makes my nose sniffle, that does. Grass is one thing I don't like. Gets in the way, takes up precious farming land. I don't hold with grass and get Clarence the goat to eat it all up. Now he likes grass. Could eat it all day.
The Sheriff were by today, looking for people to take back to the dungeons for imagined misdemeanours. I kept my head down, I did, and advised my kids to do the same, and it worked. None of my kin are down in those dungeons, and never have been. And, God's will be done, they never will be.
I ought to be getting on with me work, not sitting around daydreaming about the Sheriff or the smell of soil. Though it is me favourite smell. I could lose meself in the soil, quite happily. And I think I will, till Georgie calls me in for dinner and scolds me for traipsing mud all over her nice clean floors or for letting Mary play about in the dirt.
I love that woman, but she don't half worry too much. Bit of dirt's good for a kid. Never did me no harm, leastways.
Or, at least, till it was burnt down and disappeared along with the nobles living there. Edward let me look at it, sometimes, when I was a young lad, and I would wonder what it said, what the names of me ancestors were, and if I were really lucky, he'd tell me a few, just to get me out of his hair. When he had hair.
But there's nothing quite like the smell of freshly tilled soil. The uprooted weeds waft into the air, smell like grass does when you're lying exceptionally close to it. Makes my nose sniffle, that does. Grass is one thing I don't like. Gets in the way, takes up precious farming land. I don't hold with grass and get Clarence the goat to eat it all up. Now he likes grass. Could eat it all day.
The Sheriff were by today, looking for people to take back to the dungeons for imagined misdemeanours. I kept my head down, I did, and advised my kids to do the same, and it worked. None of my kin are down in those dungeons, and never have been. And, God's will be done, they never will be.
I ought to be getting on with me work, not sitting around daydreaming about the Sheriff or the smell of soil. Though it is me favourite smell. I could lose meself in the soil, quite happily. And I think I will, till Georgie calls me in for dinner and scolds me for traipsing mud all over her nice clean floors or for letting Mary play about in the dirt.
I love that woman, but she don't half worry too much. Bit of dirt's good for a kid. Never did me no harm, leastways.