This is the Part Where I Get Overly Sentimental

I know a nostalgic memory when I see one, and this place is full of them. Picking the first blueberries of the season, my back warmed by a defiant sun reaching through fast moving clouds; driving down the coast road at sunset, discussing Brexit and sheep herding and the science behind plant breeding and the way autumn colors each of our homes; walking up the hill to the clearing with the best view after a rainstorm and finding the fullest, brightest rainbow I have ever seen crowning the valley below; herding a couple hundred reluctant sheep, just the host and me - not quite enough people for the job - through two huge, green pastures into a new field and watching them, finally, stream through the gate of their new home.

I know already that hindsight will color this place in a far more blissful light than it should. Even before this, I’ve had a bad habit of, on late nights of cramming for exams and anxious mornings before a big presentation, fantasizing about abandoning “the real world” and living on a quaint little organic farm, somewhere hilly and green and near the ocean. And from my point of view, as someone transient and detached from the inner workings of it all, this appears to be every bit that fantasy.

But it is not an accurate picture. My hours are 9 to 5 with a long lunch, my food is provided by a generous host who always offers seconds, and my income is an afterthought, with plenty to fall back on. An organic farmer’s well-being is a little more tenuous, a little less assured. The past few years have been particularly difficult because the climate here is indeed changing and the month-long dry spells that allowed farmers to sow their seeds in the spring have diminished to a handful of dry days scattered over the season, far too few to allow many outdoor crops to do well. This year was the first ever that the ground was too wet to be weeded using a machine, which meant that those seemingly never-ending rows of potatoes had to be weeded by hand. For now, with a small army of WWOOFers, the weeding isn’t so bad, but the host does not have WWOOFers here in the winter – the short days are too depressing and the caravans too cold, she said – and the work is carried out by just the host and her son, for the most part.

And luck, no matter how well-kept and organized the farm, always has its say. The first time I went to the other farm to help with the sheep, we were greeted by the sight of three lying dead in the field. We paced around, checking on the rest of the flock and trying to understand what had happened, what had gone wrong. With a look of distress, anger, pity, confusion the host examined the dead sheep, each one’s side torn open, and wondered aloud how people could be so careless, letting their dogs out at night with no consideration for what they might do. The next day, three more were dead, and another two the next.

It was unheard of, she said, to lose this many in such a short time. They had done everything right – checked on the sheep often, lined the hedges with electric fences, given them enough grass and space and water – and, still, eight dead in three days. The killings stopped just as suddenly as they started; perhaps the dog had come and gone with guests at the neighboring vacation cottages. One of the other WWOOFers developed a morbid fascination with the whole thing and pestered the host with awful questions – how much money did you lose on those sheep? Do you think the birds got to them before or after they died? – until she finally snapped that it’s better to not think about these things, that farming can be difficult and sad and stressful, and it is no coincidence that its suicide rate is one of the highest of any profession in this country.

I do not mean to paint such a grim picture. On a day-to-day basis, everyone here seems quite happy to with the work. The host spends many mornings cheerfully sorting and packing eggs, listening to the BBC or chatting with the WWOOFer helping her. Her son spends much of his day speeding around the farm on a four-wheeler, laughing as the dogs chase after him. The difficulty lies in the fact that this work is not a job, but their life. They do not work set hours here; they start as early as they need to and end when everything is done, about 15 hours oftentimes, stopping only for meals and sleep. Vacations, or even days off, are rare – the farm won’t run itself – and the closest I’ve seen either of them get to taking a break is when they sit and drink their tea after lunch while reading the Farmers Guardian.

Tomorrow I leave the farm. It will be a whirlwind of planes, trains, and automobiles, with a short jaunt in London, an overnight stay in an airport hotel room, and an 8 am flight on Sunday that will take me, finally, to Stockholm. I am happy to finally be going, but I also dread leaving far more than I had expected. I keep wondering if I will ever be back, but all things considered – the remoteness of the farm, the cost of travel, the difficulty of simply having the time to come – I think, perhaps, that the future holds only nostalgic memories of this place and nothing more.