I arrived in England in September 1970, a young man full of easy ambition and eager to grab the opportunities ahead. But, beyond academic goals and career prospects, England’s northern countryside offered me something more enduring: friendships that would shape my life and work. Through badminton—a game of agility, strategy, and grit—I began meeting local farmers, people whose lives were as raw and rugged as the landscape they called home. These friendships led me into the heart of British farming life, where I grew to understand the hardships and steadfast spirit of the true farmer.
The north of England, particularly the Trough of Bowland and areas around Lancaster and Ingleton, was filled with men and women who tended their land with a quiet, determined resilience. For them, farming was not a hobby or a sideline; it was everything— their livelihoods, their family histories, their identities. Men like James Whitaker, who worked the land near Lancaster, and Bobby Capstick, whose farm near Ingleton echoed the harsh, haunting beauty of the Brontë moors, stood out as living symbols of this connection to the earth. The land they worked wasn’t a picturesque backdrop but a tough, unyielding partner, one that demanded everything and gave little in return.
There were countless mornings when I joined these farmers, stepping out onto frozen fields in the biting cold. Under a grey sky, with sleet and snow stinging my face, I would pull on my wellies and wade through thick mud to lend a hand. The stone walls surrounding their fields, worn and battered by time and weather, evoked the stony resolve of John Keats’s poetry—a sense of beauty born from hardship. These walls, like the farmers themselves, were shaped by unyielding conditions and stood as enduring symbols of resilience. The farmers’ lives felt like echoes from Wuthering Heights, their days filled with the same raw power and harsh beauty of Heathcliff’s windswept moors. Here, surrounded by howling winds and driving rain, the farmers carried on with stoic grace, embodying a spirit as wild and tenacious as the land itself.
I quickly learned that to be a farmer in northern England was to live at the mercy of forces beyond control. Each day brought new challenges, from unpredictable weather to uncertain markets, leaving farmers constantly hedging their bets against rain or drought. The winter mornings were a test of endurance—mornings when the fields turned into freezing quagmires, where every footstep seemed to sink deeper into the mud, and each task was made harder by the biting wind. It was in these moments that I saw the essence of these men. Their connection to the land was as much a bond as it was a struggle, a relationship formed over generations that no outsider could easily understand.
Over the years, these farmers became not just friends but mentors. They taught me more than how to care for land; they taught me about resilience, patience, and a type of strength that doesn’t seek acknowledgment. These were not men of idle talk or grand gestures; they were men who “walked the talk”, who rose before dawn and toiled through the cold, the mud, and the endless demands of the land. Through these experiences, I developed a respect for the real farmer—the one who lives each day by the sweat of his brow, whose income rises and falls with the harvest. They became, in my eyes, giants of the earth, people of unwavering resolve whose lives embodied a timeless poetry.
In recent years, I have watched with growing frustration as the pressures on these farmers mount. Brexit has brought with it a wave of uncertainty, upending EU agricultural subsidies that once provided a financial lifeline. Farmers now find themselves grappling with unstable markets and shifting regulations, and many feel as if they’re losing control over their own futures. At the same time, public figures like Jeremy Clarkson have attempted to capture the hardships of farm life on television, while high-profile landowners like Dyson make sweeping, headline-grabbing statements on the state of British agriculture. To real farmers, these portrayals feel superficial, missing the everyday reality—the true, sobersided struggle of dawn-to-dusk labour and sleepless nights spent worrying over a harvest that could be wiped out by a single frost.
Adding to this, politicians like Rachel Reeves are proposing tax changes that threaten to erode the inheritance protections many farmers rely on. For these families, land is more than property; it’s a legacy built through generations, passed down with pride and sacrifice. The looming threat of inheritance tax reforms adds yet another burden on those who are already struggling to stay afloat. Land values may be high, but for these farmers, wealth is tied to their fields and livestock, not to cash in the bank. Losing this land would mean losing a part of their identity, a severance from a heritage rooted deeply in the soil itself.
Now living on my own land in Tuscany, I often reflect on those friendships, the men and women who shaped my view of strength and honour. Early mornings in Italy, as mist rises off my own fields, I think of those cold, dark mornings in England, the feeling of wet, heavy soil underfoot, and the relentless determination of my friends who farmed against all odds. I remember their laughter on the badminton court, a rare break from the grind, where friendships were forged in friendly rivalry and mutual respect.
Those farmers, I realise, were a rare breed—men and women who truly “walked the talk.” They were doers, not speakers, facing down whatever the day threw at them with a quiet fortitude that I have come to admire even more deeply with age. From my vantage point in Tuscany, where the sun shines more often and the soil is gentler, I feel a profound empathy for my old friends, the farmers who remain tied to the unpredictable, unforgiving lands of northern England. I know that while the world around them changes, they stand as they always have—steadfast and unyielding, like the stone walls that mark their fields, an acknowledgement to endurance and to a way of life that deserves respect, not romanticised headlines or burdensome policies.
In my heart, I walk with these giants still, their spirit as much a part of me as the land I now call home. The landscapes may differ, but the lessons remain, etched into my memory like the weathered stone hedges of England—unbreakable and enduring.