There are many things you can bring from a city to a farm: books, better quality beer, fancy shoes, electricity, an iPod, an epidemic or old buttons. What is hard to bring from the city is a good physical condition.

My whole life before farming was spent in a sitting position: as a pupil at school, as a believer in church, as a student at lectures, as a literature major at libraries, at home reading, in buses and trams commuting, at work as a desk-job holder, and after all, and as a result, in clinic waiting rooms.

This is not a song about bad city life. It was just my case: not enough motion. Now I am moving most of my day. Now I sit with pleasure, while looking at the field, in the shade, having a break. It is not a pastoral though. I am trying to catch my breath. My body is forgetting about soreness from yesterday’s work, because there is enough soreness from today’s work. My shirt is sticking to my back and my hair to my hat and forehead, while flies and gnats are swimming in my sweat.

It is not an idyll; I don’t even own a single sheep, like those shepherds in the romanticized rural paintings…I might get some in the future, though.