The farm is blooming, but beyond its boundaries the world has gone mad says Jamie Blackett.
The cows’ eyes shine like black diamonds in the darkness and the headlights amplify the steam from their breath. The one I call Tina Turner, a black Jersey with a spiky ginger fringe, stretches her nose out in greeting as I reverse the Land Rover into the log bunker, catching the cool, piney aroma above acrid farmyard smells.
A boot-full will satisfy the voracious goddess…
