“Take this cow to the bull!” said Thistle. Thistle the farm owner was always blunt and sharp with his orders, wasting few words. He was only slight of build, without an ounce of fat on his bones, and as hard as iron for his age of some fifty four years. His thoughts were always for the farm and how he could get as much out of it as he can. He burnt a very short fuse, and his frequent flare-ups were over quickly before issuing a few sharp instructions to fix the wrong, before stomping away from the scene before you could even think on his words. He wore his grey streaked hair combed neatly back, and his bristly moustache was often jutted out in annoyance when his brow furrowed and forehead burned. His clothes were worn loose, a tweed jacket and thick trousers with a pair of braces. He wore his shirt buttoned up to the wrinkled neck. He wore hobnailed boots every day no matter the task or destination, only kicking them off at night with two loud heavy thumps on the old oak bedroom floor.
It was growing late in the year, and Owler arrived at the farm on a bright yet chilly autumn morning. It was just weeks after his family had to move off their old farm to the North.
He entered the square of the farmyard to the cackling laughter of a host of golden chickens, and the quacking coughs of large white ducks running ahead of him, necks outstretched and running for the farmhouse looking for human protection, eager to avoid the stranger. A black and white sheepdog came out from under a hay cart to inspect him, thinking him to be a suitable visitor before slinking back under the cart, watching Owler’s progress with its chin on its paws and scanned him by moving only its eyes from right to left as he passed in front of it on the way to the farmhouse door.
The what seemed to be ancient farmhouse were tucked into a south-facing hill near the Everclear lakes, where water was often drawn from for the animals. The house and farm were old stone buildings, and walls formed a square of a farmyard with one field gate exit. The farmhouse was protected on two sides by trees to protect it from wind and weather, and to the north were the barns, with a small orchard just behind them. The neatness of the farm was impressive, in particular the field hedges that were trimmed tight, square and neat, and the new hedges were immaculate and had been laid by a perfectionist it seemed.
Owler met Mr and Mrs Thistle after he had knocked for sometime on a stable type back door to the farmhouse, approaching from the kitchen garden and the granary, which was built up on some steps and to the north of the farmhouse near the barn.
“You must the boy Carter?”, said Thistle. They both surveyed him and he surveyed them.
“Come now into the kitchen so I can give you something warm to drink!”, said Mrs Thistle.
Upon entering the farmhouse a strong pleasant aroma of oak firewood, neatly cut oak logs drying by the already blazing fire. The kitchen was a very large low beamed room with a big pine table at its centre, and in the centre of the table a large choir of candlesticks. The floor was a scrubbed stone, with several rag made rugs spread around. The room was warm and cosy though it had no luxuries except hard chairs, and exceptionally good food.
He was shown to a very small back bedroom that Mrs Thistle had prepared; walking what seemed to be half way about the house to get to it! Though upon entering, Owler realised it was above the kitchen and as warm as toast in winter, and a little too hot in summer.
Before he could even unpack his small amount of belongings, Mrs Thistle bellowed from the bottom of the cold stone steps that led upstairs, “Carter! Go you this minute quickly for some eggs!”, and without even the chance to sit down, the new farmhand was wrestling with the brooding mothers as he tried to pry away their treasures for a hearty breakfast to come.
