I love rainy days on the farm. Or when camping. As long as I’m dry and warm, I’m happy.
Today I was stomping around in rubber boots, wet grass squelching underfoot, mud everywhere the sheep had already worked over. All fun and games—until I stepped in dog shit. Properly. Boot, jeans, the lot. Putrid.
Naturally, this is the exact moment visitors arrived.
My eldest sister, her partner, and a grandchild, fresh from a region finally getting on its feet after years of struggle, after Covid lockdowns. I haven’t stepped in shit in years, but there I was, covered in it, proving once again that I am the youngest sister with no class. Apparently.
Anyway.
This was meant to be a short note to say this:
I’m starting a bi-monthly or monthly newsletter (subject to my motivational whims) called The Dirt.
It will cover life on a small, working farm—the real version, not the Instagram one. Some stories will stay public. The dirtier ones will be for members only. Not scandal—just the things you don’t say out loud on social media.
I’ve been farming and writing for over twenty years, and before that, I grew up on a small hobby farm. The place I’m in now wasn’t inherited, and it isn’t cushy. We scrape, juggle, work hard, and keep going anyway.
More on all that later.
For now: welcome to The Dirt.