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Moel-y-Garth, Wales. 23 July 2026

Moel-y-Garth, Wales. 23 July 2026

Author: By Jo Rushby
Date: 2026-08-28

Emrys (wizard), my brother's neighbour, and farming for 80 years in the Welsh valley, cast his gaze over the field and our hay gathering efforts. His sparkly blue eyes relayed his admiration and a jovial nod to these antiquated methods. A man of few words. "Not bad" he said. We had been out in the blistering sun, the three of us. My brother scythed the long dry grass, swishing back and forth, while my niece Maddy and I raked and gathered. Industrious, mad.

It was almost as if we were caught in a time warp. The smell of hay. The sheep salivating. Hard but satisfying labour. There was no talking but rather I entered a trance-like state. A rhythmic, harmonious silence enveloped as we started piling the grass into 'stoeks', the familiar pyramidal shapes that once dotted the countryside.

"The (wo)men leaned on their rakes, about to begin,

But still. And all were silent. All was old,

This morning time, with a great age untold" (Edward Thomas)

When I looked back at the fruits of our labour, I wanted to capture it for all time. Not with a cellphone but with paint and brush.

Claude Monet did exactly that, painting fifteen canvases throughout 1890-1891 of haystacks in various lights, times of day and seasons, the same scene over and over and over, replicating the rhythm of nature and man. One reviewer Geffroy said of this series: "They stand erect beneath the bright sun in a limpid atmosphere...At the close of the warm days...the stacks glow like heaps of gems. Their sides split and light up...These red-glowing grainstacks throw lengthening shadows that are strewn with emeralds".

Now Maddy and I were in the groove, tossing the hay, giggling, throwing ourselves into the sides like giant cushions, higher and higher it grew. With the triumphant golden towers at the ready, we asked Emrys the wizard and his son Brian if they could help. Always up for a fun distraction, they immediately agreed. The tractor arrived and we piled on the grass. Laying on top, I felt a rush of complete joy run through my body, as the tractor swayed and rolled up the hill to their farm. Emrys the wizard and his wife Gwynedd were waiting with the hay baler. Excitement flowed as the hay was pushed through the juddering machine and out they popped on the other side in squished rectangles. A whole day's work. Five bales.

I peeped into the shed. Gigantic hay bales. Rolled to perfection. Machine made. I looked back at our rough, misshapen blocks and smiled. Making hay while the sun shines is one of the most delightful things I have had the privilege to do. The sheep loved it too. Given a choice at the end of the day between our bales and the machine, they baa-ed and coo-ed over our delicious hay. And what I learned in the Welsh sun-burnt valley is that you might not find a needle in a haystack, but you will find happiness.