I am up to my ankles in thick mud, scraping horse poo up from a waterlogged pasture. It’s been a tough winter for anyone who spends lots of time outdoors. East Anglia has recorded its wettest (and warmest) February on record, with endless drab days of persistent rain.
Poo-picking helps to keep the pasture palatable and reduces the parasitic worms that can infect the horses, but it’s hard work. My wheelbarrow is nearly full of muck, and the hill looms. I wonder if I may give up halfway, stuck in mud, my lifeless body waiting to be found. Yet I push through the mire and take a breather halfway, heart racing.
