I n the recent headlong rush to cover the world, as we know it, with salt, no one seems to have given the slightest thought as to where the salt ends up.

Of course, there is only one place it can go and that is down into successive water courses, streams and rivers. Farmers have to be very careful what they do with manures, spray residues and sheep dips lest they should contaminate water, and quite rightly, too.

Apparently, though, salt is OK. Not because it is a necessary desirable addition to streams and rivers, but because the need to keep the country moving on its roads is considered to be more important.

Next time you drive on a motorway section that sweeps down into a valley and up the other side, give a thought to what happens to all the surface water that comes off that particular road as it gravitates down to its lowest point.

People tell me that the first few hundred yards of the stream that carries that water is black and filthy, stinking of diesel and rubber.

Perish the thought that I should be a cynic but individual farmers wouldn't get away with something like that. But because it is "everybody" that causes the problem, the problem apparently doesn't exist.

Meanwhile, the salty rivers that are presently making their way to the sea, (where they will probably be diluted) bear testimony to this sudden change of content.

Basking sharks have been seen as high up the Severn as Worcester, where they are feeding with the swans. In the summer to come, innocent little children paddling in streams may have their toes nipped by lobsters.

As our particular world turned from white to green, I was surprised to see just how green our grass fields and our winter cereals actually were. It was almost as though they had continued growing underneath all that snow and frost.

I've caught a couple of cows actually looking over the yard gate recently, which is a sure sign that things are on the move.

I paid a visit to my neighbours' yard and there were lambs to be seen. They are still housed at the moment but there was a queue of ewes waiting to lamb out in the fields.

My favourite harbinger of spring is the daffodil. It's too soon yet for those around here but it's surprising how quickly they will start to appear. There I go, wishing my life away...

I often write about the delights of having grandchildren. People have said I go on too much but in the fullness of that time, as they themselves acquire grandchildren, they understand.

I've got five, aged from two to 16, and I love them all dearly. I try to treat them all equally, which isn't as difficult as you would think because at different ages they have different priorities.

A little one will be quite happy if you read a book to them, while the 16-year-old is starting to talk about something called a Renault Clio.

I also watch their progress through life carefully and if I think one of them is struggling in some way, I try to focus a bit more support in their direction.

My eldest grand-daughter struggles with her reading because of dyslexia and this could undermine her confidence, so at the moment there's a bit more TLC going in her direction.

Her conversational skills are assessed to be four years in advance of her age and she's as bright as a button, so I suspect that in the fullness of time she will be fine.

The second grandson is now 13 and just at the age when he considers it to be undignified for a 13-year-old to sit on my knee, which seems a bit strange as he's spent his life up until now sitting there at every opportunity. But he does pay the odd visit to my knee and the last occasion he had this to tell me: "It's not fair." "What's not fair?" "Well, you know that firm that does our school buses?" "Yes." "Well, I don't think they've got much money." "Why is that Tom?" "Well, we were going to a tag rugby tournament at another school and they ran out of diesel so the driver took half our dinner money off each of us to buy some diesel so we couldn't buy much to eat at the other school when we got there."

Not fair at all. I thought it was hilarious – you can just imagine some parents' reactions when they heard the story. Inadvertently, the bus driver had given the children an important lesson in making ends meet. Not fair, but very funny.

Every year I get invited to go shooting. This year, the shoot I was invited to was a proper farmer's shoot, where they took it in turns to be shooters and beaters.

I enjoyed the company, the occasion and the walk around someone else's farm but I just don't seem able to shoot any more.

Some of you will probably be pleased to hear that I didn't actually manage to shoot anything. If you ask shooters how many they think they have shot, the total is usually well in excess of the actual bag.

I am pleased that more and more shoots do not allow the shooting of woodcock. Such a nice little bird that has travelled such a long way to be here, why give it a hard time?

On one drive, five mallard got up, four were shot, the survivor flew half a mile and then returned over the guns, presumably in search of its mates. My gun stayed by my side, based on the theory that this particular duck had survived one barrage and didn't deserve to have to face another.