W hen we were going through all the drawers in the house last week, (looking for the key to the kitchen door), I came across some old photographs.

It's often the case that what you find is more interesting than what you were looking for and one photograph was particularly special.

We used to have a man working here, 40-odd years ago, he was in his 60s then, a great local character. His nickname was Rattler, because he rarely stopped talking. Which was quite strange because he was very, very deaf. Conversations were a bit like driving the wrong way up a one way street.

He had very strong opinions on things. I could never get him to understand, for example, that when he saw the highlights of a football match on television what he saw was an edited version of the football match – he was convinced that editing was impossible and that what really happened was that they just speeded everything up to get it in in the allotted time.

I remember him explaining his theory to my brother-in-law who for most of his working life was a film editor with the BBC in Cardiff.

Naturally he was delighted with the theory and took the story back to Cardiff to share with his colleagues. He reckoned for years after, when they had a difficult editing decision to make, it was standard practise for someone to suggest that they solve the dilemma by "speeding it all up".

I remember one occasion when Bill Rattler and I were with the artificial insemination man. The AI man was a bit of a character as well – we called him Cosmic Ken because we reckoned he could only get a cow in calf when there was a full moon.

Bill was busying himself tidying up after Ken had done his work, his back towards Ken, and Ken was telling him something or other.

Bill took no notice of him, so eventually Ken tapped him quite hard on the shoulder.

"I'm talking to you."

"No you're not," says Bill, "I'm deaf, you're talking to yourself."

The trigger for all these memories was the photograph I found.

Bill Rattler had a very strict code of practice with regard to his farm work and a part of this strict regime was that at 9.30, come what may, it was bait time, when he would take half an hour for his breakfast.

If cold or wet he would take his bait in the place where we had our roller mill. This was his domain, a shed within a shed where he kept all the feed we were using and the bags of barley we rolled from the granary above.

It was all neat and tidy and he also kept his outdoor clothing and his tools in there.

If it were wet and cold he was welcome to take his bait in our kitchen but to Bill there was a social barrier that made the idea improper.

He had never had children of his own and he idolised my little boy, who idolised Bill in return. For about three years before he went to school my wife had to cut David some bread and cheese to go and join Bill for his bait. It had to be cut from a proper loaf, not ready sliced and it had to be thick cut and so did the cheese.

And off David would go at 9.30 to join Bill. I've found a photograph of them. It was a summer day so they were taking their bait outside in the sun. They had a tump of wood each to sit on, their respective bait bags at their feet and they were about three yards apart, at a slight angle to each other, both fully engrossed in the bread and the cheese they hold in each hand.

As far as I know, no conversation took place on these occasions. It's just a nice picture of a little a boy and an old man totally at ease with each other.

The little boy, with the corner of his eye, was closely watching the old man making sure that he ate his bread and cheese in just the right way.

We are not big on spraying on this farm, particularly on grassland, preferring not to do it at all. This is mainly because, in removing docks and thistles, you remove clover as well.

But eventually we have to go in with spray and in the following years we put some clover seed in with the fertiliser and hopefully put the clover back.

The only grass field we've had to spray this year is a seven-acre field on our boundary. Thankfully it's on everyone else's boundary as well, because it's well out of sight from all directions.

Because we want the spray to work properly we can't take the topper in there to trim it so when I had to go in there last week to fetch the cows I was ashamed of it. There were dead stalks of thistles everywhere and clumps of nettles in all their glory.

I've told you before about how nettles will one day take over the world – the spray we use for thistles checks nettle but it only gives them a headache and in a couple of weeks they are back on full power.

So it was with great delight that I gave it a really good tidy up. I gave it the agricultural equivalent of the No. 3 you would get at the hairdressers.

I don't think there will be any thistles in there next year and I have plans for the nettles.

But it's amazing what you see when you are on a tractor. After spraying I drove slowly back to the gate and there, sitting on the top bar, also admiring what I'd done, was a hen turkey. I should add that I was nearly two miles away from where I see wild turkeys quite regularly and I've never seen one there before.

I turned the tractor off and sat and watched her and she, in turn, watched me. I watched for 10 minutes and as far as I could see she was on her own. When I eventually drove on I wondered what a lovely life she must live, going about her business on her own with one eye looking for a fox.

I quite like the idea of turkeys being about and contemplated Christmas and taking my grandchildren out to find a Christmas tree and a turkey dinner on Christmas Eve. It's a Christmas card vision but it's not for here.

Our Christmas tree goes up in the middle of November and the state my wife gets in at Christmas, you'd have to shoot your turkey at least a week before if she was to feather it properly.