I take the scythe out of its sheath and start where I stand inside the gate, slashing away at the taller weeds, knowing I can’t even begin to start digging their roots up when they’re at this height. I’ve never used a scythe before, but I’ve watched the topless scything scene in Poldark many times, and that’s pretty much the same thing. Who says television isn’t educational? Aidan Turner looks a lot better topless than I do though, and he doesn’t have to worry about boobs getting in the way. I’m not going to try it, but I suspect boobs would be hazardous to topless scything.

After I’ve cut down a huge patch along the edge of the field, I gather up the limp weeds and pile them in a heap beside the gate. I’ll get a wheelbarrow later and take everything to the composter between two of the tin sheds on the scrubland. I get the fork and push it into the earth, driving it down with my foot, and levering a huge clump of roots out of the soil. I shake the loose mud off and then toss the roots onto the pile too. I move over and heave out another clump, and another, and another, until there’s a space of fresh sandy soil and I’ve freed a couple of metres of the holly hedge from weeds.

I try not to look at how far I’ve got versus how much there still is to do, and this is only one field. If I think of it as a whole, it’s too much. One step at a time. One patch of weeds and then the next. One tree and then another.

I run my arm across my forehead to wipe sweat away and stop for a minute to get my breath back. I’ve barely stopped moving all day. It also feels quite … good? My lungs feel full of fresh air and greenery, a healthy feeling, as opposed to the body odour and pollution they feel full of when I get off another crammed train in London. I know I’ll ache tomorrow but I ache at five o’clock when I get up from my desk after a long day of sitting still, and this feels like a much better ache, if aches can be divided into categories of desirable and non-desirable. A much healthier ache.

I tell myself that as I swish the scythe through another load of stalks and dig up their roots, and another, and another. I know this isn’t the end of it. I know I’ll need to put down herbicide to stop them coming back, and flatten the newly-dug ground enough for customers to walk on it when the farm opens, but for now, it feels good to be outside and doing something productive – something towards making the dream of this farm a reality.