It’s hay season, which means my commute to and from work often involves looking at the back of a John Deere while crawling twenty miles an hour breathing diesel fumes. Which, apart from the fumes, is great and exactly why I moved here.

But in addition to all the tractors rumbling past my house, I love this time of year because the pastures surrounding the house look like this.

Each day I come home from work expecting the fields to be shorn by the farmer up the road who cuts the hay for his cows, and each day the golden grass is still standing I am a little selfishly happy.