The harvest is in, and my commute has been passing fields cropped down to stubble, populated with rectangular bales of hay. Then one day I’ll ride along to find the bales have been re-arranged into a giant haystack. It dominates the landscape like some towering monolith left by an agrarian race of wandering space nomads.
Only this year it looks like someone was a little too adventurous with their haystack building. With hindsight, nine bales high was perhaps a little too unstable and, tonight, this year’s haystack was partially collapsed with massive hay bricks tumbled alongside the farm tracks.