The laverocks were busy that autumn, singing their sweet song as we attended to the harvest. I have always loved bird call, from the liquid notes of the blackbird that sweetens the summer to the evocative call of the geese as they wing their way northward in the spring and return in the autumn, and that year of 1585 was no exception. I stopped my work to listen to the laverocks, trying to spot one in the vastness above.
"The barley won"t gather itself, Jeannie," my father said, "so get busy with that reaping hook."
I bent to the work, taking the hook in great circles that sheared through the stalks of the barley without damaging the grain. It was hard work but necessary, for every stroke added to our winter store and increased our security for the coming harsh days of winter.
As I worke
