I arrived in England in September 1970, a young man full of easy ambitions and eager to seize the opportunities before me. But beyond academic goals and career opportunities, England’s northern countryside offered me something more lasting: friendships that would shape my life and work. Through badminton—a game of agility, strategy, and grit—I began meeting local farmers, people whose lives were as raw and rugged as the landscape they called home. These friendships led me into the heart of British farming life, where I grew to understand the hardships and steadfast spirit of the true farmer.

Northern England, particularly the Bowland Trough and areas around Lancaster and Ingleton, was filled with men and women who tended their land with a quiet, determined resilience. For them, farming was not a hobby or a sideline; it was everything – their livelihoods, their family histories, their identities. Men like James Whitaker, who worked the land near Lancaster, and Bobby Capstick, whose farm near Ingleton echoed the harsh, haunting beauty of the Brontë moors, stood out as living symbols of this connection to the earth. The land they worked was not a picturesque backdrop but a tough, unyielding partner, one who demanded everything and gave little in return.

There were countless mornings when I walked with these farmers and stepped out onto frozen fields in the bitter cold. Under a gray sky, with slush and snow stinging my face, I pulled on my rubber boots and waded through thick mud to help. The stone walls surrounding their fields, worn and battered by time and weather, evoked the stony determination of John Keats’s poetry – a sense of beauty born of hardship. These walls, like the peasants themselves, were shaped by unyielding conditions and stood as enduring symbols of resilience. The lives of the farmers felt like echoes from Wuthering Heightstheir days filled with the same raw power and harsh beauty as Heathcliff’s windswept moors. Here, surrounded by howling winds and torrential rain, the farmers carried on with stoic grace, embodying a spirit as wild and tough as the land itself.

I quickly learned that to be a farmer in the north of England was to live on powers beyond control. Each day brought new challenges, from unpredictable weather to uncertain markets, leaving farmers constantly hedging their bets against rain or drought. The winter mornings were a test of endurance—mornings when the fields turned into icy swamps, where every footstep seemed to sink deeper into the mud and every task made more difficult by the biting wind. It was in these moments that I saw the essence of these men. Their connection to the land was as much a bond as it was a struggle, a relationship formed over generations that no outsider could easily understand.

Over the years, these farmers became not just friends but mentors. They taught me more than caring for land; they taught me about resilience, patience, and a kind of strength that doesn’t seek recognition. These were not men of wasteful talk or grand gestures; they were men who “walked the talk,” who rose before dawn and toiled through the cold, the mud, and the endless demands of the land. Through these experiences I developed a respect for the real farmer – the one who lives every day by the sweat of his brow, whose income rises and falls with the harvest. They became, in my eyes, giants of the earth, people of unwavering determination whose lives embodied a timeless poetry.

In recent years, I have watched with growing frustration as the pressure on these farmers increases. Brexit has brought with it a wave of uncertainty, rising EU agricultural subsidies that were once an economic lifeline. Farmers are now grappling with unstable markets and shifting regulations, and many feel as if they are losing control of their own future. Meanwhile, public figures such as Jeremy Clarkson have attempted to capture the hardships of farm life on television, while high-profile landowners such as Dyson make sweeping, headline-grabbing statements about the state of British agriculture. To real farmers, these depictions feel shallow, missing the everyday reality – the true, sober struggle between dawn and dusk and sleepless nights worrying about a crop that could be wiped out by a single frost.

On top of this, politicians like Rachel Reeves are proposing tax changes that threaten to erode the inheritance protection that many farmers rely on. For these families, land is more than property; it is a legacy built up through generations, passed down with pride and sacrifice. The looming threat of inheritance tax reform adds another burden to those already struggling to stay afloat. Land values ​​may be high, but for these farmers, wealth is tied to their fields and livestock, not cash in the bank. Losing this land would mean losing part of one’s identity, a break from a heritage deeply rooted in the earth itself.

Now I live on my own land in Tuscany and often reflect on those friendships, the men and women who shaped my view of strength and honor. Early mornings in Italy, as fog rises from my own fields, I think of the cold, dark mornings in England, the feel of wet, heavy soil underfoot, and the relentless determination of my friends who farmed against all odds. I remember their laughter on the badminton court, a rare break from the gate, where friendship was forged in friendly rivalry and mutual respect.

These farmers, I realize, were a rare breed—men and women who really “talked the talk.” They were doers, not talkers, facing down whatever the day threw at them with a quiet strength that I have come to admire even more deeply with age. From my vantage point in Tuscany, where the sun shines more often and the earth is gentler, I feel a deep empathy for my old friends, the farmers who remain bound to the unpredictable, unforgiving lands of northern England. I know that while the world around them is changing, they stand as they always have – steadfast and steadfast, like the stone walls that mark their fields, a recognition of endurance and of a way of life that deserves respect, not romanticized headlines or burdensome politics. .

In my heart I walk still with these giants, their spirit is as much a part of me as the land I now call home. The landscapes may differ, but the lessons remain, etched into my memory like England’s weathered stone hedges – unbreakable and enduring.