Introducing our correspondent…
I was born in Holland, but have lived on various locations in the countryside in Wales, England and Scotland since 1987. I studied history in Cardiff, Durham and Edinburgh, where I gained my PhD in medieval history. I have since taught in Edinburgh and Glasgow and am the senior research supervisor for ecclesiastical history at the Maryvale Institute.
Maryvale is located on the edge of Birmingham and is a Catholic long-distance learning institute that was once the home of Britain’s newest saint, Blessed John Cardinal Newman. I contribute regularly to the Catholic press in Britain, Holland and the US.
Like so many, my family has left the land in the last half-century. One of my great-grandfathers was a small-holder and carter, another worked as a farrier, as did my maternal grandfather. I grew up in a mixed world of urban shopkeepers, military people and those still working the land, a world now vanished.
With my wife, small son and daughter I now live on a small farm in Perthshire, there where the Lowlands and Highlands meet. Our world consists of some fields, ancient woodland, larch plantation and a small loch, and is filled with wildlife and chickens. Harry Schnitker, 2011
Harry writes...
At least August stuck to tradition this year. I know that there is a legendary August of hot sunshine and sultry nights, but the real thing, at least here on the Highland Line, is one of rain and humidity. This year has formed no exception, which is a relief of sorts after the bizarre weather earlier in the year. Everything is still showing the marks of the cold spring. Our vegetable plot bears fruit that should have been eaten in early July, and vegetables that should have been ready for picking are in an infant stage. Regrettably, they probably will not progress much beyond this.
The cold of May has conspired with the rains of August to delay the harvest considerably. Over the past decades, the barley fields of Strathearn have been shorn earlier and earlier. In the pre-combine days, the travelling Irish 
female harvesters would not start swinging their sickles until September. 2011 has rediscovered that traditional time for the harvest. Here and there stubble is showing, but mostly the golden heads are still drooping with rain.
We no longer have to fear hunger when harvests are late, but it is wonderful to see that even today our countryside and vegetable gardens are still shaped by heat or cold, water and drought. Oh, and by wind, of course. The gale that tore through the woods on the hills around our farm left many a prostrate tree. This has caused a major change to my normal calendar. Usually, cutting wood is something to be done either in winter or in very early spring, when snow and winter gales have provided a plentiful supply. These days, though, you do not want to leave fallen trees lying around for too long, or someone else’s chainsaw will rip through your firewood.
Cutting firewood in summer is not the most comfortable exercise: humidity does not agree with protective trousers and helmets. What is a pleasant way to get warm in February becomes a sure way to lose weight in August. The American writer, Henry David Thoreau, who in his book, Walden, or a Life in the Woods, hit the nail on the head when he wrote that ‘fire wood makes you warm three times over: when you saw it, when you chop it, and when you burn it’. I always think of this when cutting wood, but never more so than this year.
A bonus of a gale when the trees are in leaf is the bounty of firewood it leaves behind. Many of the old wild cherries were toppled, and the wood barn is full to overflowing, with plenty of trees still to be had. There is something magical about working in woodland this time of the year, especially where the canopy has been ruptured by a fallen tree. Some of the gale’s victims are sprouting new branches, growing into the light from the reclining trunks. In other places long-dormant seeds have sprung into life, carpeting the floor with flowers.
All the twigs we did not want we piled onto high heaps, through which bracken will grow next year. This creates a perfect habitat for woodcock, small waders, who frequent the large deciduous woodlands around our farm. They love to nest in such protective heaps. Between them, the gale, my chainsaw, and the appetite of our stove have conspired to help this small game bird, which was hit hard by the past two freezing winters. As with all things on the rural calendar, the rewards may come next year.
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