I'm always happy when a John Lewis-Stempel book works its way up the virtual TBR pile - I simply love the way he writes about our custodianship of the natural world.
As a farmer and a historian he is well placed to write a biography of a farm, from the formation of the rocks under its soil to the modern conversion of the unused hop kilns into swish apartments. Each chapter covers a different age of farming, starting with the prehistoric clearing of much of the wildwood surrounding Woodston. Subsequent chapters cover the feudal system and its decline, the wool trade, the agricultural revolution, hop harvesting and sheaves of other topics.
He is a farmer and this is unashamedly from a farmer's point of view - albeit one who believes in a greater connection to the land. He mourns the overuse of chemicals, the destruction of hedges and the subsequent decline in farmland birdlife, saying:
"Difficult, I think, to see how the current mania for planting trees in Britain in re-creation of wolfy wildwood will improve the lot of the corn bunting, which requires open, arable fields. I should probably have confessed at the outset of this book that it is an unashamed defence of farming, and the English farmed landscape."
He indulges in some experimental archaeology in order to understand the lives of those who farmed the land before him. In the most extreme of these experiments he spends a week working as a peasant farmer in the 1300s would have. It's an exhausting feat of manual labour from dawn to dusk - and he does this on a medieval diet too.
Ultimately though Woodston is a fascinating social history with some beautiful descriptive writing. You can smell the hops drying, feel the soil crumble between your fingers, hear the bleating of the ewes at lambing and taste the cider in the flagons discarded in the hedgerows.
"The wood; at night it exhales its animals; at dawn it inhales them in. The dog and I have now gone from the world of black-and-white into the world of colour. The stars … they have melted away. Under my feet, the emerald green of arable weeds: groundsel, mouse-ear, docks, thistles. The bright yellow of hawkbit. We complete our traverse, reach the stone track. I open my hand, the dog takes the cheese. A dog’s nose in the hand; it is a familiar feeling, perhaps twenty thousand years old."