The arable farmers.
All may be safely gathered in and tucked up in the drier. Thanks have been sung in every church by every local choir.
For those who work in arable it really has just started, the time to get in next years crop is not for the faint hearted.
They plough a field and then it rains, they wait for it to dry. Then work like hell to get it done with one eye on the sky.
And back and forth they check the soil and hope that it will go, if they don't start the drilling well only weeds will grow.
The autumn days are getting short. The leaves fall off the trees. The forecast talks of showery bursts to frustrate and to tease.
But then they say that it is fair for just about a week. The grease guns fly, the diesels in the drill has had a tweak.
And then it's cakes and sandwiches to fuel the tractor drivers, they come out even if they're ill you'd never call them skivers.
Up and down they plough the fields relentless is their task, balancing a whole pork pie and coffee in a flask.
They carry on long after dark, you'll spot them by their lights. They work the fields all through the day and long into the night.
Then they come home for a plate of grub sat in the microwave, then rinse their grime off in the shower but are too tired to shave.
And this goes on week after week until it's put to bed, the work that goes on while we sleep to make sure we're all fed. Jan Millward©